Today we were tourists in our own village following a new footpath map, treading lightly over carpets of clover and a froth of fallen blossom, lead by yellow butterflies, like winged buttercups.
We search out the rare oxlip, a delicate marriage of primrose and cowslip, and I think I find one, but decide I will check later on Google, the wonderful resolver of all mysteries in our family. (I just have and to my surprise I was right. My Grandma, knower of the names of flowers, would have been proud).
Something about that walk stays with me all day, and I try to be a bit more of a tourist in my own life, noticing each moment that has never been before and will never come again just like that.
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