Moments before the first light of Tuesday, I awoke to the news of katrina and took awhile to adjust to my own senses, because I had a dream of climbing a decidedly steep, big (southern?) english hill, filled with yellow and white flowers, left untouched for at least one season, and unfenced... when reaching the very top, a late-middle-aged english gentleman gardener was whistling nice tunes while working, he was to the right of me as I met the soft cumulus just above, (seemingly an arm's length away). He himself was about 30 meters distant and leaving through a rusted and slightly distorted metal gate, which he closed while acknowledging my presence with an expression of graft and honesty so rare in the (RealWorld) workplace, and at the top, I turned round and saw the most splendid view...across a flat and green valley...the hilltop had dense ash, oak and beech trees, favouring the area which the gentleman gardener obviously knew well. I could take many photos from where I first turned round, with no necessity to wander... and in an instant, these photos were accepted for a travel brochure...when I climbed down I saw my mother, who smiled and said something...I did not know what...but it warmed me beyond words.
There is no doubt that the dream leant on the west...west of England...Ireland even...
Later, visions of cream and white walls, country pubs, market towns, street and road signs of hand painted black village names, shining from their fresh coats, whizzed through my mind, like a golden tour, a celebration, with everyone rapturous about...?