Of no interest to me....

Finbar 

 Finbar is demonstrating that bothering with sheep is beneath him!   

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 Wrong!   Didn't land at Toulouse at all.  Time rubs the edge of accuracy .    Bordeaux it was, where we picked up a very nice little Renault 5, and set off down the road towards Toulouse.  No satnavs of course, and navigating with an old fashioned map.   To cut a long story short, we found Rangeuil, and the Elf petrol station which was the indicator that we were below the flat.  Great welcome from Linda and Patrick.    Linda's job was teaching air traffic controllers and pilots English.   Pretty important when you think about it.   Patrick worked with space satellites, I think working on software.   Patrick was soon back from work, we sat on the balcony to wait for him.   He arrived, and we launched in to our first ever meal on French soil.   Always an experience.   Aperitifs and Digestifs must be taken into consideration.   And three hours must be set aside.   Happy memories. M et Mme Moreau were...
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  It was a perfect early October morning. Autumn was rejoicing that it was her moment come. Wraiths of mist were breaking up over Venlaw Hill, and here was I, accompanied by Finbar the one year old black Labrador, making my way back home for co ff ee and breakfast. After the morning walk that was. When I say “one year old” I’m being very precise. It was his first birthday just last week. He was born in early October on an Upper Tweeddale farm. I was doing a locum stint there, and going into the primary school one day I met Lynn on the doorstep. The farmer’s wife said to me “Are you looking for a dog”. Well I wasn’t, and then I was. So here he is. On the farm they called him “Mr Wiggly”, because he had to take his enthusiastic part in any fuss that’s going. With his wholly beautiful, silky black coat wriggling and twisting under any hand prepared to give him a pat. A year later he is still Mr Wiggly. Enthusiastic with his love. While he was being born in the Scottish Borders, our th...
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Love bade me welcome

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Several years ago we visited Little Bemerton, not far from Salisbury.   George Herbert, priest and metaphysical poet, died there in 1633 - loved and lamented by his parishioners.  This is one of my favourite poems.   A conversation between the poet and Love - representing God   Love   bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back Guilty of dust and sin. But   quick-eyed   Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lacked anything. ‘A guest,’ I answered, ‘worthy to be here.’ Love said, ‘You shall be he.’ ‘I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear, I cannot look on thee.’ Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, ‘Who made the eyes but I?’ ‘Truth Lord; but I have  marred  them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve.’ ‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘who bore the blame?’ ‘My dear, then I will serve.’ ‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my  meat :’ So I did sit and eat.
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