Betty is going to blog a wee bit more in future, by the way.

It dawned on Betty that it might have been an idea to check the timetable, because although there were open studio times over the last two weeks, the new term doesn’t start until next week.

Pro:
- An empty summer’s evening!
- Any number of beautiful suburbs, beaches, and parks on the way home!
- Cafes aplenty lining the streets!

Con:
- Betty was wearing a onesie

The husband person, in the end, bought a pizza, and they parked underneath the harbour bridge (a truly gorgeous spot) while he ate it. And then they went home, and Betty invoiced eight months in advance.

Never mind. Here’s something pleasing:

This weekend is a long one, so the adventuring will doubtless take a turn for the better. Happy Friday, everybody.

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Going to Cornwall Park is lovely; there’s more than enough room to visit many times and never walk the same way twice. This time was all sheep and grasses, but if one wants massive fountains or flowerbeds or groves of trees or hills to climb they’re just as easy to come by.

Photoshop is not the culprit. She jumps. You’re most welcome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.
Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honor and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A Child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam,
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost – how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky’s dome.

This world is wild as an old wives’ tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

GK Chesterton

There was a rush on the fancy lettuce, though, of course, and no watercress to be found. But Betty got some kale on the way home, to make up for it. The market itself was pleasing – there were carolers and a jazz band, lentil and portobello pies, and delicious coffee (the last of the season: Betty is giving it up, Lent-style, over Christmas. It tends to play havoc with her blood sugar, and the summer break seems a good time to coddle the adrenals, so it’s peppermint tea from now on, at least until the pre-dawn teaching starts again).

And after the market, Betty and the husband person stopped at the beach. It had one of those oversized picture-frames mounted in front of the view. Is that a worldwide phenomenon?

They began with eggs Benedict at Revel, and wandered around Karangahape Road, and then took the bus to Britomart and walked through the train station. Baggins (sister six) sniffed Christopher Brosius perfumes, examined vintage dresses and perused Scandinavian stationery with the best of them. After much walking, they popped into Raw Power and had a bowl of soup. Civilised, no?

It’s very beautiful. One walks.

For other parts of the trip, gentle readers will have to wait. But isn’t this a lovely spot?