Southbound

Clocks sprang forward in the night, the traitors. Up and a croissant breakfast with Sue and a few slow cups of tea. The dog Paddy makes a huge fuss unless he gets his way and has a cup of tea or coffee too. The morning had gone in a flash and so we drove off in search of Sunday lunch, and we had some roast food in The White Hart in Stow in the Wold, which had interesting stag's head wallpaper, and loud-voiced young waiters. Food okay too, which John and I washed down with a couple of pints of Guinness. Fond farewells with Sue and John, it had been jolly good to see them.

Lorraine and I started the long journey home. We stopped off nearby at an architectural salvage place, where the person working there stared at us balefully then ignored us as we mooched about. But we had come for ideas, and did not fork out for any of the overpriced stuff on offer.

Then home, listening to a Mayo and Kermode podcast. A squally day, driving past Heathrow not envying those on the planes taking off and flying straight into a black raincloud. Once home we found that a garden chair and the plastic cold frame, which we had sensibly emptied before we left, were strewn in the garden. Betty and Laura strewn on the gold sofa. Home.

Below skewed window frames in Stow.