The view from my window is of a hazel tree blowing in the wind, its leaves turning yellow as the autumn chill kicks in. Through the branches I can catch a glimpse of the apple tree which I pruned nearly to death last summer; it’s rallying well for an old tree and there may be apples again next year. There is a rosemary bush with the last few purple flowers stubbornly clinging on as the wind rocks it from side to side. in the corner of my vision I can see washing blowing on the line in my neighbours garden, flashes of red and moss green. The sun is shining and there are white fluffy clouds scudding across the sky.
I remember other views. The view from my teenage bedroom down the garden. The horse chestnut tree in the corner of the garden, privet hedge on one side, wall on the other. A washing line snaking down the garden with an old wooden prop holding it erect, rose bushes in the neglected flower beds.
The view from my college bedroom. The road from Weymouth to Dorchester running past, buses and cars passing by all day. The walk up to college and the Halls of Residence I would move into later in the course, often watching my friends walking to and from college. A tiny balcony over the door which we climbed onto when the weather was sunny, drinking tea and smoking, waving to our friends.
The view along the lane when I visited my grandmother. We walked through the village and visited my mother’s childhood home on a peaceful, gravelled lane. I still have a scar on my knee from falling on the gravel! Tumbledown cottages and workshops along one side of the lane, cottages and houses along the other side. My mother’s old house, thatched roof and hollyhocks, still my ideal of a country cottage.
The view across to Portland. Calm sea, golden sand, sunshine in summer; grey sea, pounding waves, mist and rain in winter.
Many views, many memories, many different versions of me.