In my picnic bag today I discovered a piece of Madaleine cake. Now it could be considered pretentious at this point to use it as a segue into reflections on time but I have to note that I can now spend hours doing nothing when just a few days ago I had no time to spare.
This can have serious consequences, for example, falling
asleep in the sun beside a mountain lake with bare legs that soon crisp nicely, adding blisters to the welts gained from whatever bug I was sharing a bed with last
night. But overall life doesn’t get any better than having nothing to do: sitting
on a shaded terrace on a hot afternoon, reading a book with a cup of tea
interspersed with listening to cow bells and crickets, waiting for my gîte host
to arrive and freshly prepare my dinner (she left a nice note saying to
‘install yourself’ until her arrival). Perhaps lashing out with some knitting
or playing with the local dog, but returning to the deck chair eventually to do
nothing but watch light play on clouds, adjusting the green of the lake or the blue
of the mountain range as it folds in on itself.
I have always wondered how the bergers fare being up in their huts with no-one but their dogs and sheep or cows for six months of the year. But I suspect I could be a good shepherd.
I have always wondered how the bergers fare being up in their huts with no-one but their dogs and sheep or cows for six months of the year. But I suspect I could be a good shepherd.
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