Eight on a frosty Sunday morning. Most sensible God fearing villagers are still tucked up safe and warm in bed. By contrast the dog rearing villagers are up and about. Or, to be more precise, the dog rearing villager is up and about. Bob has been ready to go for an hour. He sits by the side of the breakfast table and stares at me in silent reproach. Nothing like a cold frosty December morning to appeal to a PON boy.
While I head off across the fields with Bob, 'the font' takes Sophie for a power walk round the lake. After the incident with the fisherman and the fish in the bucket Bob is still persona non grata when it comes to walks round the lake. Sophie is not a power walk dog. She likes to stop every five minutes to look at the ducks or sit wistfully watching the waves on the water. The reed beds a source of limitless delight. Bob can do a circuit of the lake in thirty minutes. With Sophie it's an hour if you're lucky.
Bob and Angus are just finishing their second cup of coffee by the time Sophie and 'the font' make it to the cafe under the arcades. Our time has not been wasted. The waitress has slipped Bob some croissant scraps. He beams.