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At
long last the front entrance is unlocked. You step outside into late-afternoon
sunshine and find the grounds humming with activity. Live fiddle music is
interspersed with the sounds of people congregating. You cross the driveway and
from the base of Shakespeare, spy the manor gang assembled in front of the spa
annex. From the other direction—the sound of a dog barking somewhere near the
rear of the dining hall, which causes Christopher to tear off in that
direction. You head toward the group. Something sure smells good. You
hear Bruce’s voice calling: “Hey Arnaud, mind givin’ me a hand? Toss some more
prawns on.” Oui, Monsieur Bruce. But I do not know la préparation spéciale for this dish.”
“Ah,
no worries, mate. Just baste and toss ’em on.
They always figure out how to
cook themselves.” You
draw closer and soon you are in the midst of fiddle-playing gardeners, barefoot
dancing couples, spirited conversation and feverish preparations for a giant
outdoor food fest. Meeting and greeting, you stroll from group to group. It
feels good to finally get outside. The sky is gorgeous as sunset approaches.
You decide to walk down to the main gate and back. The place looks different in
daylight and you marvel at the ridges of the hills and valleys beyond. For a
moment there, your imagination plays tricks and you think you can see
snow-capped mountains in the distance.
