When I was working in daily thrall to frustration and stupefaction, dogwalking gave me energy. We lived in a busy seaside town so walking the empty coastland gave me space, the literal space of wide skies and 30 mile horizons. The dog seemed to find it life-enhancing too, although his view was concerned chiefly with bitch location. We'd find golfballs, chat to friends and fetch the papers. Both of us would return tails wagging, fit for the fray again.
Now, retired from the world but within sniffing distance, another dog and I totter over cretan hills.Walking here is more hazardous, you must skirt sheep shit and pick-ups to get off the tracks and explore through wire-locked fences. We get our kicks watching mobiles of clouds and light and chasing lizards. We imagine mythic creatures come to life and say 'Kalimera' to all and sundry, then we come home to rest.
Sometimes I get writing ideas while we walk, more often my mind empties the recycle bin. One morning will be calm and cool, with birdsong everywhere, another day will be dessicated by hot winds and dust gets in our eyes and noses.
Just recently we've had unseasonably late rains. For three days the dog and I splashed through puddles and watched the garden drown. Zeus came and roared from Psiloritis. When that was ignored he struck hard with lightning and power cut out across the island.
All this has greened up dead grasses and encouraged another round of mating and nest-building. Today we have warmth and light and flourishing weeds in the garden. The dog is catching up on her sleep.
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