I woke to the sound of blackbirds calling in the grounds below my first floor window. The Turtle Dove in the eaves just outside was, as usual, disdainfully ignoring the incessant chatter of the lesser species below, cooing regally at the newly risen June sun.

There was no point trying to fight it. I threw back the heavy army surplus blanket and reluctantly hauled myself from the wonderfully comfortable feather mattress. On the dresser below the window stood a large china jug and bowl which Mrs Bates had replenished just last night. I walked to the window and pulled back the heavy felt drapes. As they slid easily along the thick wooden pole the bright morning sunshine flooded cheerfully into my tiny room. Gasping at the refreshing coolness of the water, I let the contents of the jug flow through my hair and fall back to the bowl as I bent near so as to waste none of it. Reaching over to the brass rail alongside, I took the freshly laundered towel and began to scrub the last vestiges of sleep from my mind. I turned to survey my new surroundings feeling thoroughly refreshed and ready for whatever the day may bring my way.

Mrs Bates kept a clean and exceptionally tidy Lodging House. It was sparse and free of the magical advances in technology which were now increasingly intruding into everyday life back in London, where I kept rooms close to the Club in Mayfair. Here in this idyllic location in the country the night was kept away by the use of simple oil lanterns and candles. No piped gas lamps spoiled the line of the simple walls surrounding me. The nearest town with a piped gas supply was thirty miles to the North West, towards London. I pondered the differences between the two locations a while longer. Later this year, before the winter sets in the owners hope, the Club was to be wired up to be lit by electricity. I wondered if that meant the eventual total banishment of night in the City. Already, since the installation of gas lanterns the evening meetings back at the Club had been known to stretch on past midnight on occasion.

For some reason it was the sight of Mrs Bates out in the grounds already, picking fruit for the days sweet, that triggered the memory of the dream. I waved good morning as she looked back to my window and sat back on the bed as the dream returned once more. I had known it was there since waking, waiting for me to acknowledge its existence once more. I had recognised the pattern some days earlier. I didn’t try to force the memory anymore. I knew that if I just carried on in my normal routine after waking then it would return, some unconnected event or word would open the floodgates of memory and it would be there. I let it play out in my mind. Fearful of disturbing the progression of silent images as it played on, I sat unmoving on the bed until the end. I heard Mrs bates returning to the kitchen to begin preparations for breakfast. It would be a fulsome meal of eggs and bacon, with huge slices of home cooked bread toasted to perfection. She would have been out collecting the eggs while I slept, lost within the shadows of my dream. The bacon would have been purchased at the local Butchers shop the evening before. I looked forward to breakfast at Mrs Bates’ , the wholesome food and polite conversation made no demands on either my physical or intellectual capacity.

In the distance, as I looked out through my window, I saw across the fields and hedgerows which surrounded the little village of Much Hampton, a moving plume of white as a far away steam engine made its way across the countryside. I thought momentarily of the faceless passengers being ferried therein to take their places in those dingy offices of the city. Then the vision faded as the infinitely more solid vision of the shadow dream played on before my eyes. I picked up my notebook and held my pencil above the clean white sheet, once again to record the memories of my dream. Once more I failed to jot a single word on the still blank notebook which I had purchased especially for the purpose.

The shadows of my dream needed no pencil or ink to record the details of its existence. It had once again imprinted itself indelibly within the pages of the notebook of my mind.

I presented myself for breakfast some time later. Mrs Bates was of course her usual motherly self and the simple fayre was as good and as wholesome as ever. There was tea in a china pot, which sported its cracked lid unashamedly. Being the only lodger in residence that week, I was able to drain it before the end of breakfast. Mrs bates brought me a copy of ‘The Times’ which was only one day old. I suspected that she had gone to a great deal of trouble to acquire the paper especially for me, possibly a trip to the railway station the evening before. I kept my gratitude to myself, Mrs Bates would not appreciate the thanks. She would do this much for any of her guests without complaint. She did it without comment, and I thanked her just as silently.

I skimmed through the Newspaper quickly, but not so quickly as to offend the sensibilities of my gracious landlady in her efforts to procure it for me. I was now eager to get on with my morning walk down to the river. I noted that the leader on the front page was still yet concerned with the grim reports coming out of the African Continent. The Empire was now more than ever plagued with just such disastrous occurrences on a worldwide scale. Rhodes appeared to be about to take on the Zulus in the North, and the Dutch were about to become troublesome further south. To my mind it was inevitable. There were troubled times ahead for Her Majesties Empire.

As soon as I could without being impolite, I took my leave of Mrs Bates and taking hat and coat in hand, one can never be sure of English weather, I strode purposely down the path between the carefully tended flowerbeds to the cottage gate. I closed the gate firmly after me and raised my hat to Mrs bates as she stood in the doorway, watching my departure. Her broad stature made her look a formidable figure as she stood square in the doorway, arms folded across her recently stained apron. She bid me farewell with a barely perceptible nod of an apparently unconcerned head and returned to her duties indoors.

I hefted the inevitable picnic parcel under my arm and headed for the path which led to the river. On an impulse I made a short detour to the village store where I knew that Ned Sherridan, the storekeeper, was holding a nicely made float rod for me. I had not taken up his offer of the loan of the rod before now but this morning I quite fancied the idea of whiling away the morning hours watching for signs of interest as that colourful spec of painted wood bobbed in the summer sunlight.

Ned was obliging as promised and soon I was unhurriedly making my way to the riverbank in search of the special spot that Ned had taken great pains to direct me to if I was to get some good sport. I might even get a chance to battle ‘Percy’ the great predatory pike which had plagued the narrowing of the river for many a year now.

The morning had developed into a perfect June day with not a cloud in the sky. The morning mist had burned off and the air was still fresh with the memory of it. After a walk of no more than half an hour I came to what I hoped was the spot Ned had described to me. Not that I was truly concerned about the prospect of actually catching any fish, any shady spot on the riverbank would have been sufficient for my needs. But if Ned had happened by to see how I was doing during the morning then I wouldn’t want him to think that I had discourteously disregarded his well intended advice.

I soon had the float bobbing perfectly in the sunshine and so lay down on the bankside. I tilted my hat just enough to keep the reflected sunshine at bay without obscuring the gratifying bob of the float out in the centre of the narrow water.