Dogs

I'm more than happy to spend much of each weekend out with dogs; I took two this morning round the beautiful woods in Corby, and now about to set off in the rain with two dogs around the hills and valleys surrounding Bewdley. But I'm never sure which looks best - a nice contrast between a Labrador and Jack Russell, which I had earlier, or a brace of matching Chocolate Labrador bitches, which I'm about to take now? Actually, the latter are a bit of a pain in the bum when they are out, chasing after grandads with hiking sticks, and jumping up young ladies, but they do look sweet.

The new moon

On the top of the hill a row of trees and a barn are silhouetted against the dark blue sky of early evening. Above them hangs the new moon, slightly tilted backwards, with the convex side pointing downwards and to the west, showing where the sun has just disappeared. On the concave side, to the south, at what seems to be the focal point of the curve, is the first bright star of the evening. It was worth putting me wellies on for, even though a trifle chilly up there.

Nayyer asked what I liked best about my walks – my response

Nayyer has asked me what I enjoy most about my walks. I tried asking my significant other, and she said it was meeting my friends and neighbours out early in the morning, but I don't really call this walking, it's just popping out with the dog, to exercise the dog. A proper walk is out for a few hours, and I always go on my own.

So I think that gives the first reason – the solitude. Out walking for a few hours, albeit with my dog, is my best opportunity for a bit of quality time with myself. I work with people all day, and live in a home with other people. As much as I love all of them, it really is nice to have some time on my own. And being out of doors is a sure guarantee of getting no distractions, no interruptions, and a wonderful way of clearing the mind.

The second follows on, and it is the sheer joy of being outside, in the elements. To feel the sun on ones face, the rain, the snow, to see the mist over the river, to feel the cold and the heat on ones cheek, gives one a feeling of being truly alive. I've good boots, a set of waterproofs, a map and a compass – I'm ready for anything. Take a picnic lunch and a flask of coffee, and al fresco lunch, sitting on a log, is the best place to be.

The next is the pleasure in a physical activity, especially one that gives a pleasant relaxation and an ultimate fatigue. Nothing better than going to sleep tired or truly exhausted. I'm not very often exhausted, in fact I don't remember the last time, but getting plenty of good quality exercise all helps one relax. When my head hits the pillow at night I am almost always asleep in a few seconds – literally. I never have chance to think of anything, since I'm so soon in the land of dreams.

Given that I take pictures so regularly, it seems obvious to me the sights and sounds of the countryside are a huge part of the attraction. Think of the flora – through the seasons I see the snowdrops, then the bluebells, the wild garlic, the hawthorns, the summer flowers of the meadows and forest, then the seeds and berries, the falling leaves of every hue, and back to winter. The birds are always with me, and each one a different song. Then the seasons themselves – the frost, the snow, the fierce winds of early Spring, the warm rain, the bright sunshine, the soft yellow light of Autumn. Early morning and twilight are both brilliant times for 'seeing things in a new light'. It doesn't matter how many times one sees the same things – the same trees, the same ponds, the same hills – each time it will look different.

There are other aspects, of course, but these are the favourite bits. Sitting all alone, on a tree trunk, drinking hot coffee from a flask, admiring the view, listening to the birdsong, and resting after a good stretch of an hour or so – for what more could one ask, eh? Of course, I could always do a short ramble if anyone cared to join me. But the best bit is the solitude – a man and his dog, as Alison D said, I think.

Slugs

Slug in the lettuce - agh! Actually, the slug was crawling along my hand, so I can only assume it came from the lettuce. I love organic food - and safe in the knowledge that I've been eating slugs and caterpillars and assorted tiny fauna for years. Mother washes hers in salt, but I ain't quite so fussy. But again, I thank her for raising me to have no fear. Poor slug was dashed to the floor, and the dog snaffled it up. Was this a fast end to our tiny friend, or is it now washing around in the juices of Ruby's intestines? It's probably dead by now, and I doubt if it had much in the line of pain. The lettuce is in my sandwiches for the morrow, maybe with a few bits of live matter.

