Monday, April 19
I leave the house after breakfast through the other entrance, in case the oil on the terrace has not fully dried yet. It probably has.
I go for a walk through the woods while listening to Donovan in my earbuds. What a twerp, I think, as I walk. His songs strike me as deliciously stupid, in a very appealing way.
I think about his start as a Dylan impersonator, complete with hat and harmonica, and his brief flourishing during what we tried desperately to avoid calling the summer of love. He achieved this by regressing into writing nursery rhymes with a lasting appeal, whenever you feel indulgent enough to listen to them.
Hurdy Gurdy Man makes me chuckle appreciatively as much as it did when it first came out. The Mickie Most remake of Catch the Wind still makes me laugh out loud, and I had just started to giggle at The Entrance of the Drums when a woman walked past me determinedly stick-walking, and wearing twice as many clothes as me.
I turn left and walk down the path toward the ring road before turning left again and heading for home.