FROG BLOG

The French know how to party. The English don’t. That’s a fact (deux actuellement).

Now, before anyone has the audacity to disagree with me, I’d better clarify what I mean by ‘to party’.

I don’t mean jumping up and down to the window-shattering din of a disco beat while getting off your trolley on tequila sunrises and gallons of lager before throwing up in a city centre gutter and being whisked off in an ambulance to have your stomach pumped and then spending the remainder of the night at Her Majesty’s pleasure as a house guest in the local nick where you wake up the following morning wondering how the hell you ended up with a swastika tattooed on your forehead and a bullring pierced through your nose.

I do mean an enjoyable get-together for friends, acquaintances and family members of all generations, which traditionally lasts from lunchtime to way beyond midnight (generally ending with a jolly old disco knees-up), at which vast quantities of food and drink will be consumed (rarely with any evidence of animosity or, perish the thought, violence of any kind), various topics discussed, friendships made and renewed, family ties strengthened, plus loads of gay banter, the whole purpose of which is to provide all and sundry with nothing more than a spiffingly brilliant time.

In France such occasions are an intrinsic part of the glue that binds families, communities and, ultimately, society together. But in England these do's are likely to blow families apart. Er, to be pedantic, events like this don’t happen in Le Cesspit but stick a UK family group together for longer than five minutes with anything stronger than a packet of wine gums and you’ll end up with tears, walkouts and considerably shortened Christmas card lists. I know. I’ve seen it happen.

Went to a couple of these Froggy do’s last week. And, perhaps surprisingly, they were in my home hamlet of Poussanges; a wee dot on the map that’s normally only inhabited by about a dozen or so hardy souls. However, in August the population rockets to around fifty or more as various relatives and chums visit for the holiday month, thus providing our sleepy little backwater with a rather jolly festive atmosphere.

The first was a Saturday evening 40th birthday celebration for Christian (not Isabelle’s Christian), one of Colette and Alains’ two sons who both emigrated to Paris years ago in search of wine, women and work. As they don’t have a garden, Alain’s broken down old Lada 4x4 was removed from the tiny car park next to the village church and replaced by a row of tables and chairs plus parasols. Kick-off was around sevenish and, as usual, I turned up about an hour late but nobody seemed to mind (my tardiness is legendary in these parts). Presented Christian with a bottle of champers, wished him happy birthday and then, before I had time to think of the French translation of ‘would you mind if I shook with my left hand as my right one is somewhat damaged?’, he grabbed my right paw and enthusiastically ripped apart the torn ligaments that had been slowly knitting together over the previous few days. Then about twenty others did the same before I was ushered to a sunlit chair to recover next to a white-haired old lady dressed in a flowery housecoat and slippers who I eventually discovered to be Colette’s 76 year old mother. Fascinating lady. Vaguely remembered the war but said there weren’t any Krauts in this region; yes, she’d been to Paris (twice, but couldn’t remember when) and no, she’d never been to the seaside.

About three hours later, after much chatting, noshing of home-made vol au vents, quiches and plum pie, half a bottle of scotch and two renditions of ‘Flower of Scotland’, a riposte of numerous French songs including the inevitable ‘La Marseillaise’ (probably spelt wrongly), imbibing of wines and a final rugby scrum in the village square (as you do) where my left knee hammered into the gravely tarmac and exploded in a bloody mess (didn’ae spill ma scotch though) necessitating hasty repair work in Colette’s kitchen, I eventually wobbled and hobbled back home to walk my doggies and hit the sack.

Next day (Sunday) dawned with the frightening prospect of Isabelle and Christians’ do. This was a get-together of their entire two tribes and friends (100 or more people) at the banqueting hall (er, dining room) of the local Mairie in order to celebrate the end of their nine-year mortgage (or French equivalent). Kick-off was scheduled for 12.30pm and I anticipated a twelve hour match with a strong likelihood of extra time. Clearly I’d have to pace myself for this one or I wouldn’t last the distance. (Er, despite taking things easy I eventually succumbed to a combination of exhaustion and despair at around elevenish when I heard the first booms of the dreaded disco.)

I could go into a detailed account of various events and cameos that transpired at this memorable function, but, you’ll probably be relieved to read, I won’t. Suffice it to say that when Isabelle (ably assisted throughout by a remarkably sober, and on best behaviour, Christian) throws a do, it wins prizes.

