Pezilla de Conflent
This little Pyrenean village has been a home for twelve years now. For my years in the US, when immigration rules meant a lot of coming and going, I often spent half a year here.
This new run is for two months, completing a whole array of big writing tasks and getting fully engaged in my Haldane biography. But for the daly baker's van there's little to deflect one from writing. Save Ugo the dog, who for all our time here has come to take us out on walks. He must be 16 now but still has fire in his belly. The walk the other day saw him leave the road to chase off through the valley. Five minutes later the death squeals and cries of a wild boar ripped through the quiet. It lasted for ten minutes. The dog later came when called, the fur around his mouth soaked with blood. Mountain life has a hard edge to it.
Broadband has not caught up with the place yet - hence the lack of a picture here and meagre postings all round. At least it keeps me applied to the day job, ticking off the volume of writing tasks.
We had a cat as well as a dog adopt us for the first few years. The cat, forever pregnant, sat on the window ledge. The dog, liking the idea, took the cat's place. The cat, we suspect, went the way of that wild boar. Ugo doesn't get everything his way. He's lost an ear, and has a new wound in his thigh. He's getting his way now though. He's calling me out for a walk. The sun's dropping. Time to go.