Out for a hearty walk in the bright winter sun. The new house sits on a well maintained road,lined with trees, and the two boyz are delighted to be able to saunter along the firm tarmac trunk by trunk. They become completely lost in canine rapture over the new scents they discover each morning - squirrel, goose,fox, boar, hare, deer, and who knows what else. Digby is not so sure about the cows in the field opposite - half of him is intrigued by their presence, the other half simply appalled by their intimidating size and alarming mooing. Wilf,being Wilf,hasn't noticed them yet or if he has he's not deigning to acknowledge them.
The views in this part of France are gentle and soothing. We can't see the Pyrennees from the house, but go a mile or so down the road and there are the mountains rising sheer from the plain, an interrupted,jagged line of snow capped peaks, turning rose pink in the morning sun. There are no foothills, the rocks just soar,uninterrupted three or four thousand metres up from the smooth farmland below.
If the boyz are stressed by the move they're hiding it well. Post walk they settle down on the gravel by the front door. Digby, secure in the knowledge that his big brother is on guard, is soon on his back, snoring away, legs twitching as he dreams of chasing rabbits. Nothing disturbs him, not even the leaves falling from the oak and plane trees onto his chest.Bliss.