There were no buses coming our way; as I stood chatting with a hopeful co-passenger an extraordinary procession approached from the other side. Up the hill came six plumed white horses pulling a white glass-sided carriage.
Green and cream dappled dots – my newly painted spring scarf drying in the wind.
Quitting the city and the overblown Barbara Cartland pink blossom I drove through the rainy early morning to Rye for a day’s work on the Collier Campbell archive. As I reached the flatlands…. Continue reading →