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This weekend, I have returned to my childhood home in North Wales. It’s sunny, it’s the summer, and it’s just the perfect temperature, sitting pretty somewhere around 25c. A very strange thing happened today, which I’ve not done in quite some time. I did very little.

I had lunch, I read the paper, then I snoozed in the shade for several hours. Marvellous. Now I sit in the shade and read and type this out. Double Marvellous. Soon, my brothers will join my little brother and father and I and we’ll celebrate via a subdued stag barbeque my brothers impending marriage. Overall, an almost perfect weekend in Wales.

Not having one’s partner around is of course something to do only rarely, but this weekend, as Rach is on her own Hen do (for our impending marriage), I’m left on my own, in the house I grew up. Calm has descended upon me like the refreshing blanket that is popped out the wash, fragrant and clean into the fridge, until nicely chilled, and draped across the sun-burnt lad. No that’s not me. I was realistic enough to know it WOULD be me, and caked myself in greasy factor 30. And then I sat in the shade. No burn here.

The peace here is extraordinary, not necessarily in the audible sense though. Right now for example, there are numerous flies buzzing, swallows chattering, the farm across the valley playing a soundtrack of generic farm noises, sheep braying, household noises emanating from where my mother is cooking some quiches for her evening out at my Sisters house, and occasionally, when the wind drifts it over, the faint din of the Ashes (cricket), from the Radio near where dad is sitting as he picks black-currants. Peace, as in soul nourishing and calm, as in an energy which resets and rejuvenates.

So, I sit. In praise of doing very little.20130720_164937