Thursday, April 16, 2015
An alien intimacy.
There's a breeze this morning. A welcome change from the recent heat. Every so often there's a sudden gust, more a polite cough, of air that sends the hawthorn blossom whirling off the trees and up into the air. Sophie stands and watches this summer blizzard in silence. Bob, focused on the scent of rabbits, is oblivious to it.
At the end of the lane the road side irises are coming into bloom. Something you'd rarely, if ever, see in Scotland but common here.
The Old Farmer heads past us in the ancient Mercedes. He stops and gets out. Bob has his head patted, Sophie backs away and positions herself behind my legs. Nine years since the Old Farmers wife, youngest daughter and two German Shepherds were killed in a car crash. Today he's going to drive over to a hillside that overlooks the scene. Something he does every year. '' I love her as much now and I did then ' he says with an intimacy alien to Anglo-Saxons. With that he gets back in the car and drives away.
The hidden and unexpected dramas of a small village in deepest, deepest France profonde .