A shadow passed the window, and I looked up to see a gypsy caravan moving slowly up the lane toward the manor. It was the horse-drawn kind, and I could hear cheerful voices coming from the front as it receded from view.
“I hope they don’t come and knock on the door,” said Bunty. “I’ll have to buy pegs.”
“You could always say no thanks,” I pointed out.
“Have you met me?” asked Bunty.
And it is true that the gatehouse is awash with clothes pegs and trinkets and Watchtower magazines which Bunty has obediently accepted from every passing touter who has knocked on the gatehouse door.
As it turned out, the gypsy caravan wasn’t occupied – yet. Our neighbours at the manor are setting up a Bed & Breakfast, in the form of three gypsy caravans in a meadow. The one I saw moving up the lane was being delivered.
The caravans will overlook this field where the manor people keep their sheep. Had I arrived here earlier, I might have photographed the shearing process. These fleeces felt downy-soft, and warm from the unexpected sunshine.
I had come up the lane to photograph what was inside the stable near this field. Our neighbours had earlier invited me to open the top half of the door and take a look, so I did. A hen peered up at me quizzically. She was sitting in what will be a shower room, once the stable is converted into day rooms for the caravaners
As I watched, two chicks sprouted, as if by magic, from the hen’s plumage. They eyed me and cheeped several times, before returning to their sanctuary beneath her wings.
Cycling home with my cache of photographs, I pondered how little space such treasures take up – and yet they contain so many memories. I knew Bunty would be relieved that I had bought no more pegs. I had bought half a dozen eggs, though.