bucolic bouriege

“Walkies!” I say over eggs and bacon and toast at our breakfast table. After a couple of hot days it has been raining all night; now it is fine and cool and slightly overcast. Ideal for walking.

Old Dog pretends not to hear. Unlike others of his breed he doesn't look longingly out of the window, or scratch at the door, or wag his tail when I mention the 'W' word.

Quite the reverse. Sometimes he 'plays dead', hoping I will forget about the walk. Sometimes he hides.

Today he is resigned. As he follows me down the garden path, he has that 'hang dog' look, jowls drooping, eyes appealing, “Look what a loyal boy I am, doing this for you.” The eyes look even sadder as I set off up a hill, along the Rue Devant de Village.

I stride up the hill, working up a sweat, and turn to admire the view of our village, Bouriege, already a surprisingly long way below.

As usual Old Dog is nowhere to be seen. Why isn't he one of those dogs who bound along excitedly, running ahead, challenging me to even greater efforts? No, he sniffs every flower, disappears into tall grasses and behind trees at every opportunity and tries to commune with bearded goats or any other living creature.

Unlike real dogs, I don't think he urinates on everything, but he claims his territory with his trusty camera.

Why does he have to photograph every giant snail and every vineyard? They all look the same to me. [But I am grateful for the images when it comes to blog post time.]

Four years ago, on a trip to Ireland, cows and sheep were the obsession. Old Dog's goal was to get as close as possible and then shoot. Now flora and fauna take his fancy.The only problem being that it is summer and there are thousands of flowers along the tracks and in the meadows, so he makes little progress.

As he hasn't yet consented to a lead, I bellow “Dave” and whistle intermittently, but it has little effect.

If we know the way, I go ahead and wait at the next village, but when we don't know where we are going, or are following those yellow and white markers, which can be missing or difficult to interpret, I wait impatiently at every turn.

After a while, the oxygen reaches Old Dog's brain; he is stimulated by the sights, and he is usually smiling by the end of our 'randonnee', looking forward to coffee and a croissant as his reward.

“Good dog!”

And now for a bit of doggerel... with apologies to Wordsworth and anyone else who writes poetry!

I wandered lonely country roads,

past chateau with their towers

when all at once I came upon

a field of bright sunflowers.

The serpent shifted in the grass

the wind soughed through the trees

but a host of golden faces

brought my troubled mind some ease.

'but a host of golden faces'

Past hillsides lined by rows of vines

and cylinders of hay

poised as if with just one push

they could roll away.

I saw an old man on his porch

French cap atop his head

he stared across to distant hills

where once his herd he led.

'where once his herd he led.'

The sky so blue, cornflowers too,

and meadows freshly mown

A bird cried ,”Who, whoo are you?”

but soon that bird had flown.

The village then came into view

all mottled tiles and stone

with church spire pointing heavenward

it signalled my way home.

'it signalled my way home.'