A raft on the pond.

After a week of summer sunshine we've woken to a full blown Pyrennean mountain storm. The rickety old farmhouse creaking away like a ship at sea. Window frames rattling and shutters banging. From time to time the expensive grating sound of roof pantiles shifting in the ferocious wind. Wilf is not at all keen on venturing outside. A white furry head quickly stuck out of the front door before its owner turns and heads back to the warmth of his bed. He closes his eyes in the belief that he's invisible.

Our family friend is finally harnessed up and escorted, reluctantly, extremely reluctantly, to the gate. He stops, briefly, to christen the fire hydrant . A statutory part of the daily routine. Then we turn right down the lane, pausing en route, to look at the waves on the village pond. The poor frozen frogs clustering together on a raft of water lily leaves. Once home Wilf rests his head on my foot. A sigh that says " Knowing life is short, how can we quarrel ?".