17 August 2005; a walled garden in Helmsley, England. Tomorrow we're leaving for a couple of weeks away; admittedly it's strange to think about traveling, but I have purposely kept from my head the less stellar parts of this adventure, concentrating on where we'll be and what we'll do. Which is far from home and not much beyond sightseeing and visiting dear friends. Or I hope that's the outcome; only yesterday I packed a suitcase, not wishing to overstep any bounds by prepping too early in advance. And if things fall through at the last minute, I won't be overly saddened. There's a book to write, tomato plants to get into the ground, quilts to make, that sort of thing. Sipping my morning coffee, I admired the stars, then conjured an essential plot point for the new story. If I'm smart, I'll make some notes, but the folder for this book is at the bottom of luggage, so I'll stash it in my backpack for later perusal. I never did finish Chapter One, ...