We decided to say evening prayer in the church yard, it being too nice to sit in a dark chapel. And so we recited the psalms as ancient bricks witnessed in the wrong direction. We read of Samson as builders carried substances up the path to their project. What a blind alley revenge is. Who could imagine setting fire to foxes tails? We noted Paul's longing to preach the gospel where Christ was not known as we sat on walls that have known him for ages. I think I got in touch with my inner Ronald Blythe. Curious short-cutters nosed in our direction.
'Yes dear, I think they are ... praying.'
We recited the evening office as swallows called in reinforcements to buzz a magpie. The traffic could have been a mile away, not the few yards it was.
The sun had lost its full heat but was delightful in the way only a Somerset evening can be. Better than candles.
'Shall we bring a bottle of wine for afterwards next week?' said the Rector. And do you know children. I rather think she might.