Mystery of the disappearing footpaths

Yesterday, Mum and I went for a walk. One of our usual walks. One where we normally amble along, smelling things, chasing bits of bread or carrot, upsetting the odd pheasant, and seldom meet anyone else. We follow the path in a wide circuit until we get home, have some food, curl up and go to sleep. (Mum doesn't curl up and go to sleep, that bit's all me!) So it's an activity that doesn't require much thought. Until yesterday ...

Here's the sign for the footpath. But where's it gone?

I'm sure it was here last time.

Maybe I can sniff it out. Got to get Mum home somehow. My tummy's starting to rumble.

Think I'm onto something here

Yep, definitely found it. But just when I was getting confident that the food was only minutes away ... this happened

Pssst ... Mum, there's no path! You don't seriously expect me to follow you. I'm a law abiding dog and besides, the farmer's bigger than me. If his big tractor-thingy ripped up the path, just think what it could do to me. Oh, you've got a clue for me ... okay, I'll come as long as it's a tasty clue.

The stile! Not exactly tasty, but at least it means there was once a path here.

We eventually got home; (I) ate, curled up and went to sleep.

The disappearing footpaths are still a mystery, though. Mum says our feet will bring the paths back. What!!! The only things my feet bring back are lumps of sticky mud on wet days, and bits of grass on dry days. How are my feet going to bring a path and where will they bring it from? Humans can be so confusing. And so wrong sometimes!

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

Walking The Dog

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