For me, these are the best English mornings. A cold, sharp yet sunny autumn morning, when the last blackberries glint and the firethorn berries shine red and yellow on the brown stone walls.
It’s a day for flicking to the psalms in fingerless gloves, watching the steam from your breath drift across the chancel and planning to walk down the lanes to raise an appetite before lunch.
Obviously, far away in real life there are people hacking into London to work, and people working long hours running farms while every year they have fewer employees. But never mind. I’ve got my idyll and I’m sticking with it.
May invite Sally round later and mull some wine before Evensong.