We had to keep a very low profile this morning - tricky, when nothing one does here seems to go unnoticed. Last week we'd received, along with every other household in the village, an impassioned plea from the mayor himself. The Great Bovinia Spring Clean was to take place today at 0800 sharp. A white-sausage-and-bread-roll breakfast was promised for all participators. CG and I considered hard, not for too long, admittedly, whether we should join in the fun. On the one hand, it's good to do one's bit. On the other, if we start now, we'll be obliged to do it every year, as long as we live here, plus we would heighten our visibility profile and, as a result, might get dragged into more community activities. In the end, it was the horribly early kick-off time that made our minds up.
I felt a bit ashamed on my run this morning, though, as I kept bumping into little pockets of dour-faced people wearing a glove and wielding a litter-picker. I hope they enjoyed their white sausage. I sure wouldn't have. Apart from the spring-cleaners, the roads were awash with cyclists, all kitted out in those garish outfits that velophiles seem to favour. Most of them were men, squeezed into tiny black shorts. I observed that, compared to walkers or fellow runners, cyclists do not greet, as is the custom here. They whizz past chatting amongst themselves and shoot you a death stare for blocking their path.
On the home strait I was nearly run over by another cyclist who undertook me on the wrong side. Incensed, I shouted oi - you could try ringing your bell, to which he gave a little tinkle as he raced off. Pure insolence. It was a relief to get back to the relative safety of our house, where the worst thing that can happen is one of the neighbours catching you picking your toe-nail (or worse).
Still no cows to be seen!
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