A dead fox under a tree at the side of the road. It’s sitting upright on its haunches, head resting on the tree trunk. Eyes closed as if it's just fallen asleep. No sign of blood so it was probably given a glancing blow by a speeding car and somehow made it here. The coat still bright so it must have happened recently. I’m worried what the PONs will do but they stand and observe it quietly, almost reverentially. Across generations of PONs I’ve noted this inexplicable dignity in the presence of death. A kind of canine salute to a fellow traveler ?
We walk for forty five minutes. Sabbath traffic. No cars. No motorbikes. No people. Bob races ahead. Sophie sticks by my side. City folk think the countryside is quiet but this morning woodpeckers, Jays, Owls, Redstarts, a variety of Finches and a thousand lowly Sparrows sing, screech and peck away.
The fancy bakers seems to have got himself into a spiral of raising prices and then seeing his custom decline. Eclairs which used to be the equivalent of $2.20 have now risen to $3.50. This seems steep to me. He's pricing himself out of business. The variety of products slowly shrinking.
Outside, by the covered market , we detour past two sleeping dogs. They belong to the beggar who opens the door in return for a fifty cent coin. Bob is keen to rush over and say hello but is 'encouraged' back to the car.
Over the valley a strange sight. A weirdly shaped cloud with strands that hang like udders from the sky. Contrails or the effect of high level winds ? Perhaps a combination of the two ?
A Sunday morning in deepest France profonde. Things too little and uneventful for a diary but too real to go completely unrecorded.
If only all banks were as subtle in their advertising : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fj6r3-sQr58