Hearing the bugles sound at The Monument on Sunday reminds me of the mystery bugler who plays within earshot of my normally peaceful office (shed).
A couple of years ago it became a daily occurrence, regular as clockwork, that someone played a few rousing notes on the bugle every lunchtime. The first few times I thought it was one of the neighbour's chickens clearing its throat - intrigued I started to wander round garden at the appointed time, trying to see where the sound was coming from.
Eventually I became convinced that it was a musically-inclined worker at Kerrygold (over the fence from the office) who was rousing his workmates for the afternoon shift.
A while ago the daily fanfare fell silent - perhaps the bugler had given up, perhaps I had changed my routine, or it may have coincided with the rebuild of the Kerrygold factory.
Imagine my delight a few days ago when, at around half past one, I heard the trumpeter's jaunty tones wafting across the garden again. Welcome back old friend.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment