'rain was creeping over the hills from the west and blotting out the mountains. below lay the black and gloomy peat bog, the rhos goch, with the dark cold gleam of stagnant water among its mawn pits, the graves of the children.
this place has always had a strange singular irresistible fascination for me. I dread it yet I am drawn to it.'
- kilvert, on this day in 1872.
tomorrow kilvert suffers 'a strange fit of nervous restlessness'.
yesterday (the thursday) a rainy day (rain all day). horsemouth's mum went off in a car to purchase a particular plant for a particular aunt.
today the weather looks like it will be decent. saturday the morning looks decent. from midweek next week it looks good.
this is a relief frankly because the all rain days are hard on the soul. horsemouth will wander in to ewyas harold to pick up the hereford times and up the hill to deliver some eggs. he may also muck out the chicken shed. there are things to be done but not quite enough things to be done (nor can they be done in an efficient manner).
anyway. he's up. he's fed the chickens.
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