"More than once, I have taken visitors from overseas to Avebury. Walking
from the church to the little museum, I have stopped them where, without
intrusion, one has a view of the manor; and I have said to them "Do
please let this one scene fasten on to your memory. Whatever memories
you carry away, let this be uppermost. For this, to me, is England".
(R.C. Hutchinson)
And so it was, that I, too, looked upon the Manor house at Avebury in
Wiltshire, in the late summer light of last Saturday afternoon, before I
had read that quote, but experiencing the self same sentiment. Though the
village was busy, I had stepped out of the street, into the Manor
gardens, and at the same time, it seemed, back five hundred years.
The church bells were ringing - quite, I think, the sweetest sounding,
prettiest bells I have ever heard, with a light-hearted, alpine tone - a
group of campanologists were, apparently, visiting from Cambridge. A
blackbird was singing, and the bees droned in and out of the late
flowering blooms in the borders. As I stood outside the main entrance to
the Manor ("garden only today" - so no entry, this time, into the
interior), and looked up at the windows, one sense passed powerfully
through me - "we are not alone". I actually knew little about the Manor
and its inhabitants, only that it has been owned in the 1930's by a
famous archaeologist, Alexander Keiller, during the time when he was
engaged in excavations of the prehistoric barrows nearby. But still, the
feeling persisted of Presence, of a watchfulness that seemed to
accompany my walk around the property.
It was only as I left, that the kiosk concierge, with whom I shared my
pleasure of the garden, told me of the fact that the house is actually
situated on what was once a Benedictine monastery, and that "a monk has,
on occasion been seen". She also related the rather charming story of
how, only a few years ago, before the property was opened to the public
(it is now owned by the National Trust), that on a number of occasions,
the house keeper would enter the Great Parlour (the bay window of which is seen in the picture below), in the morning, wherein
was kept a huge bowl of rose petals from the garden, to find the petals
strewn all across the table top, though nobody else but herself would
have had access.
The upper window held a particular magnetism for me, just above the
parlour bay window. I saw nothing, I heard nothing, but indeed, I sensed
that, shall we say, more than nothing was present there. Not ominous at
all, quite the contrary - just a watchfulness, a peacefulness, and
perhaps a continuing pleasure that others now love this little hidden
English treasure as much as it once might have been loved by other
English souls.
Two other images from the afternoon that captured my attention;- the first in a gently eccentric way - the pets' cemetery, each pet lovingly remembered in a pognant inscriptions on the headstones, at the bottom of the Manor House orchard......and as we left the village, a cricket match, still in full swing in the softly fading sunlight of this idyllic summer afternoon, as we walked back, past the ancient stone circle, to our car and home once more.
At the grand old age of 12 1/2 weeks, Sintra has caught her first mouse! It is actually a vole from the garden, which has been brought in to the sitting room, presented, whipped away, tossed, growled at and rolled upon.
I went with Alec and my dear friend Liz, to visit the Bristol Blue glass
. 
No game machine arcades here, only children on the slipway shrieking
As you can see, sleep is a popular pastime when they are not rioting - the last two photos here showing some of the inventive resting places that they find during the course of a day..
11 am on a glorious August morning. I have two case histories to write,
How fleeting, these perfect summer days - and how vain it is to try to 
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