23 July – Day 85


It’s been a glorious day the weather has been amazing reaching a high of 25 degrees in our little back garden, and now sitting amongst the fruit trees at 9:30 at night the temperature is a little crisp, but just warm enough to be sitting out in shorts and t-shirt.

The sun is setting to the right of the houses and giving off a warm glow that brings promises of another good day.  I can hear the trickle of next doors water feature, the occasional car passing along the road and even the birds find they still have something to say, my lady like cat is sat on the kitchen window ledge watching and the evening breeze carries the scent of a time long gone by.

Sitting here on my little wooden chair, closing my eyes I can quite easily transport myself back to when I was 9 or 10 and playing in the back garden of my grandparents house.  Their tan dog Dusty (aptly named) trots around the paved garden, glad of the company that has just arrived, and may just stop to give her some attention, in the top right hand corner of the garden stands my granddads work shed, oblong in shape, and not of construction that could be bought at the local diy shop, I don’t know, but I can only surmise that this shed has been built by his own fair hands and using bits and pieces of wood and window frames that he has come across I do know that this shed has survived the 2nd world war, so is very strong in stature. At the end attached and slightly to the left of the shed is Dusty’s dog house, which she quite happily walks in and out to her own tune.

If you were to enter my granddads shed through the padlocked door, you would come across a treasure trove of bits and bobs that he would need at any point in his day, He had his work bench that stretched the length of the shed on the right and securely attached to that was a funny looking gadget a device that would clamp wood with the help of turning the large metal rod that had a heavy looking ball at the end by which you turned it.  I was always made aware of the danger of this piece of machinery each time I entered.  (later on in life, I learnt that this funny looking thing was simple called a Vice) above the bench hung a number of tools and implements that were suspended from the wall by screws or nails and well out of the way of young children’s reach (of which there were 4 myself and my 3 cousins).  Grandad would hang the daffodil bulbs from the ledge of the window so that they would dry and be ready to be planted for their next season.

But the thing that I notice the most was the smell of creosote that always hung in the air, it was a smell that I learnt to love and have always held very fond memories for me.  So much so the day of my Grandad’s funeral I found myself, standing as an adult in the shed, with my eyes tightly closed I took deep breaths of the pungent smell and prayed that on opening my eyes I had just lived a horrible nightmare, but as adults know that isn’t the case.  There isn’t a day goes past that I don’t think or have a fond memory of this wonderful man, and this evening as I sit in our garden I can once again smell the odour of creosote.  It’s almost as if my Grandad is standing beside me.


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