Luckily, I only made one faux pas… A few days earlier, the pretty daughter of the Crocq butcher popped round with a present from her parents of some pate and a cut of prime beef (they’ve been eternally grateful to Georgie and me for the little bit of help we provided when the daughter visited London last year). Then, at Isabelle’s do, when being introduced to Isabelle’s brother and his wife I mistook them for the Crocq butcher and wife. So I thanked them very much indeed for the meat and told them that they really shouldn’t have. Then I wandered off and disappeared into the crowd, no doubt leaving them thoroughly confused.

Silly old buggerre.

Wet grass, slight slope, smooth leather soles. Lethal combination. Took just a split second to go from vertical to horizontal. Stuck my right hand out to break the fall. Wrist bent right back. Felt a twinge. Could be broken. Or maybe just sprained. No matter. Had an appointment in ten minutes’ time to change my tyres. Had to go. Drove there no problem. Bit stiff driving back, but no real pain. Must be okay. In the lingo of the GP racing fraternity, it’s just a scratch. Probably just a piffling bust scaphoid. Hardly worth bothering about. So I ignored it. (As a spotty teenager I once saw Mike Hailwood come off his 350 Norton at Brands, ignore the medics, stick his pranged wrist under a cold water tap in the pits, leap aboard his 500 and ride straight out for the next race. No problem. Just a scratch.)

Two days later the thing at the end of my arm looked like a blown-up rubber glove. And was sore as hell. Luckily Roy and El were around so they kindly drove me up the local medical centre. Not being registered over here, I thought they may refuse to see me. But this being France, I was whisked straight into a consultation room. After filling in a form, a matronly nurse then took my blood pressure. !90 over 120. Apparently very high. Something else to worry about. Then a doctor came in and pushed and prodded. Sent me off for an X-ray. Was about to walk the twenty yards up the corridor to the lab when a nurse shoved me into a wheelchair and pushed me there instead. Took four photos. Then wheeled me back. Doc looked at the photos and diagnosed torn ligaments. No broken bones. Quite a relief. Matronly nurse then soaked some lint with hospital juice to reduce the swelling, wrapped it round the back of my hand and bandaged the lot up. Then off to another room where I paid the bill: just £12 with another bill to follow for the X-rays. Guessing £40. Could be a whole lot more but I doubt it. Whatever it costs it’s worth every penny. They were absolutely brilliant. Next stop the pharmacie at Felletin where I gave them a prescription for some weird herbal tablets and cream to reduce inflammation, some paracetamol and a high-tech American wrist support. About £40 all in. Told me I should be able to reclaim most of it from the UK’s National Health. Er, I think not mes amis. Blood out of a stone. The cesspit’s health system isn’t quite as socially supportive or user-friendly as France’s.

A further two days later, Saturday in fact, the swelling had gone down and I could almost once more lift a whisky glass, brush my teeth, tie a shoelace, use a corkscrew, clip a doglead, wipe me arse, turn the front door key, change gear, use the handbrake, shave, undo the lid of a milkbottle, turn on a tap (this list is endless), using my right hand. Almost, but not quite. Hadn’t touched the pills, cream or wrist support of course. Don’t believe in all that nonsense. Time’s the big healer.

And yesterday (Monday) I was almost back to normal. Almost, but not quite. So I decided to finish off mowing the lawn; a task I’d begun before pranging my wrist. Big mistake. Pulling the rope to start the engine, I felt something squelch at the back of my hand. Dammit, ligament’s ripped again. Though not as bad as before.

Was hoping to finish off painting the front windows and make a start at tiling the shower before Geo and Don arrive on Saturday.

I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

So that was summer.

Lasted just four days. Thursday to Sunday last week. Same four days as Felletin’s afforementioned song and dance festival. Just seemed to get hotter and hotter all the time, reaching a Sahara-like crescendo at about 2.30pm on Sunday afternoon; the hottest part of the hottest day of the year.

