I'm writing a bit under the weather today, dragged down by the flu but fighting on as best I can. It's been good to catch up on some sleep, spend some time at home and just clear the mind a little. All with time to recover and gear up for the next financial year.
By the waters edge, a story swirls and seems to play out as it is told. The story written in the landscape proves the legitimacy of each word, confirming the time some 7,000 years ago. When the sea's shore was over 120 kilometres from where it is now, it's obvious this changing climate of ours is now speeding up.
Old books filled familiar places to inspire future thinking. Filled with the thinking of the time, an old Farmer's Weekly provided advice to fix anything, while the old show results of another show provided hope for progression of breeds often ignored now. History stored for another day, wondering when it will be acknowledged and learnt from.
On a distant fridge, a picture hangs with a single clydesdale. It's what dreams are made of, reflecting the perfect horse of the judge over the weekend's proceedings. His eye casts over the 60 odd horses on display, filtered by that distant view, as he selects his favourite.