I'm at an upstairs window of the cottage fixing a new handle.
The opening used to be a small hayloft window and the deep wooden lintel is at the height of my eyebrows. Tod has to stoop to see out but I can look directly down through the dappled green of the lime tree to the sloping brown lines of Monsieur F's now-harvested field beyond.
I feel like a child in a tree-house.
LinksThe Handles - Progress (of a Kind)