Just for fun - the longest sentence in the book

From The Captive - 447 words in one sentence. Mme Vedurin's furniture:
A sofa that had risen up from dreamland between a pair of new and thoroughly substantial armchairs, smaller chairs upholstered in pink silk, the cloth surface of a card-table raised to the dignity of a person since, like a person, it had a past, a memory, retaining in the chill and gloom of Quai Conti the tan of its roasting by the sun through the windows of Rue Montalivet (where it could tell the time of day as accurately as Mme. Verdurin herself) and through the glass doors at la Raspelière, where they had taken it and where it used to gaze out all day long over the flower-beds of the garden at the valley far below, until it was time for Cottard and the musician to sit down to their game; a posy of violets and pansies in pastel, the gift of a painter friend, now dead, the sole fragment that survived of a life that had vanished without leaving any trace, summarising a great talent and a long friendship, recalling his keen, gentle eyes, his shapely hand, plump and melancholy, while he was at work on it; the incoherent, charming disorder of the offerings of the faithful, which have followed the lady of the house on all her travels and have come in time to assume the fixity of a trait of character, of a line of destiny; a profusion of cut flowers, of chocolate-boxes which here as in the country systematised their growth in an identical mode of blossoming; the curious interpolation of those singular and superfluous objects which still appear to have been just taken from the box in which they were offered and remain for ever what they were at first, New Year’s Day presents; all those things, in short, which one could not have isolated from the rest, but which for Brichot, an old frequenter of the Verdurin parties, had that patina, that velvety bloom of things to which, giving them a sort of profundity, an astral body has been added; all these things scattered before him, sounded in his ear like so many resonant keys which awakened cherished likenesses in his heart, confused reminiscences which, here in this drawing-room of the present day that was littered with them, cut out, defined, as on a fine day a shaft of sunlight cuts a section in the atmosphere, the furniture and carpets, and pursuing it from a cushion to a flower-stand, from a footstool to a lingering scent, from the lighting arrangements to the colour scheme, carved, evoked, spiritualised, called to life a form which might be called the ideal aspect, immanent in each of their successive homes, of the Verdurin drawing-room.

The Baron de Charlus and young students

Another of my very favourite bits from the book - the Baron, with white hair and black moustaches, confesses to be past forty. Only four more years and I shall be able to claim the same.

“The spectacle of all that laborious little world is very pleasant to an
old stick like myself. I do not know them,” he went on, raising his hand with an
air of reserve—so as not to appear to be boasting of his own conquests, to
testify to his own purity and not to allow any suspicion to rest upon that of
the students—“but they are most civil, they often go so far as to keep a place
for me, since I am a very old gentleman. Yes indeed, my dear boy, do not
protest, I am past forty,” said the Baron, who was past sixty.

Supper time - Sunday 1st November 2009

I might have been a little over-ambitious, and the dog might get lucky tonight with plenty of left-overs. But Lulu says she misses my suppers, so for Lulu, this it tonight's menu: minestrone soup with garlic bread; roast chicken (for the omnivores), roast potatoes, carrots, cauliflower in cheese sauce, broccoli and butternut squash; bread pudding with vegan custard (or maybe cakes left over from Sally's workplace). Now all I need is the remains of my dwindling family to come and eat it.

A sort of ps - I've made another broccoli and stilton soup for another day - broccoli going cheap in the co-op today.

Pinch, punch, the first of the month

It was cold, wet and windy on the hills this morning - marvellous. A big coat, a big pair of wellies and me father's hat; all snug apart from the rain running down my coat and soaking my kegs. My left leg got soaked walking up the hill, and the right leg got soaked walking back down again - perfect symmetry. The wind is blowing up from the south. I'm off to eat a hearty breakfast before Meeting - it may be a long one, but knowing Bewdley, I doubt if anyone knows whether there is a business meeting or not.

And the dog is soaking, although she has had a rub with a towel.