I finished my narrative last night by going to see Dennis’s painting. They are marvelous. The paintings seem to come from someone intimately familiar with his subject. The hills seem to show a lifetimes knowledge. The trees and bushes appear as things of beauty that also must be tended carefully, fought with and sometimes even destroyed. There is a truth in Dennis's paintings. Reality is not shied away from, to cloak fact with beauty. Instead truth is part of the beauty of an image, making the contrail of a passing jet as much a part of the natural scene as the hills and shrubs.
Today we traveled into Shrewsbury to begin our goodbyes. Arnold purchased, in his own languid fashion, plants for Parkgate, as a thank you to Audrey and Dennis. Then we took him to the station and saw him on his way. He is off to explore on his own for a while.
Tonight we sampled Den’s liquor cabinet, amply stocked but seldom touched. Dennis served with his perpetual good cheer but even fortified by the laws of hospitality I could not bring myself to drink whiskey neat.
I must not forget the torrential downpour of the day. The little brook through the middle of Parkgate was changed to a raging stream and the gravel on the country roads was washed away. Jake found the weather to be a great game of fetch with the gods of the sky and chased every drop in a primeval dance.
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