Sunday morning means a more than casual walk. The hounds knows it, I know it, my Sunday morning walking companion knows it. His hound not only knows it, but waits at the door.
On these walks we revert. Yesterday, we explored a couple of stone walls that seemed to stand at attention yet, an old garbage dump where I scored a scrap of rust I’d been seeking for some time, and the forest primeval where the hemlocks stand so tall you can’t see the top. Where it became necessary to see whether an elf lived in a very, very large old stump.
Then we jumped across the brook (our version of jumping, anyway), and brought the rusty trophy back to the car, all the while arguing over who would get to carry it. “You’re the curator of the historical society, he challenged, “you can’t be seen carrying a piece of iron junk out of the woods.” I laughed, ”just watch me.” He won.
We’ll walk again next week. If we’re alive and kicking, of course. In Holland we have a poetic way of saying that: “ice and weather being of service” — all things being equal. It remains to be seen how equal they will be.
Check out the photos — you can get the album to pop up by clicking on one of the thumbnails. If your connection is poor, they may take a moment to fully load and get sharp.