One of those mornings when you're grateful to be alive. Blue skies, scattered clouds, no humidity and the refreshing hint of a breeze. The boyz led on ahead up the hill, not even bothering to register their irritation at my laggardly pace. Four paws fast, two paws slow. And then one of those country experiences that halts you in your tracks. Barely three hundred meters from the farm gate there came hundreds; not scores, not a hundred, but hundreds of darting swallows cavorting barely inches above the ground. The boyz and I stood, clustered together as this weaving, pirouetting,chirping wheen flew backwards and forwards inches from our ears. A private display of pure aerial mastery. Young ones flocking together,pumped up ahead of their long flight south,keen to show off their flying skills to their spellbound audience. Swallows are masters of play - natures uncontained and uncontainable jesters. As suddenly as they arrive, they went, determined to be cracking on.
When we lived in Scotland the swallows used to swoop around the two boyz enticing the young pups ( as they were then) to chase them, allowing them to get tantalazingly close before suddenly pulling up and barrel rolling into the sky. Both dogs and swallows would play this game for five,sometimes ten minutes without pause - a hilarious comedy routine that came,literally,out of the blue.
A perfect day became more than perfect.
Today is the 500th post - I thought it was a few days ago but had failed to allow for drafts that had never been published. The coming few weeks herald the next stage on our journey through Europe. Life is like riding a horse - sometimes you need to get back into the saddle and decide the direction of travel rather than ambling along . At least that way you have some chance of knowing your destination.
