Saturday, May 08, 2010

Wood stove in the forest in Narnia

Last night I lit the wood stove in the kitchen, poured myself a tumbler of Fat Bastard chardonnay (right now one of my favourites), and got into bed with a pile of books while the fire crackled, snapped and popped.
I read until my eyelids slid closed.
I turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the cat and the duvet up closer, curled around them, went to sleep.
I needed some alone time; the luxury of knowing it was Friday night - and that my own company was the best company - was delicious.
When I was dumber, and younger, I would climb the walls into a frenzy on a weekend night so tempted, to death, was I by the flesh pots.
Before then, when I was even younger, but innocent, not yet dumb, I remember - on nights like last night - that I would slip away (under the covers, even with a torch if need be) down paths into the likes of Narnia's forests following (among many others) C.S. Lewis or the other Inkling, Tolkien, not even knowing that they loved the Lion of the East as I now do.
Enthralled I left small, dizzy footsteps in the snow, or crackled spring twigs under my sandals, caught autumnal leaves in my blonde, shiny hair.
Today, back in bed, I'm devouring 'Yours, Jack - The Inspirational Letters of C.S. Lewis':
"And I quite agree about Johnson. If one had not experienced it, it would be hard to understand how a dead man out of a book can be almost a member of one's family circle -- still harder to realise, even now, that you and I have a chance of someday really meeting him."
Steffen is on his way from the West. I'm booking a winter flight for later in the year to the North, via, slightly, to the East. While tonight it's good food, wine and laughter under Waterval Boven's magnificent diamond-speckled black velvet sky at Werner and Celeste's.
I'm drunk with anticipation...

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