This day is called the feast of Crispian…

 

It was on St Crispin’s Day, in 1952, that my friend Sylvia’s academic family invited me to join them in England the following summer. A third friend, Ann, was to be there too. We are three old ladies now, all widowed, still in touch. And St Crispin has sort of followed us around. Olivier’s movie was all the rage, in 1952. At the end of the summer of ’53, after the others had gone home, I came to Edinburgh for a glorious week of Festival. I saw “Henry V” in a church somewhere during that week, I think it was the one right here, on the roundabout where London Road joins Broughton Street. And there was once when we were middle-aged when Ann and Sylvia came to see me in Birmingham, and my husband was away and so didn’t need to be cooked for, and we had a day out, We went to Chatsworth and on to Stratford where we happened upon a matinee of Kenneth Branagh’s memorable “Henry V”. I think it was his first big break.

 

I am delighted to think that I might accidentally have inspired anyone to take a closer look at Ingres. I love him. This is the picture that hangs above the table where I sit to compose:

 

Blurry, because taken in darkness, and of course just a print, not a drawing from the master’s own hand. Although there are those who believe that Ingres himself had a hand in making the plate. Whatever, I love those four people.

 

This is our first day of winter darkness (i.e., the clocks went back last night). I am feeling fairly gloomy. It was easier to be brave about Covid-19 in the springtime. C. came to accompany my walk this morning – the first time I’ve seen her in quite a while. She’s exhausted by her nursing duties, and is going back to them tonight. She thinks Christina (Hamish’s mother, whose neck is broken) will need attendance into the new year. She is to have another x-ray this week.

 

The Evandoon continues to progress well. I am currently nearly finished with a broad stripe of the most beautiful, gentle red.