|When you’re moving house, every little event seems portentous – is this the last time I’ll see or do this? We don’t usually do much on a Sunday morning, even when we can distinguish from other days of the week. Last night I said to Gustav that if it were sunny we should go into Condom for the small farmers’ market, and it is, so we did. |
Truth be told there’s not much to see there, but you can hope that the rotisserie chicken vendors are selling hot frites, and they were, so we did indulge ourselves. We also stopped into the Carrefour supermarket which is sacrilegiously open on a Sunday morning – the car park is never so full as on this day of the week.
Back home, after I’d typed up some job application text, I took Munson out for a little walk while I swung a hoe at some thistles, nettles and brambles. The farm will be without dilettante weeders soon and my Sydney lawn can be tended with not much more than nail clippers - opportunity and desire are ready to be engaged, and so I did.
After hacking away at one bramble patch for a while I turned to find that Munson has disappeared. I figured he’d gone into the large tractor-parking shed to sniff around and went looking for him. I called a few times, but couldn’t hear him padding around or snuffling behind the old wine vats. Then I looked up. He was two levels up on the hay bales looking pleased as can be. I don’t know how he got up – he sometimes looks like he’s going to topple backwards when he just climbs onto the bed, but he was now up over my head.
Munson’s spent so long with the barn cats now that I think he’s taken to their ways, sniffing out mice in every bale and crevice. He found what looked like to be the desiccated remains of some rodent and took to it as if it were the caviar of jerky. For him, there’s no sense that these are his final weeks as a French barn cat. As with all my travels with both he and Bondi, there’s just an ongoing now and the excitement of future walks, and future disgusting thing to be nibbled.