Sunday morning. There isn't even a moments hesitation over which way we're going to go. Sophie heads out of the gate and inland to the potato farm and the village doocot. There are brief detours into the fields in search of tantalizing scents. At the potato barn two Jack Russells come out to see who's passing. They immediately start barking. Sophie looks at them with all the hauteur a ten year old grande dame can summon. This doesn't deter the Jack Russells who maintain their loud 'What do you think you're doing ?' alert.
The two noisy hooligans are ignored. They don't even warrant a friendly sniff. Sophie turns right and follows the farm track down to the sea. We've found a small sandy beach hidden among the rocks on the foreshore. It's barely twenty yards long but is sheltered from all but the north easterly winds. Our own private Caribbean. This is a spot where Sophie can sit on the grass and watch the sea without running the risk of getting her paws wet. Sophie finds the sea ( and the seals ) intriguing but her DNA tells her she's a landlubber and should resolutely avoid any contact with water.
On our way home we meet an uncommunicative man who grunts in reply to our 'good morning', two builders who are here to start putting the slates on the roof of the doocot ( they are 'volunteers' which explains why they're working on a Sunday ) and a newly retired doctor who lives in a house near the village hall. His grandchildren are visiting so he's decided to go on a long sanity restoring walk. He joins us on the path that leads back towards home but cuts away by the old pillbox to see the herons on the salt lake. The doctor plans to stay out for an hour by which time the little ones should be dressed and have had their breakfast. He has a well behaved Spaniel that walks amiably alongside Sophie as if they're old friends. Sophie seems to have recognized that this is her home and that these are her neighbours.
The bales of hay in the water edge fields now waiting to be collected. The first of the fields were ploughed yesterday. Soon the landscape will turn from gold to freshly tilled brown.
On our return we find someone has closed the farm gate on the path . Sophie makes it clear that I need to do something.
After that the family diva retires to her zen patch under the acer for a brief nap. So starts a bright Sunday morning with a fiercely independent and self evidently happy Polish Lowland Sheepdog lady.