Seymour on Sunday

Seymour , on this end-of-July Sunday, is a bleak, uninviting prospect.  The sky is grey, the main street deserted and the wind would chill you to the bone.

Only one thing postpones our departure – the Godchild and I are both very hungry and on the way into town she had spotted tearooms, with a board outside advertising lunch.  

We stop to investigate.

We walk in and the clincher is the heater with a wood fire blazing merrily away.  There is a table for two right by the fire and in less time than it takes to tell we are seated at this table and poring over the menu.

The menu is basic and in short order we have decided; pumpkin soup for the GC and mushroom risotto for me.

Risotto was not the smartest choice but I persevered  much to the amusement of the GC.  I left a few spoonfuls  in the bowl; there is only so much gluggy rice I can eat before calling it quits.

Once we were out on the freeway the kilometers rolled by with only a stop to refuel.  The trip was uneventful apart from the distressing  sight at the fuel stop, of a handsome set of antlers protruding from beneath the tarp covering the back of a utility.  I couldn’t help but think the remains of a very dead deer was concealed beneath the tarp.

A trophy  for the great white hunters.