Going, going, gone

I’ve had a fabulous day at the house and garden of Henry Moore, the sculptor. I’ve visited the gardens before but the house wasn’t open then and it was wonderful to see. Not large, certainly very unpretentious, but filled with treasures and interesting bits and pieces that give a genuine insight into his mind and the objects that shaped his art.

I was, all the same, on tenterhooks, because I expected a call at any time to say that the contract had been signed by the buyers. I was in the coach on the way home when I received it – it was a final check that Friday was okay for me. I confirmed and then I reckoned it was out of my hands, there was no point in worrying. But it all finally did go through, just before 5 o’clock, so the house is sold.

Too tired to write more after a day in the sun, with added emotion. If I write again over the weekend, it’ll be on my phone and in a brief online glimmer, so it may not be managed. I hope to relax once I get to the caravan. The forecast is – not unusually for Pembrokeshire – rain, so there won’t be much else to do but relax.

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