My last day arrived. I didn’t want to go home yet. I wanted to have tea in Morland’s kaf, see what their scones were like (it felt good to be able to say skon and not be corrected like I am in America where it’s pronounced with a long o). The scones I’d had in Cockermouth where Donna and I toured William Wordsworth’s house were rock hard. We joked how Miss Powell, our cookery teacher at Kitwe High, would’ve taken the cook to task; had she used her pinkies to gently nudge the dough into shape? I also wanted to return to the sweet shop in that same town to buy all the sweets of my childhood, those I thought I’d buy later then forgot: Wilson’s toffees, peppermint crisps, Turkish Delight to name a few. That’s Donna below ordering our Rock Scones.
I wanted to hike up Blen Cathra peak, also known as Saddleback (we have our own Saddleback here in California, not half as grand though). I wanted another train ride up to Scotland. This time we’d go to Edinburgh, spend a couple of nights, have some more haggis, as well as neeps and tatties, attend the Edinburgh International Festival, roam the highlands. I wanted to enjoy the rain for at least another month. I’d miss it, how the grass becomes an eye-popping luminous green when it stops. I’d miss seeing those sweet, heart-melting little lambs every day. I’d miss seeing buildings older than I am (what’s with most of America, especially California, the minute a building gets dirty they tear it down). I’d miss heading down the hallway from my bedroom to have tea in bed with Joan and our laptops, with her popping up to serve me another cuppa every now and then—the way I like it, two sugars and milk. I wanted to spend more time with Donna. I wanted to return to the Great Strickland pub for Quiz night. In fact, I wanted to hit every pub around just to enjoy the sight of dogs sprawled under tables or sitting next to bar stools, leash less, content. That’s how it should be. Well, at least we still had dinner to enjoy. It would be in a poob, to be sure.