Breakfast in Bebington. A groundbreaking novella not modelled on anything written by Truman Capote. The patio doors are open. The rain has stopped. The deluge. Forty days and forty nights. Unprecedented(?)
After the rain the planet comes back to life. People emerge from their shelters, blinking eyes in unfamiliar sunlight. A dove appears in the garden picking up twigs, presumably to repair its nest.
Last night Wales, Ireland and Scotland won their respective world cup warm up matches and we royally dined out in The Refreshment Rooms. I had chicken liver pate followed by ham, egg and chips. The pate was very nice, fair play. Home made. It came in a small ramekin covered with a layer of fat. Could have done with less fat and more pate. I managed. Simple fare.
Today we are off to Chester on the train. Merseyrail. Meeting Barbara and George for lunch. Tapas. I daresay we may stroll to the Rose and Crown this evening. Sample the best that Bebington has to offer. If you are in the area, swing by.