Wilf trots along the lane . The rain gone and with it his arthritis. He turns right this morning , out along the top of the ridge , towards the edge of the village . A sun warmed stroll among the small , steep , patchy fields that funnel and arc down to the woods in the valley . Difficult land to farm but at this time of the year full of calves and their vigilant mothers . Here and there dappled splashes of wheat and autumn feed . A soft , mild , spot . Wilf can't see the lush landscape but he sits for a full five minutes head high , nose gulping the air , sensing the cows warmth . Content in his world of pared down senses.
On the way into town for our morning coffee we come across Oliver lying happy and immovable in the middle of the road ; patiently waiting for his absent master . Something he's done every day since the funeral a year ago . I get out of the car to shoo him out of harms way . He doesn't move. Instead he wags his tail and rolls onto his back , sighing aloud with pleasure as his ears are stroked . This trusting old fellow clearly doesn't want for love . His faithfulness part of local lore . Love knows not what time is .
Old dogs, warm croissants, freshly picked peaches. Sunday mornings as they should be .