CLOUDED HILLS

It was funny that Classic FM played the first few bars of Jerusalem, just as we rounded a bend of green hills and the sea opened up ahead.

It was a rich, deep blue today. Tiny white sails bobbed about under the perfect sky, and the natural sweep of Poole Harbour spread out before us.

“And did those feet, in ancient times...” sang the radio. I felt the twinge that every true Englishman feels at Hubert Parry’s score. We drove on, and into a sunny Weymouth.

The Intrepids and I are on holidays again. I’m on meals, my Mum’s on transport, and my Dad’s on trips: it seems like the best way to handle it, and certainly this way round makes it less likely to be stressful.

Speaking of which, I’ve found myself at The Ship Inn, by the harbour, while they rest from the journey. Seagulls swoop over the fishing boats, and groups of locals and tourists drink, in the balmy night air. I brushed the sand from my jeans and sat al fresco with a pint of something cool.

I feel like there’s a lot to let go of this week: stagnant old attitudes to things, a few hurts I didn’t know I had, worries and anxieties that don’t belong to me. This week might be timely, at least. It might of course, just be good for my body to eat well, sleep even better, and remember that it houses something precious.

Or perhaps, as often seems to be the way, it’s an opportunity for the ‘countenance divine’ to ‘shine forth upon our clouded hills.’ Seems to me that might be exactly what a holiday is for.