At that time I was busying myself watching Lewis Hamilton trounce the opposition on telly in the Hungarian GP while my mad dogs alternated between sunbathing and recovering indoors. Opened the windows to let in some air and saw Alain re-emerge from his lunch break (a customary two hours out here in France) to continue his morning’s work of pulling out the ripe shallots in his adjacent vegetable garden. Noticed he’d ditched his previous outfit and was now wearing a rather natty ensemble that better suited the prevailing conditions: white floppy hat, plain grey teeshirt tucked into elasticated waistband of light blue swimming shorts pulled up high above waistline, beneath which a pair of lily-white, varicose-veined, spindly legs extended into grey woolly socks and black leather hunting boots. Very fetching. However, a clear indication that while the influence of Parisienne fashion houses undeniably extends across the universe, it may well have by-passed the village elders of our remote little corner of rural France. Thus attired, he bravely toiled for about half an hour before the sweltering heat forced him back indoors for a cold drink and a long siesta.

Meanwhile, high in the telegraph wires by the village church, swallows were gathering for their annual winter migration. Watching them flex muscles and stretch wings in preparation for their epic flight south, I couldn’t help noticing that the blistering heat seemed to be creating an air of confusion within their ranks. “’Ere Sid, you sure we’ve got these dates right? Seems a tad too summery to be buggering off. Hang on, I’ll check. Yup, first week in August. Time to go. Well you go and I’ll hang around with some of the others. Catch you up at the first sign of a chill wind. Er, probably best if we all stick together. Okay, let’s see what it’s like tomorrow…”

With the sun way past its peak and Hamilton quaffing champagne, I ventured outside to continue painting the south-facing windows. Still ludicrously hot. After toiling for a good few hours, with teeshirt drenched in sweat, I finally called it quits, washed out the brush, stamped the lid back on the tin and prepared for the evening dogwalk. But where to go?

Although I don’t like doing the same walk two days running, I opted for a repeat of Saturday’s magical trip to Lac de la Vaud-Galade. But this time with trunks and a towel. Setting off with my usual tardiness, the lake was just as deserted as before despite it being the hottest day of the year and a holiday Sunday to boot. Maybe arriving at 8pm when everyone was having their evening meal had something to do with my extremely fortunate solitude.

Having repeated this jaunt, a repeat description is hardly necessary. Suffice it to say that this second visit was just as enjoyable as the first.

So that was Sunday.

Monday arrived cold, wet and very misty. Just like winter. Weird how the weather can just suddenly change. But you know what? Those swallows are still there. Lined up on those telegraph wires like notes on a music sheet. Being an eternal optimist, well, occasional optimist, I take it as a sign that maybe summer’s not quite finished yet.

Saturday before last. One of those summery late afternoons, early evenings. Still and warm. Low flying swallows chasing buzzy insects over the newly-mown lawn. The shadow of our house already diagonally splitting the lawn in two and rapidly heading for the apple tree at the bottom of the garden, its sunlit trunk soon to turn from golden orange to greyish brown. Time to get moving. Time for a dogwalk.

Loaded up the dogs and headed west towards Lac de la Vaud-Galade: a quiet little sister lake to the over-popular Lac Vassiviere. A twelve mile drive on bendy switchback lanes into the setting sun. Proved quite a challenge. Even with the sun visor down I had to almost stop a couple of times when I turned corners and just couldn’t see a thing. Blind bends indeed.

Arrived at ‘our’ little beach just as the last of the trippers were moving out so the dogs and I had the place to ourselves. Brilliant. Gave ‘em a quick walk down the dusty track at the water’s edge, had a bit of a paddle then sat back on the grass, rolled a fag and looked out across the lake with the sun setting to the right. Swallows again. Darting across the water, wings occasionally breaking the surface, twisting and turning this way and that, plucking tiny insects from mid-air in a magical aerial ballet that totally transfixed their audience of one. A joy to watch. Contrasting with this spectacular performance, a lazy fish would occasionally break the surface too, sending tiny ripples across the mirrored sky.

Suddenly fancied a swim but hadn’t bought trunks or a towel. Ah, what the hell. Stripped off down to my baggy black knickers, tied Sprocket to a ‘swimming can be dangerous’ sign, told Jock to stay and took the plunge. Can’t beat a slow push off into completely calm water. Especially when it’s surprisingly warm and you’re on your own on a perfect summer’s evening. Absolute bliss.

Gently breast-stroked out for about thirty yards. Ahead, about a mile away, a distant shore and light blue sky lay reflected in the mirror lake. To the left, about four hundred yards away, a forest of sunlit trees and a rich blue sky. And to the right, the blinding sun slowly slipped behind a dark silhouetted hill. Stunning. Such a shame Georgie wasn’t there to share this magical experience.

