Out for our morning walk. A herd of seven hesitant deer bound across the lane ahead of us. No more than twenty metres away but as silent as wraiths. Wilf is nose down, savouring something enticing in the long grass, completely oblivious to their presence. By the time he looks up the deer are disappearing into the walnut groves. Seven white tails fading into the shadows.
A thousand posts. Maturity reached , illnesses cured, griefs overcome, unconcious risks taken. Along the way he's been poisoned by Italian hunters, had run ins with processionary caterpillars, lost a brother and fought armed intruders. He's developed a liking for coconut ice cream, drinking from the stream, and sleeping, on his back, in roadside verges. He's met Madame Bay and made new, absinthe imbibing, friends at the cafe. Every day he's been an uncomplaining companion. A thousand days is a fine gift of experiences, memories and laughter.
Our blogging days must inevitably draw to a close but what you start you finish . Whether the cancer grants us ten or a hundred more days our blog will continue to record the last stage of this shared, happy, never dull, journey. I would like to think that if you asked Wilf what he thought was the best time of life he'd reply " Now ! ".