Swanwick Day 3: Transfering A MemoryIt was Sunday, lunchtime, the last week in June. The sun was strong, the sky cloudless and deep blue. Crowds strolled along each bank of the river in Ljubljana. Stall holders watched their stock lazily from under parasols. It was too much effort to pull in the punters. There was a buzz of conversation and occasional shouts of laughter from the crowded bars.
We were having lunch in our favourite restaurant. We shared a bottle of cool local wine, young and with a greensih tinge. There was a large wooden platter on the centre of the table with local hams, cheeses and olives, both green and black. The sour taste of the olives complimented the wine beautifully.
“You know we’re going to lose our buyers, don’t you?” he said.
The thought of losing the wonderful converted barn we’d discovered in Dorset was too much for me to bear.
“I don’t suppose you’d consider buying the new house before we’ve sold the old one?” I whispered