Joining Peary .

It's bitterly cold with the thermometer showing minus six. Deep winter in this most temperate part of the world. Wilf followed me across the fields and down to the river, the grass frozen hard with the thick frost. Eagles, kestrels and the occasional languid heron our only companions. Under the blue winter sky the verges of the fields still thick with rose hips, sloes and berries. Maybe it's the ice underfoot or maybe it's the fresh scents the cold throws up but our old family fellow was as lively as a puppy. He zigzagged backwards and forwards along the valley floor, nose down, ears trailing along the ground, oblivious to the chill. Every so often he'd roll on his back, squirming contentedly in some choice scent. No need to hurry him back. Sometimes a thick woolly coat is a blessing.

Into town for the morning croissants and our 'Bonjour Wilfee' routine at the cafe in the square. The locals at the bar dressed as though they were going to join Peary on an expedition to the arctic. The peroxide waitress wearing the ' Bon Noel' apron with the flashing lights over her duffle coat. The show must go on.

Home to hang the last decorations on the tree. Then half an hour of touch rugby, meerkat hunting , and rug surfing. Wilf charging along the full length of the hallway, his aches and pains forgotten in the thrill of surfing. He finally turned over and fell asleep in the middle of the floor. He's still there - snoring gently. Time enough to recharge his batteries before 'the font' returns. A good day. No - a very good day.