That lived-in feeling

Well folks, it’s the first of December and after a week of weirdly warm weather, the trees are finally starting to shed their plumage – colder days are looming. The morning runs are darker for longer now and I’ve found both a left and a right hand glove to keep the freezies away from my fingertips. I have discovered alas that my well-worn trainers are no longer waterproof so the same doesn’t go for my tootsies so I’ll have splurge soon. But at least now that we have a decent stack of wood under the remis for the winter months, the fuel reservoir isn’t being drained at warp speed – keeps the wallet happy.

The balmy temperatures couldn’t have timed themselves better as I spent most of the past 7 days juggling two houses and an extra dog. As much as I love the grand old lady that is the family maison , she felt a little sad without any residents. I would have moved down there but my woofers aren’t allowed inside the hallowed walls lest they create chaos or in Sherman’s case, lift a leg. This meant having Mumo’s canine companion up at mine which wasn’t ideal – Sappy isn’t a fan of my rambunctious rovers, that is except for Sherman. Thankfully, dogs can’t tell what day it is or how long they have to put up with pests as Friday heralded the return of our Mum. Yup, she’s back with her feet up on the sofa and the blazing fireplace – happy house and happy Sappy once more. And Mumo has had her first ‘super power’ treatment which all in all seems to have gone better than expected, the only side effect is extreme tiredness but sleep is good and she can have as much as she wants.

Strictly speaking, my woofers aren’t permitted to pootle in the courtyard either but seeing as I had the whole property to myself and to look after, I decided to leave the connecting door between the back garden and the inner sanctum open. Naturally, it didn’t take long for my three youngest; Arry, Alice and Sherman to join me in my creative space that is the garage attached and for Alice to discover that log piles contain more than just logs. Whilst Arry and Sherman took delight in destroying whatever kid’s toy had been thoughtfully left par terre for their enjoyment, our girl took to extreme sports to sate her appetite for hunting vermin. I have to say she’s yet to catch anything but her persistence has been ok’d by the family as it will hopefully keep the rodent population at bay – mind you, she’s going to need me to fit a tracking device if she keeps disappearing into or under ancient crevices. Still, she’s a fascinating diversion from all the stress the past month has given us all but the matriarch is back where she belongs. Hooray.

And our Mum isn’t the only one, younger brother Moth has returned and sister Bong will be flying in tomorrow for a few days. It’s just as well as Denis and I need to start our Christmas display for the top corner of the acreage. We’re going simple and sustainable style this year – I get the sustainable bit but D’s ideas of minimal aren’t quite what I have in mind. One set of lights he said, hah. There’s enough solar-powered strings of festive foliage in those store room boxes to blind the average passer-by – I might need a little help from Alice first though, I dread to think what’s sleeping in all that sparkle…

“Winter is a season of recovery and preparation.” (Paul Theroux)

Sun, squeaks and a touch of sin

The road between Carcassonne and home is fairly busy and somewhat dull most of the working week as it snakes its way out of the populous and heads towards the calm of the countryside. But just before you hit Prexian (our neighbouring village), the snake-like single lane traffic gets a chance to hit the accelerator as the D118 opens up onto a short inclined dual carriageway. I love this bit of the tarmac, mainly for the view that greets you as you whizz upwards . And its best on a Sunday when you’re the only one looking at it. I never get tired of seeing the Pyrénées on the horizon, slightly dusted with snow now – a warning that winter is beckoning although the hills and woodland in their shadow are still lusciously green. Of course, it goes without saying that I’d rather not be driving back from the hospital still but at least today’s spectacular scenery was coated with sunshine and not half bad temperatures for almost the end of November.

Mind you, last week’s weather wasn’t exactly endorphin inspiring. When we weren’t under constant drizzle, I was digging through the back of cupboards trying to find the other glove – why do gloves always reappear with two right hands and never the left one? The finger-chilling conditions, however, did have their advantages. Me and The Second Book became friends again and I got to spend a fair number of hours getting re-acquainted my furniture in the workshop. It’s oddly refreshing to dive back into the opus after so many months away from my desk although I have come to realise how much of my story I omitted to add. Thankfully, Sally is a very patient editor and has just moved house so doesn’t mind having an empty mailbox at present.

