THURSDAY MORNING SCENE:
Like us, our dogs are contemplating the day. Doggy breakfast is over and we have sat down to a reflective cup of coffee.
It's a grey, intermittently drizzly morning so we've been limited to a tour of the park rather than a proper walk. An extra biscuit has helped to compensate the mutts. The usual depressing corona-virus word-muzak streams out of the TV. I try to shut my ears as misery is measured out in statistics.
Jones has lit a fire, just big enough to flicker companionably and help dry the washing that's hanging over the banister. We don't have a mechanical clothes drier. We don't need one. The sun serves us well most days and the wood fire on such occasions.
We've had a couple of outings, to do the recycling and to run supplies out to two couples unable to shop for themselves. For the next few days we'll sit tight. Police are stationed at key traffic circles. The government has banned all travel outside of one's local council area until after the Easter weekend - not that we had anything in mind.
As we handed over the requested food order to friends who live in an apartment on the fringes of Quarteira, a goatherd emerged beside the house in view opposite with his three big dogs, released his goats from the adjacent field and set off up the road to graze them.
They clearly knew the routine, the goats ignoring the dogs as the latter bounded around excitedly. The road is the border between expanding suburbs and the countryside. Note the plastic chair draped over his shoulder. Presumably he was in for a long day. It's still common to see shepherds standing on the roadside, keeping an eye on their grazing flocks as cars speed by.
On the home front Mello is still limping. We think she's damaged a tendon as there's no visible injury. We have given up our attempts to catch and groom her daily. She was reacting badly, growing mistrustful of us, taking mouthfuls from her food bowl before darting away for fear of being trapped. So we carry on as before.
Easter or no Easter, we continue with our usual routine. There isn't much choice. And it doesn't weigh on us. We are privileged. At a time when space is precious, we are multi-millionaires, blessed with verdant wealth. The countryside is a lush green and the wild flowers are in their glory.
The distant roar of aircraft is no more, replaced by an ambient hum from the bees plundering the borage that's sprung up along the verges.
ALARM: SOMEONE AT THE GATE!
When it's not raining, we do extra-long circuits around the hills both morning and evening. We feel in need of the exercise, I more than Jones. She is a natural run-arounder and forever at work in the garden. I'm more inclined to sit (or kneel) at the computer or watch a movie. I've been watching a lot of movies.
When it comes to excursions, the misty days present no navigational problem. The dogs know the paths as well as we do. Several of the routes we created ourselves. The only issue is 23 muddy paws.
After rain, a pool of water collects in a natural depression on the top of a boulder, mid way along our walk. All the dogs know about it and don't hesitate to refresh themselves.
On our return a rewarding jacuzzi awaits. Barbara prefers to bathe in the evenings when there's a baggy to go with a dip. I try to hop in twice a day, finding that a weightless warm water wallow eases my ever-curmudgeonly back. (Forgive the occasional alliterative lapse!)
One night Jonesy was awakened by a kerfuffle between the cats. She got out of bed and made her way through to the study where she found the two cats squatting down, facing each other. Dearheart (pictured) had taken a swipe at Squinty and caught her claws in Squinty's nose, where they remained stuck fast. Neither of the cats could move. Sorry I don't have a picture. If it hadn't been 3.00 in the morning, it might have been amusing.
Clouds or no clouds, Barbara paid due tribute to the wondrous pink moon that lit up the earth. Astronomers explained that the name came, not from the orb, but from the seasonal pink flowers (of the wild ground phlox) in parts of the USA.
And so life continues. Unconcerned with worldly events, the blackbird continues to trill us with tunes from his perch on the phone pole. What a melodious song he sings, albeit to warn off his fellows, one that's always in the top ten. He never fails to raise our spirits.
I wish I could say the same about Easter. It will prove a hard one for most. Whatever the case, may I wish you such happiness as should accompany the feast, with the fervent desire that the virus should pass. I fear it will not be soon.
RAINY DAY
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