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Returned from a good week spent in East Sussex, South East coast of England.
Old estates, cottages, villages, shady woods, deep cut roads and serious farmland in between.
At Rolverden this sweet sight:
Two border collies standing motionless at the entrance of this very old little church. Waiting for their boss to come out. They never moved one hair of their coats. I was curious how long the wait would last and took some pictures to keep my own patience in line.
They were standing like worshipping the newborn Christchild. Devote, demure, holy.
Deceiving appearances. After the mistress had at last come out and released them from their frozen state we went in.
The church served a secular purpose:
Farmer's Market; the meat, poultry and fish department
OP
Never mind where to, even if it is to the corner of the block or to the other side of the road. As long as it makes a little tale.
Just to enliven the board's summer sleep.
Just to enliven the board's summer sleep.
Something tells me not all the board is in aestivation. (Rampant hemispherism rears its ugly head yet again).
formerly known as etaoin...
What's Scotland got to do with this?
OP
Ah well, aestivation or hibernation, here's the other one and you are ever so free to like it or not.
Dinner in The White Dog Inn. By a hot treacle sponge dessert, our hostess tells the story of the fox hunt. Not an upclass ritual hunt it was.
A fox, greatly annoying to the farmers had to be caught.
The Inn was crowded with locals to await the homecoming of the hunting party. Beer, cider and bottles of many contents went round. After a very long wait the party returned with no fox. They never knew how it got away.
On that same day the laundry man does his weekly round with the little van to pick up the linnen from Inns and Pubs all over the region.On one of the stops he opens the back of the van and is met by an appallling, horrid smell. He curses and wonders which of his customers could have delivered him this offensive linnen without giving it a decent rinse. He starts rummaging out the bags and there in the back is the fox.
Who in his terror has lost control over his bowls.
He must have slipped in when the doors were left open at one of the pick ups.
The laundry man closes the doors, passes The White dog and at a safe distance lets the fox take his leave.
Then he drives back to the White Dog to join the drinkers wondering where the fox has gone.
Last edited by BranShea; 08/05/07 03:00 PM.
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