Bertie sits on the bank under the silk tree and barks - VERY LOUDLY - at the intruders in what he considers "his" territory.
Two huntsmen are walking up the narrow road between Monsieur F's fields and their dogs are runing hither and thither on the land nearest to us. Fortunately Monsieur F has just planted rape so the men are restricted to the road, but not their dogs. Bertie cannot believe the cheek of it.
More noises are coming from the woodland on the other side of the valley - the sound of guns and hounds baying, on the scent, or maybe just joyously grateful to be out in the open after six months in a cage.
We have guests arriving next Saturday, expecting no doubt to be enjoying a lazy, tranquil week with us in what looks likely to be wonderful Indian summer weather. We need to warn them (and perhaps provide ear plugs). What with Bertie, the guns and the hounds, autumn Sunday mornings start early - and noisily!
