Blossom and Bells
Returning from our blossom walk, I set a table in the vines looking out towards the white orchard, the trees like fluffy wedding dresses on golden puddles of spring flowers. The village bell sounded nine in the distance.
I laid out my working tools: A score of a Haydn quartet, a pencil, and some Badois.
Suddenly I realised there was sobbing emerging from the kitchen, and when I re-entered I saw that this article about another kind of bell had had quite an effect on Julian.