On we go, the three of us, along the lane, past the last of the houses, through the burnt ochre fields of shrivelled sunflowers into the walnut and hazelnut groves. Here in the dappled shade Wilf and Jerome run free. Finally exhausted, the two old fellows slump on top of the ridge, eyes turned towards the line of anvil heads already building up on the horizon. The daily battle between the searing heat of the Spanish cordella and the chill, moist air of the high Pyrenees.
Wilf and Jerome soon settle down, paw to paw in the cool, shaded, grass. I stand behind them, my back to a tree, happy in their simple contentment. They look out entranced across the plain to the mountains. While I see the fields, the hamlets and the mountains they seem to see so much more. Beyond the rising rose coloured clouds a glimpse of their role in this world of mystery and beauty, grace and wonderment. A sense of their origins beyond the bounds of sense. All underneath this Sunday sun of heaven. Bliss for man and dog.
When we get back to the village half a dozen local farmers are setting up the stalls for the Sunday 'bio' market. The simple, season driven childhood life of my father and grandfathers. Lost elsewhere but still holding on here.