far too much writing, far too many photos

That jaunt to the U.K. I mentioned in the last entry? Happens tomorrow. I will be hauling my adorable carcass out of bed at far too early an hour to catch a bus down to Logan Airport in Boston. From there, well, you know — points east.

The first day of spring brought hours of light snow, in keeping with these days of winter reasserting of itself. I headed out at far too early an hour, made the post office in the village a mile from here the first stop to put mail on hold for the next month. A grizzled 60-something woman stood at the counter, a small box in front of her — recently-arrived mail, apparently. Marked “LIVE CHICKS.” And sure enough, the peeping of many tiny voices emanated from it, that small enclosure packed with a dozen or so chicks of an exotic Chinese breed. The woman lifted the lid now and then to look in at them or address them reassuringly — didn’t look to me like it made them feel any better about their lot, though one of the inmates took advantage of a lid-raising to attempt to go over the wall. (I’d have done the same.) Unsuccessfully, baby chicken legs not having the oomph to get the job done. And just before I left, the woman reached in, gently pulled out one of the chicks — as she said, not your standard breed. Colored white, brown, tan, with a tuft of feathers on top of its tiny head that looked kind of like an oversized beret.

Country life.

I’m in pretty good shape as far as packing and other prep. Might be because I decided to cut myself some slack and blow off other work waiting to get done. It’ll have to continue waiting. The sun poked through the overcast during the afternoon, the first real blast of blue sky and golden light in three or four days — lifted my spirits very nicely.

Tomorrow a.m., I drive into Montpelier, take care of one or two remaining errands, suck down a shot of caffeine, leave my car in a generous friend of a friend’s driveway and drag my bags to the bus station. Wednesday morning, I’ll stumble off a plane in Manchester, England where a friend will be waiting to whisk me away. From there, who knows? Different scenery, English accents, fun and games. And just in time. I’m hankering for some adventure.

Reports will follow.


Northern Vermont, light springtime snow falling:

EspaƱa, te echo de menos.

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