Adam shifted the travel bag on his shoulder and paused for a moment to take in his surroundings; to breathe familiar air again. It felt fresher, cleaner, tinged with the suggestion of sage and sweet grass, of summer’s perfume, sloping bluebells, sunlight and gardens in full bloom.
It felt like home.
Little Bassington was, by any measurement, the quintessential English village. In fact, some of its lanes and narrower streets were still cobbled – something which had been a source of constant frustration to Iris"s eccentric friend George McCarrick, whose systematic purchase of classic cars for his “collection” had been hampered by the inevitable crush of cobbles against their low exhausts every time he tried to drive his latest pride and joy in the direction of Salt Hill. George had given A
