Breakfast with a bowl of Granola. During some cleaning up I accidentally unplug the phone, leading to a series of missed calls. I apologise profusely to Régine for my clumsiness, she is the last person I want to upset. In the afternoon we go to a little local party at a farm, there is no alcohol and no meat, but plenty of good vegetarian fare with a tasty cheese dip. Kids are running around while the adults join in a sing along with a group of acoustic guitar players. At one point the bucolic peace of the afternoon is broken by a brief dog fight, everyone has a dog. The fuss soon dies down, conversation and gentle music continue.
I wander off to explore some tumbledown old barns I can see round the corner. It is close, humid and still, the sound dies away. I poke my head inside one, see some dirty rusting ploughs and harrows. In the next outhouse there is a buzzing noise but I still head on in, it seems empty. As my eyes adapt to the darkness I spot a wasps’ nest up in the rafters. Ok, bit of discretion needed, I back out of there, gently close the door. Phew, little bit flushed, got out of that one, I am now standing in the middle of the yard, safe. As I stand there in the sunshine a single, solitary wasp lands on the front of my shirt, I just stand there, wasps don’t sting people for no reason. As I watch, the wasp arches its back and plunges the stinger straight into me. I am outraged, shortly followed by a painful burning sensation in my chest. I don’t even get to kill it, it just flies off. How ridiculous. I go back to the party and tell my story, but they are not very impressed, nothing has swollen up, hardly anything to see, just a wasp sting, I’ll survive.
Talking to the guitarists, I tell them I am heading for New York City in a day or two and one them says Peter Gallway, who I had seen playing in The Bowdoin, is driving down there. Yeah that would be great I think, a lift with a real musician, must see if I can arrange that.
A quiet evening, sitting and reading in the rocking chair, very therapeutic.