It was a warm summer day and they had decided to go and visit Beningbrough Hall. Now that both of them were in their sixties and both retired, they enjoyed visiting those lovely old homes and gardens and had joined the National Trust as a couple.
They had bought a guidebook, quite a thick and heavy one about Yorkshire, and visited a place of interest a day.
He liked to joke about that and often said: “one place of interest a day keeps the doctor away.”
It was trite humour, he knew it and she knew it, but they had been married for so long and had laughed at the same things for all those years. She shared a pleasant feeling of companionship.
Basically, they enjoyed pretty much the same things and that gave them a warm feeling. That morning, they had looked at the weather forecast and decided on comfortable cool clothing.
They had visited the Hall, a very interesting place, and had been fascinated by the kitchens and the servants’ hall.
It was all very well to learn about the life of baronets and such, but what happened downstairs was something they were always keen on.
The laundry room especially kept their attention. They noticed starch in a surprisingly old carton box, and all the necessary instruments to get the linen dry, a large basin, a wooden mangle, old-time clothes pegs and lines.
The place reminded them of the series Upstairs, Downstairs, and when they visited the downstairs part of the Hall, they exchanged a few remarks and , imagined the kitchen maid, for instance, working in these surroundings.
Then, after their picnic lunch eaten at the cafeteria, with a pot of tea, they had headed towards the beautiful gardens. Both of them were keen on gardening and had enjoyed the herbaceous borders, the flower garden and the kitchen garden. There was also a beautiful orchard, with a lot of apple-trees.
Around three p.m., they felt they needed a rest so they found a bench in the shade and sat there for a while.

He took the book out of his bag, and they reviewed what they had seen.
They both wore glasses but he was always the one who got his reading glasses out. She liked listening to his reading. In fact, even at home, he would sometimes find something of interest in the newspaper and read it aloud to her.
He had quite a deep and beautiful voice, she thought. When they had first met, she had remarked his hands and his deep voice. Those had always been the things she noticed first when she met a young man. And he had been no exception.
She was a very good listener, but also made witty remarks that he enjoyed.
Then, they noticed that they had missed part of the garden, spotted it on the map and decided to explore it, after which they would have tea in a place they had noticed on the way over.
Then, they would drive back to their B&B, maybe take a nap and get some reading done.
They were both quite fond of reading, although their tastes were quite different. He mostly read history books, essays and The Times. She found novels, murder mysteries, and occasionally, a biography or an autobiography more entertaining.
They hardly ever shared the reading of the book, but they did talk about what they read a lot.
So many men kept themselves to themselves, not to say that they hardly knew how to communicate. Not her husband. She felt she was quite a lucky woman.

The first thing that caught my eye was the bright blue of her dress. Then I looked up and noticed her white hair. That is when I clicked!

In Venice, walking in the streets means climbing up and down the stairs all the time. The city is composed of a myriad of small islands that are linked together by those little bridges. Some bridges only have five or six steps, but large ones, like the Rialto, have more. So walking from one place to another always implies climbing stairs.

Contrary to what one may think, there are quite a lot of old people living in Venice and you see them hurrying along up and down, up and down.

Once, I asked an old lady for directions, (when I say old, old she was, she told me she was 89) and she said she would walk me wherever I was going. So I immediately protested, in my broken Italian, explaining that I did not want her to get tired because of me, and she told me that walking was life. As I wondered whether all those steps were not too much for her, she said that living in Venice kept you going, as no matter what you did, you had to cross all those bridges. She told me she went shopping every day.

“I never carry heavy stuff, but I go out every day and do everything myself. It keeps me interested and keeps my legs going.”
When I asked what floor she lived on, she said the second floor, and laughed when I asked if she had a lift. Of course she didn’t!
But she went up and down her staircase just as she did on the bridges. Only, she added, a bit slower.