It has been two days since Ewan's visit.

We met other times, but the warmth I felt before our last conversation isn't there anymore. It will come back, sooner or later.

Despite the day has begun with this ugly feeling, opening the door and finding a beautiful sunny morning repays me of every negative thoughts.

I grab the cart and begin the usual round of withdrawals and deliveries: another blankets load for washing, a dozen of mails to deliver, a list of hardware items to be found on behalf of Hopkins garage.

Of all the list I have in my hand, a couple of items are missing. They can be in Cirencester, of course.

I leave the cart with the packages inside home, so they don't run any risk, during my absence and, after the corner of my courtyard, I knock on my neighbour's door.

«'Morning, Bridget.» I greet as soon as she opens.

«Dear Isaac. How can I help you?»

« I need your buggy, if you don't mind.»

«No problem. My husband used it yesterday. Our Arnold has been already fed this morning, you won't get any problem.»

«Thanks. I'll bring them back as soon as possible.»

«Take your time.»

I make a very light bow of thanks and I go towards the small stable on the back.

The road between Bibury and Cirencester is all straight. It runs among cultivated fields and small woodlands, going up and down gentle slopes. It takes little more than an hour to get there: Arnold keeps a light trot during almost the entire ride. It is a burly bay, not so tall, meek and very resistant. A real pleasure moving with him.

The hardware shop is on the edge of the city centre. Some merchants pass by me, with huge loads of wool skeins freshly washed. They head for the weavers' market. There they'll sell the good to those who, spinning the fibres, will create new yarns, using animal and vegetable colours.

My father was a weaver. I know this stuff because of him.

I enter the store. The door, opening, bumps into a small bell.

«May I help you?»

«I need this things.»

The cashier turns around. But before searching what I'm waiting for, he asks: «Where are you from, Sir?»

«Bibury.»

«Wonderful. Could I give you a delivery? It's meant for your own city. There is only the address, I hope it can be enough.»

«Sure, it is. Bibury is small, it won't be a problem.»

«Good, thank you.»

Later, he comes back with all the material on the list and a package. By the shape and the weight, it seems to contain something bounding.

I collect coins from the pouch and pay what I owe. Hopkins will give me back once I deliver what he needs.

I get to Bibury in the afternoon. I give back horse and buggy to Bridget and end doing the round of deliveries.

In the middle of the afternoon, just before tea time, the cart is empty, except for the envelope that only shows the address. I recognize the road. Leads just out of town, across the river, to a small group of cottages beyond the church. I never get there.

I walk along the dry wall that follows the dirt road and I walk its winding through the fields. The warmth is very pleasant and I take this commission more as a walk in the beautiful English countryside.

It takes ten minutes to reach my destination.

Of the three cottages that stand before me, only one has a slight plume of smoke that rises above the stone chimney. It must be this.

I look around for a moment, just to make sure that there is no one else to ask, finally I knock with the brass clapper shaped like a lion's head. The ivy runs along the outer wall and I miss a moment to follow its winding course.

«Yeah? How can I help you?»

I remain for some second astonished to observe the physiognomy of the man in front of me. Telling the truth, the first image that I find before is a shaggy, long messed beard that frames the chin and goes up under the nostrils through thick moustaches that mark the corners of the mouth. He has gentle and kind eyes, slightly inclined downwards and the vivid gaze of the dreamer. It frames the forehead high a hair in part smooth, in part curly divided decisively by a parting placed on the right.

«Sorry, I've got this package to deliver, I think it's yours.»

His gaze shines brightly and he exclaims: «Oh oh oh! Can't believe! What a wonderful day! How did it get there?»

«Well, I've just asked for some information...»

«Wait, I mean...the package...how did it find me?»

And now? Wha's the answer? What kind of question's that?

«Actually, they gave it to me at Cirencester and...»

«Look at that good! He took the bus. A real diligent...bus or diligence?»

I'm even more upset... and fascinated. So that I can't move or look away.

«But you must excuse me, » the strange man continues «I was rude. It's almost tea time. Would you like a cup of tea?»

And his voice is so inviting that I can't say no.

