Wet morning through glass. 7.00 a.m.

I was clearing some more cupboard space in the loft room yesterday afternoon, after my French Conversation French session on Zoom, in readiness for the family returning again at the end of next week, when I found a notebook of jottings belonging to my dad.
He wrote prolifically.
And devoured books.
Here is one of his “jottings”

“Frosty morning.
My winter ends when I no longer have warm milk on the cornflakes.”

He lived all his life, 22 years of it as a widower, surrounded by the his beloved Rossendale hills.
More jottings to come!