Sunday Morning
By Belinda
On Sunday I woke early and tiptoed to the bathroom. Bruce's tail thumped the floor as I passed by.
A little later we slipped out of the flat together; Bruce shot down the stairs like a brindle bullet and waited at the bottom for his lead to be clipped on, his nose pointed eagerly at the front door.
The village slept on as we walked into the sunshine, the streets Sunday silent as we headed for the bridle path leading to Lodge Farm, high on a hill between the villages of Alvechurch and Rowney Green.
Fields of gold and green folded into one another, dotted with sheep that wandered closer to stare, curious as we passed by.
We walked back down to the village and took School Lane to the narrow path past the rectory and noticed Reverend David Martin up ahead in black robes, on his way to the 9.30 Family Service, carrying a black knapsack over one shoulder.
As we crossed the parking lot behind the Red Lion, a member of Alvechurch Baptist Church was putting a sign outside the church, welcoming anyone passing by. Usually I would join this small congregation for Sunday worship, but not this Sunday as we had plans to visit friends in Warwick.
Half an hour before the 11.00 a.m. Parish Eucharist was due to start at St. Laurence Church, the newly repaired and installed bells pealed out from high above the village. I listened from the open windows of the flat, reveling in an Alvechurch Sunday morning.
On Sunday I woke early and tiptoed to the bathroom. Bruce's tail thumped the floor as I passed by.
A little later we slipped out of the flat together; Bruce shot down the stairs like a brindle bullet and waited at the bottom for his lead to be clipped on, his nose pointed eagerly at the front door.
We walked back down to the village and took School Lane to the narrow path past the rectory and noticed Reverend David Martin up ahead in black robes, on his way to the 9.30 Family Service, carrying a black knapsack over one shoulder.As we crossed the parking lot behind the Red Lion, a member of Alvechurch Baptist Church was putting a sign outside the church, welcoming anyone passing by. Usually I would join this small congregation for Sunday worship, but not this Sunday as we had plans to visit friends in Warwick.
Half an hour before the 11.00 a.m. Parish Eucharist was due to start at St. Laurence Church, the newly repaired and installed bells pealed out from high above the village. I listened from the open windows of the flat, reveling in an Alvechurch Sunday morning.
Comments
There's nothing like a Sunday morning walk in Alvechurch (sigh) whether it's down Rectory Lane (in a brick red raincoat, a floppy umbrella held aloft, to a gravelly footpath leading to rain-sodden playing fields and then down that quaint little Meadow Lane to Red Lion Street and across to the Baptist Church, or the road that you took up to Lodge Farm and back down through the village from the other direction...
Yep, there's nothing like it.. You're making me homesick! :)
PS: how did Bruce like his liver treats???