So far the weather has always been kind to us in Freddie’s birthday. It feels like a blessing, of sorts, though I know it can’t be really. We’ve always been able to have an outside sort of day.
This year was a happy day, in the circumstances. I find it increasingly strange that it can be so.
We visited Bury St Edmunds for lunch.
I like the ruins there; I have a soft spot for William Marshall anyway and his name is on a plaque but it feels like a place to be at ease in; history being used for the every day, relics in a park, being played on.
After that we went to Anglesey Abbey.
Fran has to write Freddie’s name each year; somehow I knew she would do it in twigs.
The boy played and the girl mooched. It felt right.
There was a lot of laughing on the side of a bank when Bene discovered sliding.
The yarn bomb felt like a hello.
And there were a lot of daffodils and beautiful trees.
Some time to stop and think and cuddle.
And be gorgeous.
And hug a tree.
And enjoy each other’s company.
Home to beautiful flowers from my sister.
Family dinner beneath the garland we hung that morning.
Candles and tears at bedtime.
It was a good day. But it would have been better with the birthday boy.