Flipped over and looked back to shore. Beyond my sunlit toes and rough water trail, I saw that wee Jocky and Sprocket were getting slightly agitated about being left on their own. So I swam back, dried off as best I could, got dressed and wandered back to the car with the dogs, clutching a somewhat damp pair of knickers. Turned and took a final look at the lake just as a tiny boat chugged into view. Aboard were a couple of elderly fishermen wearing broad-brimmed hats and scruffy teeshirts; their faces bright and ruddy as they squinted directly into the sun, their little boat sending out orange ploughlines across the sky blue water. Gave ‘em a wave and they waved back.

Shoved the dogs in the car and headed for home. With the sun now behind us I followed the car’s long shadow as we wended our way through a sparkling landscape of bright greens and orangey yellows. Just before Felletin we crested a golden hill and descended into the dark shadows of the Creuse river valley. Hung a right and began the long slow climb up towards Poussanges through forests of dark green pines with fleeting glimpses of a high distant treeline glowing orange in the final embers of a setting sun. Suddenly felt I had to get home before the sun disappeared. Wanted to see its rays lighting up my evening glass of golden scotch. Ridiculous I know, but hell, that’s the way I am.

Swung round a few hairpins, emerged from the dark forest, curved left in the final approach to Pousanges as bright sunlight exploded into my rear view mirror. Minutes later, after feeding the dogs, I sat at my garden table, aperitif in hand, watching the evening sun light up the opposite valley. Sand between the toes and no knickers. Marvellous.

Being a hermit recluse from the mist-shrouded hills of the Limousin backwoods who hasn’t the foggiest about what goes on in the big outside world, it came as a wee bit of a surprise when I visited Felletin market last Friday and found myself stuck in the first traffic jam I’ve experienced in ages. Couldn’t work out what was going on ‘til I spotted loads of international flags and almost ran over a posse of Peruvians in national dress. Twigged I'd arrived bang in the middle of Felletin's annual song and dance festival; a four day international extravaganza that features, yup you guessed, song and dance troupes from around the world. Dammit. A bad day to go shopping. Couldn’t find a parking space anywhere. Eventually found one (a shady one – big bonus) on my second lap of the little winding lane that’s Felletin’s answer to London’s M25 ring road. Parked up and headed into town.

As usual on market day, the little avenues inside Felletin’s ring road, sorry, lane gyratory system, were closed to traffic, thereby providing pedestrians with easy access to shops and stalls. But as this was probably Felletin’s busiest day of the year, further compounded by glorious sunshine, one could hardly move. The place was packed. Everywhere. Even the churchyard, where a bunch of bongo-bongo African tribesmen and women (probably Parisienne intellectuals) were entertaining the masses with an impromptu war dance.

Heading for the bank to get some readies, I jostled my way down the packed school lane, being careful not to tread on one of the many Romanian (or were they Bulgarian, or Austrian, or Slovenian?) kids decked out in national costumes, topped off with pretty daisy chains in their hair. Eventually arrived at the vicinity of the bank but couldn’t get in due to a crowd of people outside the door watching in amazement as a whirling, bouncing, spinning, jumping, whooping troupe of Ruskies strutted their stuff in a corner of the market square.

Their ‘piece de resistance’ involved two burly jack-booted comrades standing left shoulder to left shoulder, facing opposite directions, with a left arm around each other's expansive vodka gut waist, then each lifting a comrade lady clean off the ground with their right arm (thus four comrades in a row) and then, in line, slowly beginning a circular spin about a central axis. A few seconds later they were spinning around and around at a frightening speed. Half expected one of the ladies to fly off due to the massive centrifugal forces being exerted, ending up in a crumpled heap on the edge of town. But neither did and after numerous Russian revolutions they slowly came to a dizzying stop as the square erupted in appreciative applause. Damned impressive.

With wallet replenished (only 100 euros dear!), I raided the boulangerie and then Isabelle’s fruit and veg stall. Here I normally buy a couple of apples (my pathetic attempt at healthy living) but this time, with the sun out and being confronted by a massive selection of luscious looking goodies to choose from, I went completely bananas and bought strawberries, melons, peaches, some fresh haricots verts (green beans), some big red tomatoes, a massive lettuce and a ton of muddy spuds. Quite surprised Isabelle with my apparently enthusiastic change of diet. Little does she realise that while I harbour thoughts of noshing melon starters and cheese and ham salads followed by fresh fruit in the evening sun at suppertime, the reality is that I’ll probably end up with another heated pack of paella, heartily preceded by a couple of scotches and accompanied by a cheeky Bordeaux while the fruit’n’veg slowly goes mouldy in the fridge’s bottom drawer. Ah well, we’ll see.

