Sunday, February 23, 2014
Where does a thought go when it's forgotten ?
Heavy rain overnight but the new day dawns bright and fair. By the time we've reached the old roman road the sky is blue and the sun hinting at warmth ahead. Sophie glares at two Coypus paddling contentedly along a water filled roadside ditch. Their sheer audacity renders her, for once, barkless.
Bob is oblivious to birds ( apart from the blackbirds he chases in the laurel hedge ) but his sister will sit, head turned skywards, carefully following the passage of herons and egrets and eagles. This morning she watches a new Airbus, on a proving flight high above the valley, turn in a half circle before soaring soundlessly away. She sits lost in the wonder of this miracle until it's long out of sight. Bob, not one for reflection, wades, knee deep, through the water looking for fish. Disappointed, he finds a pile of old walnut shells and munches happily away.
On our way home we meet the Old Farmer. Fur hat with ear flaps, cut off dressing gown doubling as a jacket, string vest, pyjama trousers and green wellington boots. '' I'm thinking of going to Brazil " he announces without so much as a 'Bonjour' of introduction. 'Why ? ' I find myself asking in sheer amazement. The Old Farmer looks at me with that half pitying look that the French reserve for foreigners and then says very slowly, "they're holding the Olympics there the year after next ".