She stood on the brink of a slightly curving slope of a lush, green hill looking down toward the endless rise and fall of the earth as far as her eyes could see. Her hair glowed red in the sunlight. As she stood on the edge she paused for a moment looking at the waves of the hills meeting the blue stretches of sky, mingling somewhere in the middle and contrasting one another with boldness that inspires awe.
She knew these moments were precious and that so much change was just around the corner. These were her last few days before she would be off to classes at Oxford. A vibrant spirit of youth was alive inside of her and the excitement rose inside her more each day. In a few minutes, she would be sitting under a tree at the bottom of the hill with her book resting open on her lap where her mind would become engrossed in the Austen novel in her hand. She also loved being outside among the natural beauty with the accompaniment of the written word. She would run her hands along the tree bark and walk barefoot through the fresh dewy grass in the morning before breakfast, with a hardback marbled books from the late 1800's tucked on her arm. Her mind waking up with the landscape. Sun rising over the fog. Gentle golden rays of sun touching blooms.
Before breaking into a run down the hill she took a deep breath and held her poise for a moment and let out her breath as she tipped over the edge and let the momentum carry her, thinking about what her future would hold and how she raced toward it. She thought about being in class studying literature and writing papers all evening and the thoughts thrilled her. It actually enhanced her run down the hill and inspired her to run faster.
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Walking back through the garden, she caught a scent of fresh earth. Her mum must have been digging up some vegetables for supper that night. Sure enough, a basket of carrots was sitting at the top of the steps leading to the back door near the kitchen. As the afternoon grew deeper, the light grew weary and a chill rent through the breeze that shuffled her hair. She picked up the basket and entered the house, immediately greeted with the sound of the kettle steaming with hot water for tea.
She took the basket to the sink and washed the carrots, and her mum came up next to her and kissed her cheek.
"The kettle is boiling for tea, dear," she said soothingly, "would you mind setting out the tea things?"
A collection of the prettiest teacups and saucers took up residence in a lovely wooden china cabinet. The collection was lovingly used, as they should be, and she picked out her two favourites, along with the tea strainer, a teapot, and creamer. She carefully placed everything on the rustic wooden table that was near a large set of windows that looked out toward the valley and the rolling hills. The plates and spoons were already resting on the table, so she arranged everything neatly and orderly. Her mum always taught her how to set up a proper tea, how to make a bed without creases, how to air out the laundry, how to make Yorkshire pudding, and how to knit, among a great many other things.
Her mind started to wander off with the air of excitement for the great next step she was taking by going to Oxford. The last time she was there to visit, she stayed with a close friend of her mum's, Eleanor, who lives on Holywell Street, in the heart of Oxford. She lives in an old, stone building reminiscent of much of Oxford, which has been there for centuries, and it always smelled of fresh flowers every time she walked inside. That is probably because Eleanor would walk to the covered market two days a week to buy the freshest blooms from the local vendors there. She knew this, of course, because after breakfast and coffee they walked together to the covered market for flowers, and for an almond croissant from the French Bakery. Then they took the more scenic way down medieval Brasenose Lane to Radcliffe Square, and the grand circular neo-classical Radcliffe Camera (the reading room- just one building of the Bodleian Library) would greet them cordially but dominantly.
They would pause here in the square, because her heart would soar at the sight, every time, and Eleanor knew it. They would each take bites of their almond croissants and watch the city grow busier as the morning folk would make their way through the square, perhaps using it as a cut-through to High Street.
After gazing at the RadCam dreamily for a bit, they would make their way back to Holywell Street passing by the grand square Bodleian Library building on their left, with dreaming spires pointing toward the ever-changing English sky, and then the Bridge of Sighs on the right, which was an ornate walkway connecting two buildings of Hertford college. A shortcut over the road.
It grew misty on their walk back, with a few raindrops starting to fall. The rain doesn't hinder anyone around them, for they are well accustomed to the fickle weather since it could change completely in five minutes. The British way is to keep on going about their business, rain or shine.
Turning right onto Holywell, they soon approached the home and got their coats off inside as the rain suddenly fell heavier. Tea was prepared and enjoyed, and soon the table was cleared and the garden out back drew her attention. Curled up in a cosy nook window-seat, she had a book of poetry in her hands, as it was her current read. The windows were open and as the rain fell the cool temperature reached them inside. The birds chirped outside amidst the sounds of droplets and the sweet, clean scent of dew enveloped them.......
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The clang of the teapot brought her out of her daydream.
They sat down and poured the steaming tea as they resumed their Jane Austen debate from breakfast, about the character of Fanny Price in Mansfield Park.
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