The Morning Routine of Rosamund
Rosamund woke at dawn, just as the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains. Birds chirped outside, and the house was wrapped in that quiet hush of early morning. She stretched, yawned, and glanced at the clock—six sharp. “Time to get up,” she thought, though part of her longed to burrow back under the cosy duvet. But the hens wouldn’t feed themselves. After a quick breakfast of toast with butter and a steaming cup of tea, Rosamund bundled up—mornings were brisk—and headed out to the coop. And so began another day, much like the hundreds before it, yet brimming with the simple joys of tending to her little patch of earth.
At 52, Rosamund had spent the last decade in a quaint village, where she’d moved after losing her husband. The bustle of London felt like another lifetime; here, nestled among rolling fields and hedgerows, she’d found peace. Her cottage, though a bit creaky, was snug, with a garden out back where courgettes, tomatoes, and her prized raspberries thrived. And then there were the hens—her “ladies”—strutting about like they owned the place. Every morning began with them, a ritual as calming as a cuppa.
As the kettle whistled in the kitchen, Rosamund mentally ticked off the day’s chores: feed the hens, weed the veg patch, check the cucumbers, and pop round to Mrs. Whitmore’s for a natter and a hand with the jam-making. “Country life’s no holiday,” she chuckled, spreading marmalade on her toast. Simple fare, but hearty, and the mint tea—plucked fresh from the garden—warmed her right through. These quiet moments, just her and her thoughts, were precious before the day’s whirlwind.
Pulling on her well-worn jumper and wellies, Rosamund stepped outside. The air was crisp, tinged with dew and the scent of cut grass. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with countryside freshness. “This is the life,” she mused, gazing at the wispy clouds drifting across the sky. The coop erupted in cheerful clucking as the hens spotted her. “All right, ladies, keep your feathers on—breakfast’s coming!” Grinning, she scattered grain, tossed in a handful of veg scraps (their favourite treat), and topped up their water.
While the hens pecked away, Rosamund settled onto the old bench by the coop, lost in thought. Village life had taught her to savour the little things: the smell of turned soil, the taste of fresh eggs, the crow of the neighbour’s rooster at dawn. But sometimes, she missed her daughter, Emily, tucked away in the city with her hectic schedule. “Should ring her later,” Rosamund decided, fishing out her phone—only to groan at the nearly dead battery. “Tonight,” she promised herself.
Back inside, she remembered her promise to bring Mrs. Whitmore some eggs. The hens were reliable layers, so there were always plenty to spare. “Might bake a pie while I’m at it,” she thought. “Bet she’d fancy one with apples.” The idea lifted her spirits, and she hummed an old tune her mum used to sing—until her eyes landed on the framed photo on the dresser: her, her late husband, and little Emily, years ago. A pang struck her chest. “Oh, Geoffrey, you’d laugh seeing me play farmer,” she whispered, brushing dust off the frame.
The day flew by. Rosamund weeded the beds, picked cucumbers, and spent a leisurely hour sipping tea with Mrs. Whitmore, who was full of gossip: “Did you hear? The Bensons’ cow just calved!” Rosamund laughed, secretly relishing these chats—they were the pulse of village life. Home again, she lit the stove, rolled out pastry for the pie, and finally rang Emily. Busy, as usual, but she vowed to visit this weekend. “Mum, don’t overdo it!” Emily fretted. Rosamund just smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That evening, cradling her tea as stars blinked awake, Rosamund ached with that good sort of tiredness. The hens were fed, the garden tidy, and the cottage sweet with the scent of baking. Life wasn’t perfect—Emily was miles away, and Geoffrey just a memory—but it was hers. Real. “Up early again tomorrow,” she murmured, “but that’s the way of it.” And with that, she turned in, knowing the next day would bring its own bustle—and its own small, shining joys.
