Go for a walk, I was told
To be fair, I was pushed. Outside. Go for a walk, with the dog, I was told, before I simply died from heart failure in my favourite chair. Or old age. Both are risks, once you move beyond childhood. No matter. The dog was all too willing to lead me hither, thither and yon. Down the hill, to the lake (lagoon, technically, but let’s go with lake for simplicity).
This is not a new destination; we received the “right to pass” during our first year here, based on the process that absentee landholders need sympathetic eyes. What if intruders snapped off a padlock and went inside? What if, says I? But for a number of seasons, we’ve gone down the hill and pretended to be on watch. When you only go every few months, change is rarely evident.
Here’s the rub. In the absence of regular care and feeding of the property (a rather sprawling affair), the plants have gone into overdrive. There are few straight lines, and if you miss an opening in the underbrush, you can wander for a long time. I found the lagoon, three times. When the rain started, the dog headed home, and I followed. He could hear the throaty roar of our little J-D, which had been tasked with a late season lawn trim. Too wet to finish.
I don’t know what will happen, down there. The original owner is gone, dead. His spouse didn’t make it up much this last while, due to border restrictions and our personal version of the plague. Eventually, there’ll be a realtor.
