Long time, no blog ... far, far too long.

Parlez vous Francais?

Littlest and French friend.

Long time, no blog ... far too long. Too busy with other things - other writing, other distractions.

However – while other distractions have not all gone – check out My Name is Luca on Jottify, a new story, now hurtling towards a conclusion ... which conclusion? – not totally decided yet; might try out a couple and see what the lovely jottifying community think - I now have a bit of time to resurrect Walking The Dog.

Anyway, enough of that – as you have probably gathered, we are back en France, en vacances, a bit too far north for sunny weather, but just far enough, and not too far south to have succeeded in driving-awake after the normal frantic packing exploits of Sunday and the normal far too late collapsing into bed.How I hate packing! But that is probably a subject for a separate blog.

Time to catch up on all things Walking The Dog – what have Littlest, Four-legged-friend and the rest of the family been up to? Quite a lot actually –

Jubileeing - mmm! ... any excuse for pudding.

Hide and seeking

Walking - when rain not torrential.

Footpath?!

Who needs footpaths?

Resting

Racing

Littlest “a bit fed up always being eighth” – probably something to do with having the shortest legs in her year.

Learning something new

A ukelele called Layla.

The return of the fruit thief - strawberry season first

And finally resting ... yet again! A dog's life is a tiring one.

All caught up, more or less - all the above, plus boy's left school, long-legged-girl is back from Uni, boy and sister have sung in their first opera and ... we're on holiday. Almost all of us. Boy looking after Four-legged-friend looking after boy.

Right - can get on with the proper business of writing a blog now. 'Mid-life Crisis' next ...

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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