Dearest Diary,
I have at last arrived home at Granada and have reunited with the indelible Lady Pigeon. My absence was rectified with a simple embrace and a small treat. Her forgiveness is without bounds, it seems. She was of course, well looked after by her doting uncle and I'm certain was perhaps spoilt by him as well. She is not the worse for it.
I certainly feel refreshed and rejuvenated as travel is apt to warrant such feelings at the journey's end. In many ways I feel there is little that cannot be accomplished after one visits long lost relations. However, on the contrary, I also feel a sense of uneasiness after unpacking and laying aside a novel recounting a story from the lavish residence we visited on our return trip. Although curious about the tale, I find it somewhat haunting as the evening hours turn to morning hours. I shall neglect the feeling in the hopes that it passes and remember only the kinship I felt throughout the week. (Perhaps the particular manuscript will get lost or bequeathed to someone else as I begin once again the daunting task of moving to Ashford).
I am pleased, dear Diary, to be resting in my own bed this evening, rather than that of the spanish inns accorded me on the way. Perhaps I shall wake late on the morrow.
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