Out on the hill we meet a 30's something couple with a young black labrador on a lead. I say a cheerful 'Good Morning'. The couple ignore me and look resolutely ahead. Sophie wonders why a young dog would be kept on a lead in the depth of the country. Angus wonders what kind of people would ignore a cheerful 'Good Morning'. Takes all sorts. Both of them are wearing 'impractical' shoes which might indicate they're out of towners who've rented a house on the coast for the festive season.
A squall blows up. Sudden squalls bring with them great light shows. The sky to the north darkens to black as gusts of sleet bear down on us. Then, where the estuary meets the bay, the rising sun turns the black clouds yellow, then salmon pink, then red. The whole thing is very Fingals Cave. The squall remains out at sea which means dog and companion are windswept but dry.
The Christmas tree is up. We asked for an eight footer but got a six footer. What it lacks in height it makes up for in girth. The few ornaments brought from France seem to have survived the journey. Only one was broken although the star for the top has gone AWOL. The tree has been put up in the horrid, and soon to be replaced,1980's era conservatory. The wind howls through the conservatory windows which keeps the temperature inside at a chilly ten degrees which should stop needle drop.
And so we segue towards Christmas. The rest of the country seems to be suffering heavy snow and bitter cold but out here on the coast it's windy but mild. Back in France the temperatures fell to minus five last night with colder weather forecast. The villagers have been told to expect power cuts. After two years of Covid lockdowns and dislocations the old mayor thinks a few power outages will go unnoticed.
The Christmas creche has also survived its return journey north although we remain unsure where to put it.
Christmas song #9 - a favourite from last year :https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FyEjH7YDmMM