His person seemed strange to me only because I had not seen the interior of his house yet.

The walls are completely covered by clocks of any shape and on that in front of the door it stands a huge pendulum whose top is elegantly carved, decorated with fine ceramics. I sit on one of the chairs that run around a long table. Each furniture is covered by trinkets, ceramics, small porcelain figures of children playing at all kinds of fun, wooden tops, rocking horses and teacups everywhere. How many people live here? The question arises to me: there will be at least a dozen chairs, each different from the other.

«So. Do you know about furniture?» My host asks, noticing my interest for seats. He hands me a cup of steaming amber on a silver tray.

«No, uhm...I just wondered how many people live with you to get all these chairs.»

«Keen remark, son. I actually live alone.» He answer stiffly, almost as if he had revealed an unspeakable secret. «These chairs that you see are all for me, one for every month of the year.»

«And that one over there?» I ask pointing out a wooden one, old and stocky.

He smiles under his messed up moustache and answers: «Well, that one is for my birthday!»

«What? So old and worn out for a holiday?»

«My dear, let's see the glass half full: are all the days that pass from one year to another, those for whom to be grateful, do not believe?»

In fact, if you think about it, he has a point.

«I'd like to have half of his optimism.» I confess, almost shamefully.

«It's because probably you never paid attention to what life was able to give. It's a mistake made by a lot of people. Tell me, what are you doing in life, in addition to helping packages find their receivers?»

I collect all my courage: «I'm writing...a novel.»

«A writer!» He screams, literally jumping on his chair.

«Not at all, not yet anyway.»

«Son, since you imagine and try to write what is born in your mind, you create. Whether it's a short poem or an epic. Take my advice: creativity will save the world, never forget.»

Until today, I've never had any hope of listening to those words. Every day, every single person I meet goes on repeating that my best passion won't bring me nothing good. But now I'm in front of someone who believes, who seems to share every thrill the quill gives to me. I stand still, with a stupid smile plastered on my face and my eyes growing damp.

«But,» he whispers cautiously getting closer not to let him hear by I wonder who «please do not stop. Otherwise they get hurt and then they'll get restless and spiteful.»

«Sorry, but I don't understand who are you talking about.»

« About your characters, holy gods! How would you have felt if your parents had abandoned you  under a bridge without taking care of your growth? Because, judging by your property of language, you had a good education.»

Maybe I'm going crazy or simpler I'm lowering my defences, fact is that I approach too and ask quietly: «Are you saying that they could get angry?»

«Definitely. They become even more annoying than the Leprechauns: they sneak out or escape, in some case you can't find them anymore and if they really are upset, by day they delete and rewrite entire chapters.»

«Can't believe...»

«Yep.» He says seriously. « Bad deal for a writer.»

The pendulum at the end of the room rings at six o'clock in the afternoon. It's time for me to take the road again.

«Excuse me, sir.» I ask kindly.

«Of course, son, night is falling down. Just a moment.» He says by disappearing behind a booth. I hear him lively seeking something, rummaging through all sorts of objects. «There it is, I've found it! Lisen, to thank you for the great kindness shown to my package, I'd like to give you this: it will be more useful to you than hidden behind the furniture, of course.» He says, giving me a pack of shiny leather bound in rope. He suggests me opening with a nod of his head. I draw out a new and immaculate calamus: the thin tip is metallic, finely decorated, while the white barbs seems to come directly from a swan's wing. I never saw a more beautiful one and, if I ever did it, certainly I had never been able to observe it so closely. I take it, testing with immense interest the perfect balance between pen and metal, then I put it carefully next to its own buffer.

«This won't be consumed.» ends my guest.

«I don't know how to thank. I'm not sure I can accept such a gorgeous present.»

«You must, son!»

«If you insist... I'll be eternally grateful.» I say with a thread of voice and emotion in my throat. It can't be casual this kind of meeting. It must show something: luck smiles on me, my route is changing.

I thank him for the last time before leaving his cottage and I take the road home.

Yikes, I think, I can't wait to show it to Ewan...and to my Annabelle!