20.41
Bredonborough.
The back door…
Only 5 pears on this bush this year…
The Minx left for her gig at noon.
Two pals, a garden correspondent for several nationals & his chum, a gardener, visited for lunch. Pals are currently living on the Isle of Portland, which is very much a place of its own. Dorset people don’t quite view Portlanders as part of Dorset; which is fair, because they’re not. A Fripp family member was a policeman on Portland, called to a pub to quell a disturbance between sailors en route to the Crimea (1854-56). Rather than quell the fracas, he became part of it: the sailors cut off his head. My Father, Arthur Henry Fripp, was in correspondence with a member of that Fripp family line; the Policeman-Fripp’s then-young son remembered, as on old man, being taken to the pub & seeing the body of his Father covered by a sheet. Portland is probably quieter today.
Most enjoyable & informative company.
Pre-packing for the upcoming Crimson Celebrating. Practising. A computing break & back to practising.
"Perfection is impossible.
But I may choose to serve perfection."
