A mother and father are playing cricket with their small son. The little boy stands in front of a miniature set of stumps. The mother stands behind the wicket. The father lobs the rubber ball gently to the boy. The boy whacks it as far as he can and runs to the far end of the improvised pitch and back. There are no fielders, and the father ambles after the ball, as though he was on his way to a buy a Sunday paper, while the boy runs and runs. This happens again and again. The father never hurries and the boy never misses so that the mother, behind the wicket has nothing to do.
Today, I reflect that I now see people as young, who once I would have thought of as old.
Yellow clumps of ragwort are scattered over the fields, just now. In Scottish and Irish legend, it was used by fairies, who rode on ragwort sticks between islands, as a means of travel. Known as the herba sancta Jacobi, it is associated with the feast of St James, July 25, when it is in full blossom.