The holiday is over. No more quiet afternoons, curled up with a book. No more walks into town, or strolls around country houses, admiring the views. Back to work, the first day of term, and the thick of it.
It took me a while to get back into the swing. I sat, looking blankly at my screen, trying to remember what on earth it is that I do all day. Before I remembered, everything started up around me and it all came flooding back. Now it's as if I haven't been away.
But I have, and it was glorious. I spent days reading books, nose tucked in and surrounded by silence. I cooked roast lamb and made homemade strawberry ice cream. I drove up to Sevenoaks, discussing the soul with James, and walked through Knole, seeped in history. I walked down to the sea, and stared off into the evening, stopped off at the Sanctuary Cafe for a glass of organic wine, and got blisters on the way home. I ate breakfast at Bill's and found that I'd wolfed it down in seconds, eyes shining with glee.
Being back isn't too bad, only two more days to go and then I shall make a start on the patio. I need to weed the flower bed, plant up the pots and hanging basket and clean the decking. I'm looking forward to that lovely fresh smell of just dug earth, to planting up and sitting back, achey but content. But I must stop, it's no good to be wishing my life away, a part of me will admit that it's good to be at work again.