Sunday, August 14, 2016
The lost passport.
The Old Farmer comes to the front gate. Sophie announces his arrival. He's upset. The Belgian lady sent off her passport to the Belorussian Embassy in Paris at the start of last week. Her visa should have been ready within four days. When nothing appeared a call was made. No passport arrived at the embassy. ChronoPost, the registered mail service, have managed to lose it.
Much uncertainty as to whether to cancel the trip or delay it. Angus suggests that The Old Farmer go on ahead. We'll put the Belgian lady on a flight from Toulouse to Warsaw when ( and if ) things get sorted out.
The air routes all converging over The Rickety Old Farmhouse this morning. The sky a patchwork of contrails. A stream of silver specks from New York and LA en route to Zurich and Milan. There must be a dozen of them , one lined up after the other.
Lots of deer about. Bob is kept on his lead, which is a shame as he loves to run through the freshly cut wheat.
In fact it's not just deer. Small furry things rustle in the hedgerows. The occasional grunt hints at wild boar. Down here the cornflowers are a deeper unbleached blue than their sun blessed cousins up on the ridge.
The farmers have been using the waterfall as a cut through for their tractors. The quickest way from the valley to the fields on the other side. Bob has a leisurely drink then waltzes across the water. He doesn't even get his paws wet.
The Font and Sophie return from shopping and come to pick us up. Bob turns into a bundle of tail wagging joy. '' It's so good I found you ". His sister sniffs his muzzle, then satisfied he's not eaten anything lovely, ignores him.
It's going to be hot in Scotland next week. The forecast makes the front page of the newspapers.