I also managed to get the annual Christmas card photo done, the woofers all in one place ‘click’ shot. This was a miracle in itself as not only do most of them hide when a lens is facing them but the final frame also included Alice and Sherman. I say this because ever since the ‘mouse’ incident at beginning of the week, she and her son have turned into vermin vanquishers down in the tractor shed. It all started when I went to check on the serre seedlings only to come face to face with a hairy rodent. Denis said it was a Lerot but he didn’t see it and I can tell you that was no sweet looking dormouse. Anyway, I called Alice in but the thing disappeared before she could use her inner terrier but as I removed the box out of which it had made its escape, a second one made a bid for freedom squeaking right over Sherman’s head. Now, up until this point and unlike his mama, Sherman has never shown any interest in such pursuits except when it comes to hedgehogs and then he always comes off worse for it but something about a near-miss with a giant mouse has turned him rogue. They’ve yet to catch anything but days spent tail to nose twitching down the bottom of the garden keeps them happy and I hope, less likelihood of the strawberry-chomping so and so’s reappearing.

Speaking of reappearances, little brother Moth flew in from Kenya for 48 hours before taking off again to the same continent, different country. With the Collins’ family dotted about the globe, any chance of a quick visit to see Mumo is taken up, no matter how short the trip. And since I’m here alone most of the time, it’s a plus for me too. Moth naturally arrived laden with gifts for our matriarch as well as his sister. One might think books or chocolate but no, childhood memories in the shape of Kenyan bananas, paw paw (you probably call it papaya) and mangoes. Oh, and a dozen or so bags of macadamia nuts to fatten up the patient. D thought I was joking when I told him where the colourful collection came from, ” how did he get all this through the douane?” Knowing Moth like I do, he probably hid the illegal offerings in between whale-tagging equipment or up a camera lens in his usual array of over-weight luggage. But what with the sun shining as we drift towards winter, like those pilfering little pests, the fruitful feast will be long gone before the authorities can grab them…

“Time flies like an arrow – but fruit flies like a banana.” (Terry Wogan)

Pickled fruit and perfect distractions

Running across the frost-covered trails the other day, a random thought flickered through my barely-awake brain. Whilst such things are regular occurrences, half the point of dragging myself out of bed at the crack of dawn is to clear away the cobwebs from my cranium but food is not what one usually brings to mind. More specifically, Christmas cake. Or lack of. Under normal circumstances, this would have been made by Mumo sometime around the beginning of November and left to pickle in alcohol in some dark corner of a cupboard until the big day but she’s still incarcerated in the hospital so it’s up to me to try and make something vaguely similar. Well, the fruit is drowning in the remains of a Cognac bottle I found in the kitchen – hopefully I’ll remember to add the rest of the ingredients tomorrow.

I would have started the great cake bake earlier in the week but having my eldest nephew, Louis, here provided the best of distractions. Not only is he a wonderfully optimistic and enthusiastic soul but easy company too. When we weren’t off pootling around the old homestead that is L’Horte, we were dining with friends or laughing hysterically at bygone sitcoms over one of Louis’ bizarre supper creations. Tarte au citron brûlé being one of them – he put his lemon meringue pie under the grill. Alas, I deposited Louis at Toulouse airport yesterday complete with a hangover (both of us) gifted by a raucous night before chez mes amis. I miss him already as does probably the entire village but he’ll be back in a few weeks to no doubt sample my attempt at traditional Yuletide fare.

The other plus about having Simon’s first born around was being able to spend a few hours in the workshop whilst he visited Mumo. Oh and having an extra hand to help Denis and his brother finally get the railing that once resided in the smaller of the L’Horte houses up onto the remis’ upper floor. The old horse feeding station was hauled up onto what will eventually be a summer apero area by an ancient pulley and a lot of muscle. And since it wasn’t quite big enough to span the deck, my exceptionally talented pal Jonathon (he what made my lamps if you remember) knocked up an almost identical second section. Not only have the photos of the new addition made Mumo happy, the removal of the cumbersome piece means there’s one less artefact from the old life cluttering the garage. Mind you, I’m doing a great job of adding to it what with all my bits and bobs of half-finished furniture.

