Across Continents

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Up in the Malvern Hills

Mary had said she’d be in the road. She was. I’d phoned her moments earlier to check exactly where the bunkhouse she ran with husband Bill was. Mentioned the Manor House. Very close she’d said. Very. A short distance up the hill. I was the only guest that night. Cosy room to myself. Mary fetched some tea whilst unloaded my trusty steed, especially welcome after another bitter afternoon on the road.

I slept for a while. Struggling with the pain on my right side. No swelling, guarding or visible bruising but considerable discomfort nevertheless. Deciding that if the situation didn’t improve over the next few days it’d probably be wise to get it checked out. Although if it was something like a cracked rib, and I wasn’t exactly convinced of this, I doubted there was anything that could be done.

Found myself reflecting on the conversation I’d had with Phil and Jo earlier. They’d branched out to do something quite different. Renovating and building houses replacing engineering and nursing. And their point was you could. Anticipation of change invariably far worse than the reality. Sensed it had really worked for them. Inspiring.

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