Man, dog, snow

Statues of beasts stood with their backs to the four walls of the court, eyes turned to watch the canted dial: hulking barylambdas; arctothers, the monarchs of bears; glyptodons; smilodons with fangs like glaives. All were dusted now with snow. I looked for Triskele’s tracks, but he had not come here.

Owen starts on the painting, while I reinstall myself in the office. Its workability has deteriorated massively over the months I’ve been working at the kitchen table.

Nick arrives early afternoon. After a cuppa we take a walk on the hill, through the remains of the snow and the forest. The dog has a ball, twigs sticking to its pelt, jumping at snow.

A lone JCB is slowly working its way among the stumps, making mounds of soil for replanting.

I cook a massive feast of steak, chips, tomatoes, mushrooms and broccoli for tea. Nick has brought wine and beer. Inevitably, we graze the whiskies on the top shelf of the dresser.