Sunday, July 16, 2017
Men have become the tool of their tools.
As we pass the Salle de Fetes Bob lingers to examine the ground where the village ladies barbecued sausages on Bastille night. The grass infused with sausage dripping. This discovery requires considerable concentration so our rate of progress on this stage of the morning walk is slow to non-existent.
At the crossroads dog and master sit on the concrete storm drain and watch the sun rise on the far side of the ridge. Great checker board patches of sunflowers glowing gold in the light. Bob has his head scratched and is told, as he's told every morning, that this is ' Bob's Country '. Perhaps it's the tone of my voice or the attraction of hearing a familiar phrase but he leans into me in that way family dogs do.
The goldfinches are out early squabbling and preening in the sun. Every so often they'll take wing, circle for a moment, then return to their feasting. The flap of their wings exploding into life punctuates the morning calm with a loud w-h-o-o-s-h. The braver of them sit on top of the sunflowers trumpeting their good fortune at being part of such a perfect day. Goldfinches en masse are know as a charm. Some English words please with their innocence - an ascension of larks , a charm of goldfinches, a paddling of ducks. Language as a link to a different time.
A more tiring journey back up the hill. After last weeks rain the thick clay soil still soft underfoot. Bob runs ahead. His master follows on behind. Every fifty yards or so he'll stop and let me draw level before racing off again. Sometimes if he thinks I'm too slow he'll turn and cast a patient but admonitory glance backwards .
At The Rickety Old Farmhouse Sophie has been keeping a watchful eye on Texas godson. She lives in hope that there will be a dreadful accident with the plate of breakfast croissants.
Those little things too unimportant for a diary but too much part of life to go completely unrecorded.