I finished a letter to Mum and Dad, sent off my grant forms, and then in the late afternoon went down the library to do a bit of work on my Whitman, Thoreau, Emerson and Dickinson essay. I'm doing reading to see what themes emerge. I’m thinking of pursuing a Romantic link to connect all four.
It’s been another good day and it was very pleasant wandering back from the library at seven in the warm air, with the birds beginning their twilight flurry of noise. The leaves are out now and the trees are heavy and green: they crowd down silent and mysterious from the hill-tops, and stretch away dreamily towards distant Gaunt’s Hill.
As I tramped back over the meadow behind Rousseau Hall I felt a little thrill at the thought of all the sights and moods that await exploration. The broad green roll of country beyond the Teacher Training College toward Knoyldon and the sea looked so enticing, tinged with shadow and stained by the sun, crossed by a single lonely road marching beyond the horizon. I thought of the Dales.
In the evening, after everyone had returned from the bar, we got embroiled in a shaving foam and toothpaste war: Shelley was covered from head to foot in white foam and the corridor was awash with the stuff; on doors, the walls, and all over Shelley’s and Stu’s rooms. A lightning flour attack by Alex only added to the chaos. Everyone got drenched, especially Stu who was water-bombed from the bridge outside.
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