It's cold this morning. The wind whipping straight off the North Sea. The PONette pauses at the front gate. For a moment she thinks of heading back inside to the warmth of the kitchen then decides the only thing to do is charge ahead. Life celebrates the audacious. Going down the track to the beach the rising sun catches a rain squall out at sea and creates a lateral rainbow that stretches halfway across the horizon. I've never seen anything like this before nor did I think such things existed. Monday morning magic. For what seems like thirty seconds, but may have been half that, the sky above the sea glows. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the light show is gone. Sophie is much more interested in following some Stoat scent.
I haven't seen them in a week or so but half a dozen deer are standing on the foreshore. Do deer graze on seaweed ? Seeing us they sprint to safety in the long grass that covers the steep slopes of the raised beaches. The gulls take their cue from the deer and head from the rocks to the comfort of the sea.
Sophie and Angus head off into town to the good coffee cafe. We park by the picture house. The playlist at the cinema seems to be unchanged with the exception of a Christmas movie with the unseasonal title 'Violent Night'. Students will love this - a real box office winner. This morning, after her trip to the beach and a detour through a puddle, Sophie is modelling her feral goat look. With a coat like that you can withstand pretty much anything the Scottish coast can throw at you.
I finish 'The Path of Peace'. Without a doubt the best book I've read all year. Kind and gentle and human. A recently widowed headmaster walking along the battle lines of the First World War from Switzerland to the Belgian coast. He's bitten by ants, twists his ankle, suffers from arthritis, misses his wife ( achingly ) but enjoys the kindness of strangers. The British and French war memorials are full of visitors. The American ones, although well kept, are completely deserted as if the country has forgotten all about this period of its history. The author stumbles across the cemetery where Quentin, the pilot son of Theodore Roosevelt lies ( the only child of a President to have been killed in action ). I thought the subject matter might make the book maudlin but it's simply charming.
A slightly shy soloist and a very natural sound in Christmas Song #2 - from Trondheim: https://youtu.be/hnhq0lgRvbA