Towards the end of our holiday in England, I proposed that my only siblings, my two brothers and I, go off on a day trip together and do something we had never done before, so that we would remember it for a long time. I remembered a time about thirty years ago when we found ourselves skiing together, just the three of us, and my younger brother had remarked how rarely we do things just in each other's company.
First we set out for Kipling's house on the edge of The Weald. There were wonderful gardens and plenty of reminders of the stories that were read to us when we were children.

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Then we drove on to Herstmonceau, which was purchased by a Canadian millionaire and donated to Queen's University. Those lucky students.

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From there it was fairly obvious to drop down to the seven sisters. My young brother was driving and my older brother brilliantly navigated us to this quiet country lane which led right down to the beach.

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Finally, as the sun was setting, we went up to the highest point on The Downs, Ditchling Beacon. Would a fire have been lit here if Napoleon had invaded England? We could imagine it would be so.

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Brothers three the

Back in Toronto.

TEACH BOYS TO WHISTLE

This came to me at 3.33 AM, but I was too sleepy to get up and post it.

I have my proposal for NEW IDEAS all packaged and waiting for postage.

David yet again took my laptop off this solid table and I found it on the tiny table with rickety legs. I am trying to leave him the desktop we have been sharing and set up my own. Starting over is hard.

No news is good news.

I passed by here as a young man when I was hitch hiking to Spain. I've seen the most wonderful castle, I told my mother. Oh that was made on steel girders in the nineteenth century, she told me. But, since it looks wonderful, isn't it? Since then I've come to admire nineteenth century buildings probably more than the medieval ones they were so successfully imitating. The Victorians were brilliant engineers with exciting new materials and the wealth to create extraordinary lay structures. Apparently it was the conical roofs on the turrets, so beloved by later Disneylands, which offended the purists.

"I hate my verses, every line, every word.
Oh pale and brittle pencils ever to try
One grass-blade's curve, or the throat of one bird
That clings to twig, ruffled against white sky.
Oh cracked and twilight mirrors ever to catch
One color, one glintingflash, of the splendor of things.
Unlucky hunter, Oh bullets of wax,
The lion beauty, the wild-swan wings, the storm of the wings."
--This wild swan of a world is no hunter's game.
Better bullets than yours would miss the white breast
Better mirrors than yours would crack in the flame.
Does it matter whether you hate your . . . self?
At least Love your eyes that can see, your mind that can
Hear the music, the thunder of the wings.
Love the wild swan.

Robinson Jeffers