I narrowly escaped being run over this morning. Jogging round the corner, on the correct (i.e. left) side of the road, I heard the roar of a powerful engine and the next second, a red porsche zoomed out of nowhere. I had to jump to safety, literally. The driver (female, lots of lipstick, bad highlights) had the audacity to wave cheerfully at me as she sped off.
Brushing off the cow dung I got back on my feet, looked around carefully for other road hogs, and carried on running. Down to the saw mill, where the workers play merrily with logs all day and stare rudely at whoever chances it past their yard. Woe betide you if they happen to be swinging a potential maypole into place with their 1950s crane at the very moment you pass. The best bet is to flatten yourself against the nearest barn, which I can tell you from my own experience is also home to a huge pile of steaming manure.
Today all was quiet at the saw mill, as it happens. Apart from my encounter with the porsche driver, the rest of my run was remarkably peaceful and I revelled in the late spring scenery. Allow me to gush just this once. Every garden is overflowing with flowers. Animals are out grazing, little knowing they're for the chop pretty soon. Friendly housewife and farmer people wave and say 'grüß Gott' as they wheel their barrows full of gunk along the street. Cats sun themselves on pristine walls or hide in the fields waiting to torture the wildlife. Yes, it really is idyllic here. The meadows are ablaze with pink and yellow and white, the lakes glitter cerulean blue, the birds twitter and swoop. The only things I find vaguely off-putting are these. Men loitering in fields, gun slung over their shoulder, which they'll occasionally grab and point at something. The rational side of you knows they are not going to shoot you, but another, irrational voice screams 'lunatic' and there's nothing you can do apart from keep running. The other thing also concerns men - those who lurk in the undergrowth or in densely wooded areas (otherwise known as forests). You round a corner and there they are, in khaki trousers and waistcoat, silly hat askew. Lowering their binoculars, they give you a gappy smile. Now I like birds as much as the next person, perhaps even more. But I like to think my clothes are normal and I still have all my teeth. Plus I don't go for hanging out in bushes and scaring innocent runners.
It's all go right now. Just got back from watching some men filling in the potholes in our street. There's a little multipurpose gang in Bovinia - they seem to do anything and everything, including turning up to all village events and consuming vast amounts of beer. Titus swears that the foreman is called Chicago, but I have real trouble believing this. I have to take T at his word, for I have absolutely no intention of asking Chicago if it is true. I wouldn't understand the reply anyway.
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