With the weather getting colder and the heating systems kicking in, it’s just as well that the gardens haven’t needed much of me or D. Apart from the occasional peek at my growing veggies and picking up the last of the almonds and walnuts – the latter, you may be surprised to learn, made the wood stain for the railing. One of Denis’ findings, you soak them in water and then add linseed oil after draining off the nuts which is not only free but good for the environment too. Anyway, I digress. There isn’t much else to do outside except watch the grass grow even longer under the chill of clear skies. As much as I’d love it cut, the vegetation is probably housing all sorts of little beings and I’m not one to disturb nature. Still, there is much to be done in the cosy confines of the big house – little brother Moth arrives mid-week and I have a date with a cake and I have to make my annual Christmas cards which means trying to get all the woofers to face the camera in the same direction and at the same time. I wish I hadn’t poured all that Cognac into the fruit…

“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures” (Cynthia Rylant)

Finding the normal in the abnormal

As I drove back from the hospital earlier today, I caught a glimpse of my friends Giselle and Jamel closing up after another, no doubt successful, vide grenier. Whilst I never have time to stop and say hello, seeing the two of them managing the car boot sale every Sunday adds a sense of normality to one’s weekly to-ing and fro-ing. Like Autumn leaves now squishing underfoot as I try not to use my arse as a sled running up the slippery trails through the vines or worse, pick my way across the over-grown lawn vaguely searching for the woofers’ little brown gifts – daily life is, well almost, back in it’s old routine. I say almost because hospital visits shouldn’t be included but Mumo decided to add a pulmonary embolism to her problems so is back in her suite with airport views.

Despite not having much time to devote to my fledgling new business or The Second Book, I did manage to squeeze in a few hours in the workshop yesterday and play with all my presents. Actually, one is still in its kit bag as I’ve never used a soldering iron before and Denis says I have to read the whole manual back to front if I’m to keep the garage intact. Considering he gave me a blowtorch for my birthday, he’ll be lucky if he still has a beard by the end of this week. Still, sanding down a couple of chairs with Callum’s Spotify playlist on full blast was the perfect medicine for this girl’s body and mind. It’s become a running joke in the village as to where to find Sophi – just follow the noise. You’ll be pleased to know that the dentist had a free half hour to put my tooth implant back in so I haven’t read the manual yet.

And since I haven’t had the chance to catch up with friends since the Great British Break, a couple of evenings spent chatting over dinner tables and little blues jam session down at Abraham’s has continued the sense of life’s steady rhythm down here. That and starting my French lessons with my gal pal, Saba. You see, as soon as I got back from my old stomping ground that was London, my language skills went out the plane window. My français was more franglais and my tongue refused to even attempt a sentence. Thank the Gods for giving me a neighbour who just happens to be a brilliant teacher and before you could say grignoter, the words started to flow once more. And speaking of little nibbles, the bio pet-safe slug pellets have been nicely munched by said gastropods who are now putting holes in all my lettuce. The edible dormouse has also raided the line of leeks, oddly random in its choice but D says if it hasn’t gone into hibernation yet he’ll help it on its way.

So normalcy is back in Rouffiac. Sort of. We’re all hoping Mumo gets her release papers on Tuesday so us serfs can cater to her every demand whilst she wiggles her toes in front of the living room fire. I’ve whacked up the heating too – Mumo cannot thrive in any environment other than a sauna even when she’s not fighting the cancer bitch. I wish I could say it was as warm in the apartment but there’s an empty bed in the corner. The woofers aren’t keen on curling up in it either but I just can’t bring myself to move it. The Bear that once lay there is now down by the potager with the plaque that Denis made marking his place of rest. There’s a blog I wrote way back in May 2019 called “Steering in circles” in which I describe widowhood as like being in a boat, chained to a dock and not having the key. Recent events have brought back that feeling of helplessness and frustration but at least this time, I’m better armed. Now where’s that manual?…

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.” (Robert Frost)

Past lives and unpleasantries

I can’t believe it’s been a whole week since Denis and I got back from London. Mind you, the amount of slings and arrows the Gods have chucked in this direction over the last seven days has made it one I’d rather pass on. I can only hope that they’ve exhausted their supplies up there and will give us a bit of peace down here. Between the death of my beloved Yogi Bear, Mumo in and out of hospital, me turning another year older and my very expensive dental implant falling out, I’ve had quite enough thank you.

