Why do I do this to myself? I'm back in my "Pilgrimage" mood. The family genealogy gets us back to 15th century France, and the French family name persisted to my great-grandparents. The offspring from then on were all female, except, I imagine, for far-flung cousins unknown to me, and the heritage ran from then on to English/Irish and . . . one German grandmother Wilhelmina, pictured here as I imagine her.
I look at these old wrecks of thick stone walls with the huge blackened hearths and the gigantic overhead beams and the oddly placed asymmetrical windows, and I want to be there. I want to smell them. I want to see that sunshine on old stone steps.
Those thick stained planks charm me.
If only I had a gazillion dollars to buy one of these old places and restore it. . . or even to live in it as is, with the damp and the mice, moldy rushes on the floor.
The truth is, as Abe Lincoln pointed out in one of his responses to a fairly recent post, time is like away . . . there's no such thing.