for a glimpse into the chaotic world of the curate's dreams..
It was a gorgeous autumn afternoon, of the sort I’m still hoping to catch before I depart for India.
Trees in amazing shades of reds and golds, sky blue, air crisp with just a touch of lingering warmth.
I was making my way to the airport, complete with backpack ready for India, along a wide flag-stoned passage that I somehow knew was part of a rambling Victorian house.
I was riding the children’s horse, Truffle.
He seemed totally unperturbed by finding himself inside…and coped very well with the frequent stops to open doors (each time I had to dismount to reach the handle…and then climb onto a large dark brown leather sofa in order to remount. For some reason, those sofas were to be found at regular intervals along the passageway).
We finally emerged onto a beautiful lawn, and saw a flight of steps leading up to some French windows. Riding up the steps (as you do, you know) we found ourselves in the middle of a wedding reception (Since you ask, this was for Fab Bishop’s former Chaplain, who got married some years ago, without either curate or horse in attendance).A huge number of diocesan clergy were there, all wearing very snazzy gold copes….except for me, of course, - you try riding in a cope!
I was in the middle of explaining why I was so woefully under-dressed when….
Aren't you glad you don't have dreams like that?!