It started raining yesterday evening after weeks and weeks of virtually no rain whatsoever.
When I got up to run the rain had died down a little - I couldn't hear it in the downpipes - but when I got outside it had become a light drizzle. The grape harvest at Pape Clément next door has not yet been completed and I could just see the bunches glistening in the light of the street-lamps.
It felt good to run this morning. My song at the moment is Figaro's song to Cherubino from the Marriage of Figaro. There's one line of the text that escapes me, but I'll have it memorised next time I run.
As I came back past the vineyards I saw a tractor getting ready for the day's harvesting. They say it's a good vintage this year. Not only that but there's a bumper crop of mushrooms everywhere. But my mind was elsewhere.
We have heard that a dear friend in the UK is entering into the last couple of weeks of her life. We should be used to this by now, but we are not. Sometimes we have had the privilege of visiting people to say goodbye. Pat urged me to find a flight and travel over, but I don't think it's the right thing to do. No, I'll write a letter. At least this time I can do that. Sometimes people die without warning us first. The sheer nerve, eh?
So as I ran past the vineyards I sobbed. I sobbed, but I didn't stop running. And after all, it's not a cull, it's a harvest. We'll see each other very soon.