My b&b in Herefordshire last week. Five Hundred years old (I speculated on how many had come into the world, and left it, in my bedroom). Only my nose peeped out of the covers on the first night, but no-one visited. Second night, I forgot about ghosts and read an Alexander Kent novel.
From the churchyard, across cider orchards and into Wales.
Back home to the Yorkshire coast and a full gale sweeping down the North Sea. I watched it for a while and thought of the days when I clung to the radio bench on a tiny coaster in such weather, loaded with Tyne coal for Battersea.