Next stop, the cheese wagon. Queued here for an eternity while little old ladies pondered their fromages and I took in the visual splendour of a hustling bustling market in high summer as swallows swooped and shrieked against a blue sky and lightly attired tourists mingled with heavily clothed locals beneath brightly striped canopies that shaded a multitude of wares: flowers, shoes, hats, fish, shrimps, organic goats cheese, porcelain, therapeutic mattresses, beds, wickerwork chair repairs, live chickens and rabbits, dead ones, flowery dresses, hunting equipment, tablelamps, home made wines, jams, pates (pronounced ‘pattays’ - still can’t find the accent button), hams, escargots, Allessio’s home made beers; the air heavy with the various aromae of scented soaps, candles, herbs, spices, garlic, roasting chickens, sausages, tobacco, coffee, diesel, drains, electric motors and sweat.

With shoots beginning to sprout from my spuds, I decided not to queue any longer. Still had some cheese from last week so I moved on. Went to the butcher down past the main church (we have two, y’know - churches that is) and bought some pate and four ham slices to go with my salady stuff. Then jostled my way to the main square caff, plonked myself down on a spare seat next to a chap who was checking his paper for horse racing form and ordered an Orangina and a café crème (where the hell did these accents come from?). In recognition of Felletin’s international guests, the cafe proprietaire had bedecked the ceiling with national flag bunting. Spent ages searching for Scotland’s. Was about to complain when I eventually spotted it in the far corner above the coffee machine. Rolled a fag, downed my orange juice and got stuck into my coffee thinking what a shame it was that there appeared to be no Morris or Highland dancers at this international gathering.

Mind you, if there were, at this particular moment, they’d probably be punching the living daylights out of each other as they hair-of-the-dogged hangovers across at the hotel. Not exactly a good example to set our international brethren. With my mind wandering, I thought the Scots are fine when they travel away but the English do seem to have an unfortunate propensity for attracting trouble wherever they go, especially when wearing their national footy shirts. Just then, talk of the deevil, a tall gangly beanpole slouched into the caff accompanied by his son and both were wearing, yup you guessed, England shirts. Luckily they left almost immediately when they couldn’t spot a spare seat. Don’t think they noticed as everyone hastily placed shopping bags on vacant chairs. Awey wi’ye, pillocks.

Couple of minutes later, I too left. Drove home, unloaded the shopping, made a cuppa and a fresh bread sarnie with cheese, ham and mustard. Then got stuck into some strawberries and half a melon. And for supper I had a proper ham salad with spuds and tomatoes and some chopped shallots fresh from Alain and Collette’s vegetable garden.

I feel healthier already.

Sat in the garden a few days back. Facing south. Late afternoon. Sunny. Big open sky. Infinity blue. No clouds. Just a few wispy horsetails high above swooping swallows that sang and danced in the summer air. Across the valley cattle grazed in a lime green field; the far ones white against an emerald forest of distant pines. And beyond that, the pastel green mound of Pierrefitte hill with its long climb and amazing northerly views. From there, on a clear day, you can see the Limousin stretching out towards forever. And if you look hard enough you can even spot our house.

Over my right shoulder the sun was now beginning its slow descent to the north-western horizon. Shadows were lengthening and in the peace and tranquilty of this late July early evening, I suddenly thought this is as good as it gets. From here on in it’s all downhill. That jolly old sun’s well on its way back down that western horizon, gaining momentum to the shortest day and its south-westerly turning point.

Reminded me of the time I had a typical pub row with a mate. Perhaps because he was a city boy, he argued that the sun always set in the same place out west. Didn’t believe me when I explained it only sets there twice a year, on the solstices. Rest of the time it whizzes up and down that westerly horizon like a demented yo-yo, spanning an eighty or ninety degree arc. Same out east at sunrises. Called me an idiot. Told him he should get out more. Had another drink. In exactly this manner I wasted about thirty years of my life.

With the church bells ringing six, I shoved the dogs in the car and set off for a walk up that distant Pierrefitte hill.

