R's rue

I wish I was a cow - well maybe not a cow as they are girls - perhaps a big, gentle bull. Life would be so peaceful. I would not feel the cold. I would graze for hours with my friends. There would be no talking. After all - what would there be to talk about? Grazing on the valleyside, I might notice the passing of days. Light into darkness. Darkness into light. And the passing of seasons. The coming of winter. The arrival of spring. There would be hot and there would be cold. Nothing to worry about. If human beings entered my orbit, I would look up at them momentarily with my big brown eyes before returning to the very meaning of life - to graze upon the green grass. Those humans would scurry away somewhere as they always do. Somewhere over the rainbow perhaps. I took these pictures yesterday, above The Porter Valley before returning home to get started  on a major Sunday dinner for six. Menu:- Roasted pork loin Homemade Yorkshire puddings (dreamlike) Cauliflower cheese C...

 Only 48 hours or so after I publicly announced that I am happy being single  I have been propositioned by two men. One, I haven’t heard from in a long time ,texted me hoping for a quick roll around in the sheets  The other had more obscure needs and wanted a Sort of date.  I’ve politely refused both. Being asexual is en trend  so they say. So does this mean that I am finally grown up ? or is it as Rachel Philips perfectly explained that us singleton’s  living main benefit is “..... being answerable only to myself  is doing what I like, when I  like, how I  like and at whatever time of the day I like.”  Yesterday around 4 pm I found that I couldn’t sleep and so I got up, donned my fourth favourite Walking Dead T shirt And pants !  and took Winnie and Albert for a short walk into the churchyard.( I had gotten up a few hours earlier and had dropped off the younger girls at Trendy Carol’s ) Winnie is incredibly slow now and...

 Baking bread On Sunday morning  Love in The oven from R's rue https://ift.tt/3i7UHuD

The Island of Hydra in 1978. I am twenty five years old. This is the island where Leonard Cohen lived with his Marianne. White houses with terracotta rooftops tumble down to the harbour like jumbled Lego bricks. I have been sleeping on a pebbly beach along the shoreline. Swimming and reading books, consuming the printed words like food. Soaking up the sun. Solitary but not lonesome, I wander into the town for my one indulgence – an evening meal in a taverna with two or three beers. Lamb kleftiko, Greek salad, stuffed tomato. The tables are arranged upon a spacious terrace overlooking the harbour’s twinkling lights. An almost full moon is reflected in the bay and there are stars a-plenty.  A mixture of Greek and more familiar pop music oozes from hidden speakers. The volume is lifted as the Mediterranean blue and white tables are cleared. More drinks are consumed. Dancing happens in the middle of the terrace. There’s even that “Zorba the Greek” tune. Initial inhibitions start ...