A HARE OF THE DOG

Like everyone else around the world, on Boxing Day we headed out for a long walk to clear our heads and shakedown bodies filled with copious portions of rich food and an overabundance of alcohol. Heading for a pub therefore seemed like best option, so we could look forward to rewarding ourselves with a hot toddy on reaching our goal.

The snow had still not begun to melt. A layer of frost had frozen the lid to the garbage bin which attempts with de-icer did not melt, so we are still surrounded by Christmas detritus until we can prise it open. Even the deer have not ventured back, despite a bowlful of food scraps which Gordon left out for them.

Undeterred, we went through the usual lengthy dressing up ritual - boots, scarves (knitted by yours truly), hats, gloves, coats - and set forth through the village, over the bridge, up the hill, past the old cemetery and the new cemetery until we reached the inn. As it was not yet opening time, we went further on up the hill as I decided to take Tess and Ed to meet Dawn, and to make sure that she was alright, as she has been snowed in ever since the first blizzard a few days ago.



Despite the warning sign, we didn't see any squirrels.

Dawn saw us coming up the hill and came to greet us, insisting we come in for coffee. Grateful for the warmth, once we were seated she regaled Tess and Ed with a stream of stories about the war and meeting her husband, interspersed with general village chatchit. Brian and Selina arrived with the carcass of yesterday's turkey and their labrador dog; Bertram and Pat arrived with their sheepdog. Dawn was obviously in good hands. We declined an invitation to stay for lunch and turkey leftovers, but made our way back down to the inn for toasted baguettes and red wine.

Various locals started to fill the bar, the inn a well-situated half-way house for a Boxing Day perambulation around the village environs. Tess played Mama on the jukebox, probably because during our walk she declared I spoke like a character from an Austen novel when I had asked, "Ought we not walk a little faster?".

As we crunched our way back home, the light was beginning to fade, and we decided to make mulled wine. Jeanette and Gordon had given me all the ingredients for Chrismas, including a mug to drink it from in the shape of Santa's boot. They had given the same to Jean and John. John, unsure what purpose a cinnamon stick served, had tried to light and smoke it. He said it tasted foul. He must therefore have been a bit bemused by Jeanette and Gordon's choice of gift, but he was too polite to say so!