Sunday and I wake up with a vaguely sore throat and feeling cold, so its the usual early morning in bed coffee. As usual I take my drugs and today supplement them with a couple of paracetamol. Breakfast as usual at 9 o’clock, which means its 15 hours since we last ate. I still cannot face a full English but I do go for a bacon sandwich. We have a quick post meal sit in the lounge but move outside to the terrace where we watch the lake as we are serenaded by a blackbird sitting atop the singularly tall and slender pine in the garden.
On our way to the room I re park the car so it will not get blocked in by the hotels Bentley and then we prepare to go and get the Sunday papers. Today is going to be a lazy pre travel day.
We walk down into the town and find an awful lot of things open, I guess Sunday in the Lakes is a business day. We get a paper, nibblers and a new toothbrush, my standard response to getting a sore throat. Out with the old toothbrush and in with a new one. As we walk along I see the art shop is open, that is unexpected as I had promised myself that if it was open I would get one of the pictures I liked when we were last in. I never thought it would happen. So I went in and bought a small new original painting to go in the collection. Its by a bloke called Bev Mair.
With the new picture safely wrapped we go to our regular café and have a lunchtime drink and in my case a throat lozenge. We amble back to the hotel and sit on the “sun” terrace reading the paper, writing and just looking at the view, that is until it rained when we moved inside. Eventually we retreat to the room to make coffee, eat cake and for me to draft the blog. It will soon be football time and then a decision of what to eat and where. Of course at some point we will pack ready for the journey home tomorrow. So as way of farewell to Windermere here is what I wrote on the balcony.
Like sitting by the pool No sun No waves No laughing children Or ice cream cones. This is Windermere Twinned with Sparta As its babies die On wooded hill sides In the depths of June. This is COVID meets Brexit This is empire alone, A commonwealth of cold. This is where I sit Balconied and overlooking The memories of sun And welcome on the continent. Now the fog of Englishness Cuts us off But still the bulldog Gums its defiance To bears it used to bait. This is where, in my woolly, I make my stand.
