Naomi rushed into the train station to meet me a few minutes after I arrived, although to be honest I'd been dallying around and figured I was probably the one keeping her waiting out front. She'd had several appointments in the morning, but what kept her was the alarming news that John had not just been ill, but experienced a minor heart attack at some point over the past couple days, and neither of them had put all the symptoms together. Nevertheless the perfect hostess, she made lunch and tea for me at John's place and afterwards let me amble around town while she made the first of several visits to John in the Yeovil hospital.
I was utterly taken by Sherborne Abbey's golden-hued Hamstone and vast and varied fan-vault ceiling, lingering the better part of an hour wondering and reading while someone provided a soundtrack on the organ. A brisk walk up Cheap Street (the oddly-named main shopping thoroughfare) turned up no florists still open as I'd forgotten the time in the abbey, but finally I came upon a delightful music shop at which I could buy a gift for John to ease his time the hospital. I chose a new Joseph Jongen/Flor Peeters album to make the connection a bit more personal and ensure I wasn't doubling something in his extensive library.
The drive to Naomi's parents house in the 200-person town of Dewlish sped by as we talked and enjoyed the countryside, and her vegetarian parents fed me a veritable Turkish feast. It was one of the best (and most lavish) meals I'd eaten all summer. A peculiar combination of being at the exhausted end of my tour, relaxing into the countryside after the oppression of otherwise delightful London, knowing I was taken care of and had no schedule or priorities whatsoever, and going into food coma put me straight to sleep, though I'd promised to be up in ten minutes for more socializing. I woke up in exactly the same position on top of the covers nearly ten hours later.
Nell and Naomi took me to the hilltop ruins of the 1000-year-old Corfe Castle, where many children were running around during the "birthday celebration" of some 1950's British children's author whose books had been banned from certain libraries in the 80's for not being PC. Obviously the stories were good enough to stand the test of censorship and time and even Harry Potter. A walk around the town with its traditional stone roof tiling proved that the 21st century had even penetrated to here: a gallery sold USB keys in the shape of various animals. There was also a lavender bunny whose removable tummy you could warm up in the microwave and which would release the aroma with each squeeze, but this seemed a bit extravagant and anatomically weird.
Best of all was our picnic and walk along the seaside cliffs. The landscape was basically untouched because, ironically, it is used by the military as training ground. Signs everywhere warn you not to step off the path lest you get shot or step on an unexploded mine, but dogs seem to wander freely ahead of their owners and blackberries are just starting to ripen. Gentle and yet close-set hills of green and cliffs set against a remarkably blue ocean made for the loveliest walk I've taken all summer, through a foreign yet familiar verdant and dramatic landscape. The place names here are exotic to me. Some are also amusing -- Affpuddle and Blandford?
Naomi left for Yeovil to see John and stayed in Sherborne overnight, and I enjoyed a rice dish Naomi had made for the dinner party made by the person she'd learnt it from. Her parents talked animatedly of their big band and about Nell's amazing vegetarian farmer uncle, but I was getting comatose again, so ended the evening watching the beautiful film "Girl with a Pearl Earring". Every scene had been composed with the care of a Dutch masterwork, the gorgeous colours straight out of Vermeer's own palette. The storyline was restrained, never veering into the sex or violence that most films think they need in order to make it big. If only the characters had been better developed -- time to read the book. It's remarkable how many books Vermeer, one of my favorite artists, has inspired. And I'm fonder of this painting than of the Mona Lisa. She's more beautiful, more luminous, more hypnotic, more alive (I know this is sacrilege), and her gentle yet acute gaze will follow you wherever you are in the room in which the painting hangs (the Mauritshuis in The Hague).
I slept like a baby once more, again not disturbing the covers at all or even all the things piled up in a corner of the bed. My dreams were strange and vivid, but I couldn't be bothered to remember them. Something about hurrying to keep up with a schedule. You can never quite escape who you are, can you?
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