A single yellow daffodil grew just a few yards away from The Waggoners on a piece of wasteground on Sunday. That there is wasteground in such a beautiful place seems sad but the decaying cottage that is just down the road seems to have been given up to posterity. It is hard to believe the main road north ran right by the front door of the pub until they built the motorway.
You may recall me mentioning the story of Echo and Narcissus on here before. The story holds a poignant and sad back drop to my own story. The Dutch call the daffodil the narcissus and every spring it takes me back to long lost but not forgotten days when I was condemned by psychiatry and abandoned to my fate. Could Bernie have ever foreseen how I escaped that fate?
Have I succeeded on the winding road to middle age and become distinguished? Or have I become the mediocrity my despair tells me I am? Many doubt that latter concept but forever my life will be of what might have been.
Back at the seaside it is nice to escape. Didn't feel great yesterday waking with swollen tonsls, sore throat and sneezing on an epic scale. But we made it to Canterbury anyway, lunched at Cafe Mauresque and enjoyed a day out.
Today I woke late, strolled along the beach, listened to the gulls on a scene almost bereft of human activity and had a fry up in The Nutmeg Cafe. A couple of pints in The Bell then home to cook belly pork. We are expecting visitors, cousins I've never met so just put some rolled, stuffed belly pork in to slow roast. Hope it comes out well.
My return begins tomorrow lunch time at Folkestone Central railway station. With luck I'll be back mid afternoon. I will shop, do the washing, read, listen to opera and prepare for Beka's arrival. Maybe I'm cramming a little too much into my break.
Take care out there.
I Heard a Voice.
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