Over the holidays Sophie has amazed us by demonstrating a liking for cucumber, pear and celery. Less surprisingly she also likes caviar, blinis, turkey and Roquefort. Bob likes turkey and Roquefort.
This morning it's chilly but blue skies lure us out.
Halfway down the High Street the wind picks up and the sky turns black.
When it starts to hail we take shelter in a most unwelcoming little cafe. The patrons eye up the foreigners and their canine companions with a suspicion bordering on disdain. No bowl of water of croissant crumbs here.
Strong winds and grey skies signal a day at home. We think of clearing up the dining room in readiness for Hogmanay. Angus decides he'll do it tomorrow.
The PONs are told they're either in the house or out in the garden. Bob settles on a compromise. He lies at the front door, nose out , tail in. As gusts of arctic wind deposit wisteria leaves in the hall he is informed by ' The Font ' that lying in the door is not an option. So much for diplomatic compromise.
Despite, or perhaps because of the weather, the tykes are out and about on their motor bikes. By this stage of the holidays their mother must be at her wits end. In the evening there is a great gathering of white vans outside the village hall. The local hunters are preparing for their New Years Day hunt. Angus hopes it snows for them. The hunters here are better than the ones we encountered in Italy but they still have a swaggering arrogance that says this place is mine. One wouldn't want to get in their way.
Sophie's coat has got to the stage where something needs to be done about it but 'the something' can wait until warmer weather.
This article from the London Review of Books is an acerbic tour de force . Royalists look away now : https://www.lrb.co.uk/v40/n01/ferdinand-mount/always-the-same-dream?utm_source=LRB+themed+email&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=20171225+themed&utm_content=ukrw_subs