Lily Stock

Promise of the morning mist held through to evening. Much food chewed by many people, sat at the picnic table, under scrutiny of three puppy-eyed dogs. Between Baby, six other Family Guests, plus the three of Boy, Mr, and me, also the three dogs, Rabbit, Cat, two tents, the Rayburn, the washing, blackberry picking, cooking, washing up, tea brewing, wood chopping and the ongoing construction of a lean to shelter, barely any quiet seconds tick by. It’s the loveliest kind of busy. By the evening our total numbers have waved down to four people, two dogs; responsibilities diminished to checking the Rayburn, putting Baby into her travel cot.

While I wait for the overtired protest mumble to drop revs, I plan to have a bath. Now the Rayburn is kept lit, there is hot tap water. I envisage the stove as a domesticated volcano, providing scalding springs. I plan to lie, like a spa tourist, in a room of steam, with a glass of chilled apple wine, eyes closed, senses open, limbs succumbed to heat. I plan to tie, with a chiffon ribbon, a muslin bag of mineral salts and home dried rosebuds, place it into the pouring water, the molecularly excited water. I will be pinked, cleansed, unperturbed, fragrant as the stock for a floral consommé.