But we did have a luverly time in fair London Town. Denis thoroughly enjoyed his first plane ride even with white-knuckled me sitting next to him – amusingly, considering he’d never been in an airport before, turned out he and the passport control officer knew each other. I shouldn’t have been surprised, I don’t think there’s anyone around here D hasn’t met. And my former home turf welcomed him with open arms too, with only one wet day – I think the English must have liked having a Frenchman come to visit bringing the sun with him. With the temperature so mild, we walked everywhere – doing all the touristy things like the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, Downing Street, Marble Arch, Kew Gardens, a few parks, Kensington, Notting Hill, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Carnaby Street, Brixton Market and my old house. The familiarity of dodging cars because you couldn’t wait for the pedestrian light and the escalator’s descent into the abyss of the Underground came back to me as we took in the sights – I don’t remember there being quite so many ‘Oodle’ dogs it has to be said. Yet although it was a nice change to actually have the time to take in so much of what London has to show off – most of my life there was stuck in a traffic jam, I felt oddly disconnected to the place. Whilst able to catch up with old friends and hug my awesome mother-in-law after more than four years was lump in the throat kind of stuff, the city held not even one iota of emotion. Even standing by the front gate of Knollys Road was like looking at someone else’s home – as Callum once said, its only bricks and mortar. I did have fun though, seeing Denis goggle-eyed at all the historical monuments and the price of a bottle of wine. The latter, I think, has left him somewhat scarred, that and the price of a chocolate in Harrods. I bought him a tin of Heinz Baked Beans as he’s developed a taste for English cooked breakfast instead.

So a week of pleasant memories to one best forgotten. Except for my Bear, he will always have a corner of my heart. He rests now at the bottom of the garden next to the potager because he loved gardening. D made the most touching little grave. And thank you all for the rush of love for Yogi and the happy birthdays for me. It wasn’t a day I was in the mood to celebrate especially with Mumo not being well but I did get some lovely pressies – tools for a girl who now knows how to use them. Let’s hope I get some time to relax in the week to come and play with my new soldering iron, I might find a way to put my tooth back in…

“A person who is tired of London is not necessarily tired of life; it might be that he just can’t find a parking place” (Paul Theroux)

Sweet Dreams my little Bear

I know I’m a little late in writing what was supposed to be written on Sunday but a little after midday yesterday, Yogi Bear slipped away peacefully in my arms. He waited until I came home from holiday to say his farewell. To say I’m heartbroken is too simple a phrase – I’m just numb.

He wasn’t just any dog. In fact, according to Yogi Bear, he wasn’t a dog at all – he was a Norfolk Bear. Yes, he might have looked like a terrier but only a petit ours could have the depth of thought and empathy (I once wrote that in his bio) that he had. His capacity to just love without expectation or reward was his gift – he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Actually he had very few teeth either and spent most of his last years with his tongue permanently hanging out of the left side of his mouth. If you saw him strutting around the garden from the back, you’d be forgiven for the assumption that a wild animal was passing through but when he turned around, that lop-sided grin would melt the iciest of souls.

From the day I went off to ‘look’ at a litter of Norfolk Terriers and consequently emptied my wallet, I was sunk. Tony too and Callum. I named him Yogi Bear on sight, he had a spectacularly rounded tum and inhaled treats like a Labrador who’d been on a diet. But it was ability to just love that captured our hearts – he wore his on his paw. In the last days of Tony’s illness, Yogi rarely left his Master’s bedside, choosing to lie on the floor at the end of the bed with a look that no Disney film could re-create. After Tony died in my arms, my initial reaction was to find my little Bear – he’d been placed in the other bedroom when the emergency crew arrived. I remember just hauling him into my arms when I found him, I needed him as much as he needed me. The experience gave Yogi a canine version of PTSD – he was terrified that another one of his humans would leave and when Callum left, he moped for days. Still managed to eat though – a Bear needs sustenance. He never cried or howled, just sat by the door with a woeful look on his face.

Yet, out of trauma and a move to a new country came a new love in Denis. You see, the Bear loved gardening or at least, watching his favourite people tending to plants so Denis became his new and bestest friend. He’d sit between D’s legs and silently manage the digging and pulling – a Bear would never criticise out loud. And despite his pot-bellied form, he was transformed in the water – swimming with the grace of an otter in the river at L’Horte, his tail thwacking back and forth like a rudder. Some of his best times were spent helping the kids grow up at L’Horte.

As for me, it is hard to explain just how much one little brown Bear meant. He was my cuddle bug wrapping himself around my chest like a teddy, he was my confidante listening to me rant on about all the unfairness whilst regarding me in a sagely fatherly sort of way. He taught me patience when he ambled up the stairs like a Sunday afternoon stroll when I was trying to make a deadline and no matter how hard your day was, a ‘woo woo’ greeting on opening the door left your troubles on the doormat. But above all, he taught me and all those who knew him, how to just love. No conditions attached…

Yogi Bear (Nordalset Gotta Be) May 5th 2010 – October 28th 2024. May you sleep once more at your Master’s feet. Je t’aimerais toujours.

