Saturday, August 27, 2011
The wings of angels.
Yesterdays thunderstorm proved to be a half hearted affair. It arrived at lunchtime, rattled the window frames a few times and then quickly disappeared , leaving the skies as blue and cloudless as they had been earlier in the day . Wilf slept unconcernedly through it all. By the time of his evening walk , batteries fully recharged , he had the energy to make a full tour of the village . Vacation homes shuttered, chateau gates padlocked , only Kelly for company . The newly vacated houses a reminder that the holiday season is over and autumn's on the way.
A long queue at the bakers this morning . The bread when it arrives straight from the ovens warm and soft . Wilf sits at the front door of the shop, harlequin patterned lead wrapped round the downpipe, head high , happily sniffing the promise laden air . The freshly baked smell of France . A little old lady wearing a chintz apron stops as she leaves the bread shop, tousles his hair and slips him a small piece from the end of her flute de campagne . He beams . Old dogs know better than most that " the wings of angels are often found on the backs of the least likely people ".