I glug the fresh orange juice and sit back on the garden seat. As far as pub gardens go this is one of the prettiest, but then I am not that familiar with rural pubs, nor pubs in general, at least of late I am not.
I hear the bees buzzing frantically over the lavender. I do love lavender and bees. Taking my camera I stand over them, a giant unwanted and unnecessary tourist. I am not able to collect pollen. I am not able to fly, though I can sting if cornered without losing my life.
I intrusively shutter their honey making activities. Workers working for their queen. I pretend I’m a pro, they won’t know any different and they buzz loudly warning me that this is the last lavender bush growing in the whole of the Kingdom.
Devon is one big garden, even the motorway cutting through it has picturesque and nature ridden views. A cluster of red roses hangs dreamily over a trellis arch. They gaze down and stare as if I am the most beautiful human they have seen all day. They are better subjects for my amateur photography, neither the bees nor the lavender would hold still.
There is a breeze and I say the word aloud on my tongue and wonder about changing my name.
That would be folly, in much the same way as leaving my purse on the Devonshire pub garden seat is folly, but I did it just the same. I lost my purse in Devon one time and what they say about people who leave things behind is they will have to come back one day to collect whatever it is they left.
This includes broken hearts and minds and puppies and kittens and motor bikes and honey and virginity and relatives and friends and enemies and hair slides and comic books and dignity and self respect and kindness and love and dinner money and popcorn and the breeze upon which their dreams blow away.
The whole of Devon is a garden. A place where time stands still, where you can lose it all forever in one single moment, yet for some things, their is simply, no going back.