I will leave you with a quote that says it all:

If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.” (Winnie the Pooh)

If you’d like to hold the line

I’ll make this short and sweet. After a two and a half hour delay sitting on a very crowded plane on London Stansted’s tarmac, I am finally back chez moi. If you don’t mind, I’m going to curl up with a very nice (and decently priced -more of that later) glass of wine and my much missed woofers tonight. Therefore, the usual Sunday blog will be for once, on a Monday – tomorrow. I’m just too tired to think.

But we did have a luvverly time in Old London Town…

She’s back, we’re off

The matriarch has been released and safely deposited chez nous. And she’s been lounging about and giving orders ever since. I jest of course, she’s not supposed to do anything but put her feet up and consume as many calories as her slight stature can take in – not easy when you were a war child she tells me. Mind you, no-one can ever turn down Denis’ cooking. Not only is he a former chef, he’s a man who loves Moroccan and Catalan cuisine so everything he makes is packed with flavour and Mumo is feasting restaurant style whilst I tend to the wood burner, fetch her slippers, let her dog out – all that sort of thing. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Mum’s home and that’s just fine. To put a cherry on the top of her rest and recuperation, D’s sister Patricia came over and did Mumo’s hair which upped the spirits no end. Having an ex-coiffeuse and a chef in the family does come in very handy.

And speaking of family, my sister Bong (her name is actually Kendra but we’ve always called her by her nickname) is flying in tomorrow to look after our mother whilst Denis and I take a plane across the English Channel to visit the old homeland. I have looked at the weather forecast and surprisingly it looks rather fine, cold but not wet. There’s nothing worse than seeing the London sights in perpetual October drizzle. Mind you, this past week has been a soggy one down here. The Météo warned us of a major storm and subsequent flooding descending on us on Thursday which, judging by the ominous sky the night before, was going to be a doozy. Unlike many other areas down in SW France however, we got away lightly or so we thought – 24 hours later, the thunder rolled in and the heavens opened. So much so that the bloody pool that we’ve just emptied has half a metre of water sitting in its depths . Great for my Brussel Sprout crops but not for trying to get out of the front gate without a canoe. Unfortunately for me and D, we spent most of the day watching the deluge from inside the vet’s office. Yogi Bear was back in after having a bit of a fainting spell which made him all wobbly. The diagnosis isn’t great as the mass has moved and now sporadically puts pressure on his heart and his kidneys are under a bit of strain too. At his age, operating wouldn’t be advisable but on the plus side, his new meds seem to have perked him up no end. On the minus side, I am glued to the mop – his pill-popping makes him pee. A lot.

As I mentioned, me and my French bloke are jet-setting off to the country of my birth and the city that had me spending more time in traffic than working. But in the coming days, I’ll get a chance to see a different side of London with Denis and catch up with old friends and family. As we partied last night away with Abraham and the usual crew down at Le Jardin, there was much hilarity about how D was going to cope with the language barrier let alone his first trip on an aeroplane. I don’t know why anyone should be worried about him, it’s been more than 4 years since I stepped a foot on London’s cobbles and I’m terrified of flying. The only thing that’s worrying Denis is trying to find a new pair of trousers and whether or not he’ll get deported for lighting up a cigarette. It’s going to be an interesting week…

The sun doesn’t live in England; it comes here on holiday when we’re all at work” – (Benny Bellamacina)

A belly full

Having taken him up to the hospital to say his ‘ta ta for now’ to Mumo, I drove little brother Moth to Toulouse on Friday evening. Since his flight back to Kenya via Paris was at the crack of dawn, he had a room booked at a hotel close to the airport courtesy of big brother Simon. Goodbyes and hugs done, Denis and I made our way back to what I thought was the road heading towards home. Only it wasn’t – we were heading in the opposite direction with no sign of a roundabout and in whizzing traffic. With my GPS getting totally confused and me hitting the stress barrier, we weaved across lanes and dodged hooting cars until, thanks to Denis, we found the right road out and I hit the accelerator. It was only having finally got back chez nous via a dive of a pizza parlour for take-out that Denis told me it was the first time he’d seen me so rattled. Considering I spent 20 plus years in much the same mood working in London, it took me a few minutes and a glass of much-needed red wine to realise how much the last few months have put a dent in the tranquility of my life here.

