For the first time in twelve years we took our annual trip to London in the summer.
This time there wasn’t any pressure to wrap up loose ends; there were no houses to clear out; no personal effects to go through; no lawyers to deal with or estate agents to negotiate with.
My brother was around and available so we were able to go on little jaunts with him and the two of us spent sister brother time at Beckenham Place Park in the rain, sipping coffee and eating scones under an umbrella, feeling very much at home.
A week into our visit Hubs and I took an early morning train to Whitstable where my cousins own a much coveted beach hut bang on the promenade.
There we met my brother, who had driven down, and enjoyed fish and chips followed by a small spread of homemade goodies and endless cups of coffee…
…not to worry, the toilets were 500 steps away (they’d been counted) in the hotel off the esplanade and we gamely added to our accumulated step count several times during the afternoon.
The beach was pebbly and there were people swimming although, even in July, the water was still very cold! Looking more closely we were able to see wind turbines on the horizon.
After a lovely afternoon by the sea we headed to Canterbury, where our cousins live, (about 5 miles away) to have a glass of wine in the garden of their sprawling townhouse.
Larry and I made a bee-line for the bottom of the garden to pick out some pots and mugs stored in a small building next to the potting shed, not for garden potting but for ceramic potting.
Cousin Cherry keeps her kiln there, where she fires all her Raku pots and other pieces of gorgeous ceramic vessels, lost in a world of her own.
I took photographs as I went,
“Yet again,” Cherry said.
Theirs is a walled garden and never ceases to charm; it was summer and very much alive so I snapped away.
We followed mosaic stone pathways with pedestaled artwork,
ducked under low hanging branches shading chairs inviting us to linger awhile, and benches hiding beneath wild grapevines evoking dreams of afternoon siestas.
As we neared the bottom of the garden we could almost see the fairies hovering, ready to surprise us with a flutter of wings across our cheeks and the tinkle of a bell.
I looked back at the house with its gazebo and was beguiled by a large shrub with soft branches covered with what looked like vaporous clouds,
“My smoke tree,” Cherry said. I popped some seeds in my pocket.
“Now come and have a cup of tea!”
And we all sat down to a French cherry tart with a crisp glass of wine.
A wonderful end to an English day by the sea-side.