Parked the car by the farm and let the dogs off their leads after we’d passed the cows. In the tree-lined tunnel, the lowering sun to our right cast warm shadows across our dusty path. Sunlit bugs hovered, sparkling like jewels against dark hedgerows. The air still; rich with the pure country aroma of cattle and freshly cut hay. Barely a sound could be heard apart from the crunch of cracked brogues on hard ground, the panting of scurrying dogs and the fleeting cries of distant rooks. Or were they hawks?

Further on, we trundled along an avenue of tall trees where the track divides open fields. To our left, a wheatfield, protected against scavenging wildboar by a low-slung electric fence. Keep away doggies. And to our right, a recently cut field, littered with those black plastic-wrapped haybales that remind me of Anthony Wotsisname sculptures. Drifted off in a fruitless trance to remember his name. (Gormley. Anthony Gormley. That's the fella.) Rudely snapped out of it by the sound of lumbering machinery. Turned around to face a rapidly approaching tractor, armed to the teeth with vicious cutting equipment. Wasn’t sure if the driver had seen us so I quickly grabbed the dogs and jumped into the hedge. As it passed by I returned the young driver’s wave. Alongside him sat a white terrier, probably a Jack Russell. They, like us, were obviously on their way up to the top field which meant we now couldn’t go there. While ordinary terriers fight, Sprocket kills. Not good for neighbourly relations. So, after the stream crossing, we turned right down the narrow forest track instead of going straight on.

This change of route meant we now faced a long semi-circular trek back. But I had a cunning plan: to avoid a repetition of the walk we’d done earlier in the week, we’d cut across…The Swamp! Out of the question in winter but in summer it could be worth a try. So, about halfway down the track we hung a right, crawled under a leccy fence and entered the marshfield. Hopping from one reedy divot to another, I managed to avoid getting my feet wet while Jock and Sprocket seemed quite happy to splosh in whichever haphazard direction their noses took them.

Eventually arrived at the stream where we stopped for a break. As I sat on the bank, Sprock cooled off by lying in the water that Jock had just peed in further upstream. He’s like that. And I’m sure he winked. Made me smile. Sat there for quite a time just watching the sparkling stream and enjoying the sunshine and the peace and quiet. Wished Georgie was there. Then the dogs said it was time to move on.

Crossed the stream and headed up through the trees along an ancient rocky cattletrack between two old stone walls covered in moss where I remember thinking there’s nothing here to suggest it’s the 21st century. No telegraph poles, no barbed wire, no electric fences, no litter, no cars, no people, not even a 'plane trail in the sky. Nothing. Absolutely nothing… well, apart from a few of my patterned footprints. Probably been like this for countless generations. And long may it stay that way.

Emerged from the shadowy trees and entered a golden field where the sun was beginning to cast long shadows from newly cut hay bales. These ones were traditional: rectangular and tied with string. Probably the work of that scruffy old farmer who sometimes waves at us from his greasy old-style tractor. Can’t beat classics. Should be in a museum but there's probably years left in that smiley old boy. And that smelly old tractor. Ho ho.

At the end of the field I realised Sprock had disappeared so I gave a whistle. Saw his head pop up way off in the distance. Came running back full pelt. Stuck him and Jock back on their leads just before we re-joined our original track where we once again entered the tree-lined tunnel and passed the cows without starting a third world war (always a relief).

Back home, I fed the dogs, poured myself a large scotch and sat outside in the evening sun with a recent Telegraph. They say that it’s a sign of age when you start reading obituaries. Well I must be getting old then because I’d been meaning to read George Melly’s for ages. And what an excellent read it proved to be. Absolutely hysterical. Trouble was, with the sun setting towards the back of the house and the resultant shadow getting longer and longer, I had to keep moving my chair further down the garden slope in order to enjoy its rays. Being a long obituary (well over half a page), by the time I’d finished, I was right down the bottom of the garden pissed as a rat and laughing my head off lying in the grass having toppled off my chair for about the third or fourth time. Gawd bless ya Melly. The world's a duller place without you.

At about ten or eleven I gave the dogs their late night amble. Headed up the back field with the air still warm and fragrant. A magical night. At the top of the hill, an orange full moon was just rising through the distant treeline to the east. And to the west, above the black forest horizon, the clear night sky graduated from orangey-pink through blue to indigo, like an airbrushed Rousseau painting. Stunning.

Ah well, like I said, this is as good as it gets.

Well, almost.