The change in my normally fairly cheerful demeanour hasn’t gone unnoticed by the woofers either, their usual shrieking at the any dog that passes within an inch of the fence line muted – instead choosing to lie underfoot or at least within petting distance. The only exception being Mo who has discovered, as I have, that my serre has been raided by ‘les loirs gris‘ otherwise known as European edible dormice. As cute as they are, they’ve munched their way through my parsnip seedlings and helped themselves to all the strawberries. Denis tells me they are fattening up for hibernation which, having spied one or two, has been successful. At least someone has an appetite. With mine all but disappearing over the last week, Denis decided a night out at our local diner was in store – apart from their indulgent portion sizes, Diner 118 is a great place to catch up with friends and soak up the easy-going ambience. The perfect pick-me-up.

Speaking of putting on the pounds, Mumo is now on an all you can eat dietary schedule which is all well and good except the hospital menu isn’t exactly drool-worthy so Simon and I have started sneaking in home-cooked goodies to help with her waistline. I know that once she’s home (hopefully in the next day or so) she’ll be much happier curled up on the sofa with biscuits and ice-cream at hand. With this in mind, Denis and I have been busy doing all the little jobs that have been forgotten about whilst the more important ones have taken priority. One in particular was putting her Tiffany glass up in the selected alcove in the living room. A very delicate under-taking but the sweaty palms were worth the final result.

And as results go, you will be relieved to know that Yogi’s recent vet visit concluded that his heart and other vital organs are A-okay. There is a mass close to his coeur that will need draining to help him snooze better but other than that, the Bear is doing well for his age. And judging by the scales, he too can afford to put a little something extra in his belly – thankfully he prefers protein to parsnips…

“The belly rules the mind.” (Spanish Proverb)

Perspectives

If the recent article published in The Times last month was anything to go by, I am surrounded by gorgeousness. Apparently, according to research, physical attraction is so much more than skin deep – it’s kindness and humour that knocks the socks off. Like I said, I have stunning friends. Between hospital visits or trips to the vet, I haven’t had any time to say thank you to everyone but Mumo, my family and I really do appreciate you.

As I mentioned, Mumo is still in hospital, nicely tucked up in a private room now with a nicer view – this time a car park but at least she can see the hills beyond and it’s quiet. I can’t say much except that she is due a procedure on Tuesday and then has several weeks of treatment ahead of her, that we hope will be able to be done at home. Lucky for me (and her), little brother Moth is here and has taken charge of dealing with all things doctor and specialist. It’s easier just having one person asking the questions and relaying all back to his siblings and his French is so much better than mine. He’s pretty wonderful my brother. Mind you, I did sort out Mumo’s meals with the dietician. If they want her to fatten up, they need to give her food she’ll actually eat so lashings of custard and ice cream are now added to her repas. And now, between that and what Moth calls her ‘happy drugs’, she is a little more comfortable. I’ve promised her that I will bring over Denis’ sister Patricia to give her a hair and facial day – its funny how things like that can make such a difference to your mental well-being.

And of course, I have my darling Denis to lean on when my mood is less than appealing. And the woofers although a certain German Shepherd did leave me hiding my head in embarrassment earlier in the week after a visit to the vet for a limp. Considering the terrain he manages to cover on our runs, such injuries are common place but at 9 years old, bumps are better looked at. Well for me anyway, judging by the noise I could hear from the waiting room as he had an x-ray, the vet might have wished she had the day off plus the three nurses who had to hold him still. Arry does not like being away from me so howled his head off. Thankfully, apart from a slightly swollen elbow and a touch of arthritis in both shoulders, he’s fine and laser therapy is in the diary – I don’t know if that’s for him or the nurses.

What with the worry about Mumo and having to take little Yogi Bear to have a heart scan tomorrow (they better have a big machine ’cause he’s got the biggest heart), the early morning runs have never been more appreciated. With the vendange practically over, the hills and vines are silent once more save the thump thump of my trainers and the jingling of dog collar bells. And with Autumn almost upon us, Mother Nature has once more doused the landscape in reds and golds – put that with the sunrise and you’re a gonna. As I said to Mumo the other day, such times are just a temporary blip and soon forgotten but the beauty of the land around us and that which lies with the friends we have come to know in our lives will forever be set in our memories. Pretty sure the vet is still having nightmares though…

“To friendship every burden’s light.” ( Aesop)