September 23, 2006
I love sitting in the garden, listening to the wind in the redwoods and the hummingbirds buzzing by to feast on the brilliant fuchsias. The sun is warm on my face, and defiant of wrinkles, I raise my face to it, eyes closed, remembering how much my father loved the feeling of the sun. Whenever he visited us in California, he delighted in the warmth of the sun after the cool, greyness of England. He would be so happy to know that his youngest children now own their very own part of California: thirty unspoiled acres of meadows and forest.