The Old Mayor drives by in the ancient blue metallic Renault without hub caps. He stops for a chat. When he was five years old he used to watch his father plough what is now the donkey field. They had a German Prisoner of War to help them. His name was Hans. How they would have got through the winter of 1945 without him he doesn't know. 'He used to harness up the oxen. There was no petrol that year ... or the year after '. I ask him why he doesn't write down these memories before they're forgotten. ' Too painful. My grandfather fought in the '14 war. My father in '40 and I fought in Algeria. Some of these things are best left unwritten '. This start of day conversation says a lot about France.
After the Old Mayor drives off we sit awhile until the sun has risen quarter way into the sky. Sophie shows little interest in world affairs but she is aware of a rustling in the thick shrubs by the storm drain. Three young partridge wander into the sunshine. Sophie appraises them with a divas disdainful hauteur. Sophie's equity in the universe is of an almost entirely practical nature. The young partridge retrace their steps.
Horse is large, friendly and communicative. Being a village horse it lives in the hope that someone has brought along a carrot, or preferably two carrots, as a morning snack. It neighs loudly and shows a fine set of teeth. Sophie is less convinced that a large, talkative horse sporting a fine set of teeth is a good way to start her day . She heads of home at a brisk pace with Angus carefully interposed between her and this alarming piebald presence.
First order of priority after that excitement is to settle down on the doorstep and have a restorative nap.
Not a C-A-T you'd want to have a run in with :https://twitter.com/MoscowTimes/status/1422914866021650442
Our return along the lane is delayed by the appearance of a horse in the field opposite. It has wandered over to see us and rests its head on the fence while doing so.
So starts another day in deepest France profonde.
Not a C-A-T you'd want to have a run in with :https://twitter.com/MoscowTimes/status/1422914866021650442
Things I didn't know :https://www.popsci.com/story/technology/bowling-ball-insides-photos/
11 comments:
Bertie thinks that if Sophie gave Horse a moment of her time, she'd find they had much in common despite the size differential. However, should Vassya's owners become rich from their YouTube video and opt to buy a house in a certain quiet corner of France profonde, he recommends she stays well clear of their black cat...
Interesting about the POW. My widowed grandmother, with a large house and very large and productive garden, was allocated two Italian POWs in WW2 from the nearby camp. They were given basic sandwiches from the camp for their lunch, but she always made them a hot meal, taken in the kitchen with her. One of her sons was in the army, fighting in Italy at that time. The two young men appreciated their time with my grandmother so much that they carved her two beautiful boxes, one a jewellery box with an inlaid pattern and a hidden mechanism to open it. I think France's memories are more scarred than ours.
Rather heroic (heroinic?) portrait of Sophie on the storm drain this morning. Hard to imagine a mere horse could fluster such a one.
Hari OM
Bears are realitives of dogs and all dogs know not to tangle with a prickled engarde staring cat... d'ya hear me Sophie??? Hugs and wags, YAM-aunty xxx
Next time you venture past the horse field, take a couple of carrots with you, to show Sophie that horses are not frightening at all, and just like the rest of us they can't resist a treat! It's probably very lonely too - can't be much fun with no-one to chat to!
This morning our garden "lodgers" - the mama cat and her two kitten were waiting patiently for their breakfast, well before 7 a.m. - who knew they were such early risers! At the moment we have more cat food than Inca's!
Vaya is quite a cat and so brave! Or perhaps, just behaving in typically feline fashion?
My dear dad, at 98 and about six months before he passed away, started telling us stories of WWII. Clear short remembrances of his platoon landing at Normandy and the march across Europe to Germany. Some were amusing army stories but many rememberances were rather difficult to hear and absorb. When I pondered to my husband why dad would open up after a lifetime of keeping such stories to himself, he wisely suggested that perhaps Dad was handing us diamonds in the form of memories, good and bad, to keep and preserve.
Blogger acting quirky today so I'll sign off. Camille
Love the picture of Sophie on the drain cover.
I agree. Beautiful!
Today's post is, indeed, full of "diamonds."
The photo prior to the last of Sophie on the doorstep is absolutely stunning. Love the sky and the hills. I've enjoyed reading your blog for several years now. Just wanted you to know how much I look forward to it daily. Thank you. From the base of the mini-mountain in Maine.
Agreed! A beauty.
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