This is what today was like:
I slept late when I should have been up and working.
I cleaned my house when I should have been in the office.
I wrote emails in an empty office when I should have been buying strawberries.
I bought strawberries and wine for myself when I should have been buying food for my mother.
I rode my bicycle around a rose garden when I should have been lifting weights at the gym.
I wrote my blog when I should have been asleep.
I regret nothing and it's Midsummer.
Stepping with caution in a long, black skirt, up and down winding staircases of stone worn smooth, with walls too close and lintels too low. Breathing in the damp, medieval air and thinking I was made for this. Losing myself in the history of murderous kings and jealous duchesses and servants no-one remembers, feeling their sorrows.
Sitting alone under ancient vaults, centuries groaning beneath my feet as I listen to the silence. Staring up at imposing, thick walls that have stood for seven hundred years and feeling that they are mine. Wandering like a ghost.
I'm finally reunited with my favourite castle, the one that stands by a river that flows backwards. I'm all alone and I'm home.
Midsummer is trying to go to sleep with the sun shining in from the northwest. Waking up to too-loud birdsong and not knowing if it's day or night.
Too warm in silk nightdresses, shivering under sweater and jeans in the afternoon. Facing up to mosquito armies in the woods and icecream queues in the city. Breathing in lilacs and clover. Burning the skin on your nose. Hot sun and cold winds.
Confused and weary, constant light, the intensity of a fleeting summer. Like every flower, I reach out frantically towards a bright sky and explode in bloom.