Sunday: Miles of perfect windmills

They have a poster on the wall at Cambridge railway station which says: "Please be courteous to our staff".

The flight left at three-fifteen, which meant I could get a decent amount of sleep and still have a chance to go to LSM.  At LSM the bishop of Port Moresby told us about life in his diocese.  Afterwards I told the priest that I had been made very welcome at his church, and he gave a little happy jump and the thumbs-up gesture.  I also went to the market to try to find an England shirt for Alex, but I think the stall must have gone away, or perhaps doesn't open on Sundays.

We took a train to Stansted and a plane to Schiphol; I sat next to a very polite Dutch child who kept offering me chewing gum.  The flight takes only forty minutes.  The security guard at Stansted demanded to know what the white powder was all over my luggage.  We went out to eat at a cafe in the marketplace, but I left early and slept deeply.

I have had Stuart Davis's beautiful song Windmills and Wheatfields stuck in my head all the while. (I would quote it here, but people would probably complain.)