It won’t, I am sure, surprise you to hear me say that it’s the little things that count. Yet as unremarkable as it may be, the assertion is nonetheless rich with import especially for me upon our recent return home. In short, while I knew in my heart that I was anxious to return home from the United States of America, I hadn’t until today been able to identify the particular reason for that overwhelming wish. But early this morning following receipt of an email from a chap who proposed a get-together in the next little while, it occurred to me to call Chef at the golf club to enquire about the estimated date of the course opening. She speculated April 21st subject to the endorsement of the Pro. This vitality is but an introduction to the list of persuasions of home. Just awakening to another day here is bliss.

Afterwards on my way back from a jaunt into the city for a car wash, I received a telephone call from Bunny suggesting a confab this afternoon, in preparation of which I chanced to stop at Almonte Butcher to see if the homemade chocolate chip cookies were available.  There were fifteen of them; I bought ten. Those cookies constitute everything good there is to say about motherhood and culinary aroma.

While living in a small rural town hasn’t the attraction of the symphony, the theatre and the museums – or Uber – in the city, for someone such as I of limited mobility (when getting to the bathroom is a struggle), being able to look out the drawing room window  from my study desk upon the river is for me unparalleled stimulus and diversity.

The magic extends beyond the immediate horizon to my erstwhile physician’s country estate in the Village of Ashton where we have a history of exquisite dining and social conventions.

Even getting there along the Appleton Side Road is an extraordinary outing.

Nor is it inescapable that these noteworthy venues crisscross along the same avenues.

You will concede that so far in this narrative I have mentioned nothing of especial astonishment. Naturally the fibre that unites them all is the associated people. Though I may not have an orchestra, I have the beauty of the scenery, the sound of birds, the inexpressible facility of Apple music and the proximity of the river.

Previously I alluded to having purchased an electric tricycle. The purpose was not to escape exercise (which I can continue to pursue without engaging the electric feature); rather, it is to enable me to move wider distances (especially along the old railway line – turned Ottawa Valley Trail – from here to the Village of Blakeney and back). For as long as I can remember the objective of my so-called exercise (whether a Pronto tricycle or a Garlatti bicycle) has been primarily movement and the entertainment of doing so. It’s the little things that count.