I am looking at it from across the road in Erica Reserve. The Reserve is a continuation of the restored natural habitat we visited yesterday. It includes a playground and picnic tables and room to run and jump and squeal, none of which we did because it was such a languid afternoon.
And we let the warm breeze float over and around us and rustle off over the stream and through the trees.We sat on the park bench and wondered if we could hear the grass grow. But we couldn’t. We listened so very closely and carefully yet our ears were too dull to catch a single sound.
At the end, or may be it is the beginning, of the Erica Reserve pathway there is a bridge across the stream and some wetland ponds. To the right of the water pools is a retirement home, or village as the owners like to call such places. It looked very tranquil in its restored wetland setting. Thinking of all the work and repairs awaiting at home, I was almost tempted to knock on the door and ask “May I come in?”But, then, I remembered the elderly gentlemen we talked to, yesterday, on the pathway across the road on the other side of the bus shelter. He lived in another retirement village close by. He said “It’s a fine place. It’s really the best place for me but, you know, it’s not like home.”
So we stretched and eased ourselves slowly off the park bench and went home for a fine supper of chicken, followed by apple sponge pudding.