Not a soul to be seen. The sun just rising behind the churchyard, the moon still high over the mountains. Bob and Sophie sprint down the lane to the old Roman Fort before heading down across the fields to the valley. They're watched from the walnut groves by deer; a large white rumped female and a gaggle of adolescents. For some reason, the mild winter perhaps, the deer are much more numerous and less fearful this year.
At the stream Bob clambers over the small waterfall and heads off in search of adventure. He's soon head down, staring intently at the small trout that flit backwards and forwards on the sandy river bed. Then he lunges. He does this with all the subtlety of a small furry hippopotamus. The small fish scatter. Bob picks himself up, stares intently into the water and repeats the whole process. Over and over and over. Refraction a concept too time consuming to understand. His sister forgets her loathing of water and rushes off to join him. She lets out a whimper, half of excitement, half of delight. I find myself, as I so often do, laughing out loud. PON's, it would have to be said, are not natural fishermen.
There used to be a time when I took our dogs out for a walk. A chore that needed to be squeezed into the day. Now I walk with them. A chance to look at a canine world that's full of mud and adventure. A place of happiness and peace with a bit more happiness squeezed in for good measure. Dogs know exactly why the world was made. Absent the mud it's what humans might call heaven.
