Bien en Evidence

That today was a day of discovery should bring warmth to my heart.  And to be truthful it does. There are times I regret I haven't larger ambitions to broaden my mind, like when I repeatedly repeat the same things over and over again as is my tireless wont. What makes today's adventure all the more kindly is that it arose by accident. Though in defence of my narrowness I have to say that when I cycled home this morning - and passed the ancient Town Hall -  the seed was then planted to return later to capture a view of the River and some of that magnificent blue sky and those fluffy white clouds. It transpired precisely as I had wished.

Things had not however begun quite so cheerfully or promisingly.  In a twisted state of agitation I earlier telephoned my local banker to enquire whether he were still alive - and if so, had he by chance (note the stinging sarcasm) seen my four emails sent over a week ago and might I therefore have a reply! I hate myself whenever I communicate in that perturbed manner. Invariably I regret it.  Yet my determination was paramount. No false sociability mollified my intent. He got the message. With my help - that is, my assertive suggestion there was perhaps someone else to whom I should address my hopes of getting things done - he as willingly flicked me off to his subaltern. Unimaginably he first informed me he no longer addresses matters of client service.  I needed no further proof of his discomfort!  His confession was so obviously insulting to both him and me that I could only conclude that either his wife had recently left him or he hated banking.  Either way I felt obliged to credit him at least a measure of compassion - though nothing other than purely psychological. Our romance like that of him and his estranged wife was over!

Thereafter things bounced back quickly.  The junior clerk ("personal banker") proved to be extraordinarily efficient.  In record time she skilfully answered each of my enquiries. My propulsion was extinguished. The music of my universe returned to Middle-C.

I have friends who travel endlessly about the world, reporting regularly that they have found yet another beguiling resort.  From what I have seen of their accounts, it is all with good reason. It makes for riveting retail promotion. I nonetheless become discouraged when grasping at the various attractions. What if I later find another, more commanding scene?  What then?  How long can I keep it up?  One thing is clear about my world-traveler friends; viz., they're not about to quit anytime soon. That's a tough one for me. Sedentary is my middle name. It may be my addiction to mathematics - the affection for calculable conclusions and axiomatic precision. To be blunt, give me an Oriental rug, a piano, a book and a pen, and I'm happy!

This is beginning to sound remorsefully like accommodation.  It is not.  Almonte is foremost an artistic community. This is odd given the woollen mercantile history of the Town. But thanks to the remarkable efforts of Stephen Brathwaite (artist nonpareil) the two elemental characters of the Town have insinuated one another. Today I revisited an enclave of the Town which for me was the heart and pulse of my being for more than forty years - Little Bridge Street.

For the first time in that lengthy period I walked upon the bridge traversing Little Bridge Street from one side of the River to the other. As I did so I looked about and marvelled at what I saw.  It was an incredible view; one which in no small part is owing to the ingenuity and foresight of Stephen Brathwaite. In whatever direction I looked there was evidence of his genius and influence.