along footbridges in sticks and stone, the woods and forestry land, lush in the colour of summer. The tracks, trails, paths, lanes, steps, stones, aching bones, coves, venues, vanes, vales, zig zag paths, quirky in the quaint, red telephone boxes, water pumps, bird boxes, rat traps and bats. The arable land, the crop rotation, the columns of colour all around. The fellow ramblers, cycles in all forms, the swallows, swifts, the vetch, the spliced wild flowers mixed in seed. The bends, twists and turns. The views from the top of the hills. The rivers, streams and sewers. The springs and ditches. The winery, The emmets, the dialect, the local food. The postcards flowing out the shops this time of year. The big issue, the busking. The boats, swans, cygnets, Canadian geese and egrets ...
And the coach journey home on roads and by acres of industry and arable and homes. The caravans, motor homes out this season. The lorries with our goods. The trains of all types. The level crossings rare now the motorway travelled for most of this journey via an airport and other places. Into a city well trodden on foot, taxi, car, tube over under in rail. And now coach ...
Then home to journeys for a new journey to commence. A new abode to see. And more experiences in cuisine, places, a venture, volunteer and vocation in vacation ...
And a beautiful film in a mall, quiet on entry. On exit bustling with night life ... No grey hairs on the bus back home ... No young ones either ... The twixt time in travelling home, before the night owls came out ...
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