Boring boring boring domestic chores this morning - needed a degree in computer science to work the washing machine in the cottage - pre wash half wash coloured fasts coloured not fasts stained deep stained whites soiled God the list was endless hot cold indifferent drain spin - well my head spun, at home the machine is set permanently on 30 degrees in it all goes together and forget about it. Any way selected lucky dip and prayed .
This afternoon up the prom past all the little sugar pink thatched cottages with folk sitting out with cups of tea on their doorsteps and taking in the warmth of the sun . Lots of 'good afternoons "- have you noticed how people seem to smile a lot at people in wheelchairs . Past the ice-cream shop with the lady with the bouffant died blond hair who has served us with ice creams for years and who treats us like locals and always gives us a little extra in the scoop .I did wonder if I should engage her in conversation and discuss Eastern Ceders philosophical analogy about melting ice cream and life but then thought perhaps not .Up to the small car park at the end of the prom where a recent town clerk managed to have his name embossed on the dial of the newly refurbished clock before anybody noticed and then down over the River Lyme and into Coombe Street. It is impossible to go up into the town itself as Broad Street ( the main street ) is actually steeper than it is broad and therefore totally inaccessible to any one in a wheel chair unless they were being pushed by Hercules himself and a young Hercules at that .
Coombe Street runs inland following the course of the River Lyme with old fisherman's cottages clinging to the banks of the river on one side - sadly now rather over done up with over subtle coloured front doors more in keeping with Chelsea than Lyme Regis .As you go up the street you pass shops that were once butchers and bakers and have now been converted into chic designer knit ware and apartments . The butcher we used to go to was called Mr Symmonds and every morning before he opened his shop he plunged into the sea whatever the weather for his morning swim - he did this until he retired in his late seventies .And every morning he would be in his shop ,white coat ,tie and immaculate silver hair looking the picture of robust health . Further up was Jon the baker where we would go for freshly baked bread and you could see through the shop to where they were filling the ovens and how delicious that was walking home first thing in the morning with a warm loaf under one's arm ( quite often mysteriously there would be lumps missing before we got back ) .But that is all a past era now there seem to be more and more gift boutiques selling things you must have but don't really want. Just before the street begins to climb there is abridge that crosses the river and believe it or not on a wall overlooking a weir there is a Banksy graffiti of a heron . Its been there for some time - nobody has tried to claim it or sell it it's just there .
At the bridge V and I swung left along the mill race which runs parallel with the river and down below us in the river was a mother duck with her brood of clockwork babies ;fifteen balls of yellow and brown scooting over the surface of the water like toys in a bathtub .
Back down along the millrace past the waterwheel where they grind the flour for the new artisan baker - all sunflowerseeds and "good for you bread 'past the gallery with an exhibition of extraordinarily bad paintings and home for tea with apricot flapjack purchased earlier with guilty pleasure.Sit outside in the last of the evening sunshine while V snoozes in her chair dreaming of --- I know not.