I had a short weekend on the farm with my parents. I took my big camera and photographed the bejesus out of the bonfire, Mum's cat and dog, the lambs, the fields (not yet downloaded, I'm afraid if you're jonesing for a look at pictures of wee sooty-faced little lambs this blog is a real tease). We ate and drank and were merry. I slept over 10 hours. I cuddled the cat who swiped me amiably when he'd had enough. P shot at rabbits. We swigged whiskey fireside and watched the stars come out.
I noticed Bert's overt absence on the hilltop, with his lower lip drooping and socked back hoof resting. Couldn't bring myself to visit his grave (Christ, I can't hang up the washing at home without darting glances at Timothy's resting place and hurting inside my ribs). Mum sympathised; she can't visit Bert and ten years on, she still thinks of Pip (the family Jack Russell terrier) every time she walks to the apricot tree on the hill. We talked about Sam, Mum's labrador cross, who disappeared by the mailbox one day, never to be seen again. It's worse about Sam - she doesn't have a spot, only an empty kennel. The graveyard inside my heart is getting terribly big. Perhaps that's what happens with age - only you notice it first with the pets. May it be years before any other people join. Decades. Please.
Wow, that makes me ache and it wasn't at all where I intended to go with this post.
The sun was out - over 20 degrees, shining sky and green hills. I love this land, this country. I really do.