It’s Sunday morning, the leaves are skipping across the lawn pursued by a dank wind, and my front room is full of screaming women. Who is this Mr. Darcy, anyway? As I told my wife, I’d gladly join her on the sofa if the film had English subtitles.
It is truly one of those days that mark a transition of winter into spring, although it’s hard to tell: everything outside is cold, the rain, the wind, the mood. A hummingbird pair who arrived last week are nowhere to be seen, and the regular visitors to the feeders aren’t lingering over breakfast. Our horse may be the wisest creature on-site, as he’s dry and well-fed: there’s no need to venture far from the barn when room service is provided.
I know, as I sit here with a mug of coffee and contemplate the warmth of days to come, that hard-working photographers are now leaning into blizzards and surviving other natural hazards as they capture hard-won landscapes, and the thought makes me slightly embarrassed here in my softer surrounds—but only for a moment.
The hubbub is subsiding somewhat now, so I’ll chance a quick dash to the kitchen for a refill. At least I won’t run into Hugh Grant.