At lunchtime we look up to see a wall of contrails above us. A squadron of RAF planes hurtling back towards Britain after a sortie over Libya. Line abreast, after burners glowing, their tracks stretching as straight as a roman road towards the horizon. They're way above the commercial traffic, too high for the sound to reach us. Five minutes later the refuelling tankers arrive. Slow, camouflaged and ponderous. Like so many watchful mother hens. What a juxtaposition. All this bravery and anger floating above the quiet and peace of our little spot of paradise. Truly surreal.
Wilf had cod and salmon fishcakes for dinner. He sometimes gets confused, turning right when he should turn left, and getting lost. The trials and tribulations of blindness. However, when it comes to meal time he can make it from the front door, up the stairs, along the corridor, through the den and into the kitchen as fast as any fighter jet. That old PON attitude - " The only reason to be alive is to enjoy it ".