Sunday, June 03, 2007
La Philosophie Dans La Jardin
Worry not, I shall not torture you more with my mangling of the french language. Nor will we pay any more than a passing nod to the Marquis. Hallett’s Mountain, as I am sure the gentle reader knows, leaves that kind of thing to others.
Its just that Asbo and I have been having some ‘man time’ together in the garden. I noticed that the cats had not finished their breakfast. The weather has been hot and close to thunder. They go off their Tesco cat chunks in times like this. They twitch in the secret shady spots and look for an endangered species to mock.
Asbo is always glad to clear up and so I sit with him for a little. Taking time off from the rhythmic scything of bracken that has left my mind free to wander elsewhere. While he eats his way through his second, and third breakfast I take a cool one from the fridge to the garden chair. We pass the time of day, watching the swallows dip across Cae Dan Ty.
The silence between us is easy. We mellow away.
After a while the swallows dip lower.
“You know mate, I reckon there could be a thunder storm any time now. Do you think I should unplug the phone?”
Asbo raises a quizzical eyebrow. Failing to detect any nuance of the word ‘walk’ he returns to his task. Perhaps he also considers the echo of the lone tree falling deep in the remote forest.
Far across the valley the skies darken ominously.
“I’d better get the line out of the modem as well.”
Asbo smiles at the follies of men and munches on. The thought of one hand clapping crosses his doggy countenance. How on earth would that be of any use if you wanted a biscuit.
The first flickers of lightening cross the miles, the radio inside the houses crackles. After long pause a few bass rumbles track around Craig Celynin and reflect upon us. The air temperature suddenly chills.
But the practical time for reflection is past.
Sitting with a beer at the garden table has its merits but we will soon be cold and wet if we don’t stir our stumps. I drain the glass and turn to my friend.
“Time to pack up and sit by the fire mate?”
Asbo shrugs off his canine philosophising.
Spits out the last chunk of the previously oval cats bowl and grunts.