In a moment, Bede will come in for one of his Greek lessons. After that, we shall go out for our afternoon walk. Summer has come at last, even to Jarrow. The sun shines bright outside the walls of this monastery. The fruit ripens on the trees. My hand in Maximin’s, I shall pick my slow, unsteady way down to the great river that empties into the sea. And the boy will press me with his endless questions, any one of which is a joy to answer.
He’s got his way. I shall die among my own.
I will not go back again. But I have only to look away from the dark, shrivelled paw that holds my pen and I see myself again in all the strength and glory of manhood – and feel again some ghost of what I have been.
Death alone can rob me of the memories that now, like the waters of the Mediterranean, warmly lap the fringes of my mind.
