Pastoral

Pastoral appeared in Punch on 8th April, 1903. It is inappropriate this cold, rainy Eastertide.

The weather (in the past
Emphatically bitter),
Seems to have changed at last.
The birds begin to twitter.

It is the opening verse of A Pastoral by PG Wodehouse. But why not migrate? That’s what Robert and I did yesterday.

It’s Groundhog Day and we are going to have Easter again but this time with good weather. We picked up a hire car eventually from the airport. The representative wasn’t there to meet us as arranged but, in a thoroughly Irish way, when I called the office George said that he’d be there directly and otherwise to call him back. 

Along the National Highway there are roadside shrines to commemorate reckless drivers, now in the race track in the sky, or to give thanks for miraculous escapes. The prettiest have small painted models of chapels: dolls’ chapels. The spring flowers are out, birds of prey wheel but the mountains still have plenty of snow. It is going to be warm during the day but chilly in the evenings. 

There is much to be done. Walks, visits to Allied and German WW II cemeteries, monasteries, Venetian ports, Good Friday processions and Easter feasting. Our extremely spacious room with thick stone walls, a wood-burning stove and air conditioning was used by the head of the local Resistance in WW II. The embrasure used to fire on attackers is visible on the inside wall but has been sealed, otherwise it would be draughty. The hotel belongs to his grandson. This is the view from the terrace outside our room.