At six o’clock, the morning is bathed in softest sunshine. On the branches of a tree, outside my bedroom window, sit pairs of collared-doves basking in companionable bliss, soaking up the dappled warmth, and dozing like a line of feathered Rip Van Winkles, waiting perhaps for the Twelve Days of Christmas? In the distance, Merlin’s Mist hangs over the Towy valley like a roll of softest thistle-down swathing the estuary, and its river banks, within the safety of its folds.
I hear that an athlete, running in the Paralympics, has complained about the length of the winner’s blades, and disputed the victory of the man who pipped him at the post to take the gold medal. It seems there is no fraternity even in adversity while the obsession to be the best, with all its rewards, remains paramount.
Kitcat has reverted to her favourite place under one of the hypercum-calycinums in the garden, which augurs well for the weather being set fair for the day. Now I have to work out how to cut the grass around the four mole-hills that contain the traps set to catch the little nuisances that I hoped, in vain, would abandon my garden, and disappear into the surrounding fields without my having to resort to such desperate measures. I blame it all on Kenneth Grahame, and the immortal characters he created in The Wind in the Willows, plus my own abhorrence of taking life for whatever reason.