A slice of filet.

The Sunday market was in full swing by the time Wilf and yours truly got there. Time enough to buy croissants, the morning paper, some melons ( picked this morning ) and some cheese. Something I'd never seen before - a man roasting an entire ox on a huge, gas fired spit. How in heavens name would you carve bits off it - with a knife or a chain saw ? What would he do if you asked for a slice of filet? A scorching, uncomfortable job on a hot summers Sunday.

On the way back we parked by the side of the lane and headed off across the freshly ploughed fields. A chance for Wilf to run to his hearts content, safe from ticks that hide in the long grass. Here in the deep countryside not a sound save for the rustling of the trees, the lowing of the cattle, and the playful whinnying of the young foals. Wilf scooted down the sun crusted hill, a blur of happy white hyper-activity, sniffing here, charging off there, christening in between. For him so much to see, so much to do. For me his enthusiasm brings a quiet, uplifting contentment . On the way back to the car three young russet brown kestrels whirled and pirouetted above us - graceful masters of the air savouring their first summer. Dog owners share the secret that they are the luckiest people on earth.