We were in a small picturesque town – Petersfield – where I’d just had my first proper English cream tea. He suggested we stop into the used bookstore. It was undergoing a renovation and chaos reigned with huge unordered stacks of books all over the place:
I busied myself looking at old maps:
As we left, he handed me something. I held in my hand a tiny volume of Sylvia Plath poems:
Delight! Joy! Even awe!
I opened it to find an intriguing bit of marginalia:
It is now one of my most prized possessions.