A curious incident

Somewhere, enclosed within the creamy stone walls

of the neighbouring houses, a dog barks. In return,

another decides that it too should contribute. And so,

in unison, if not in harmony, they yap. What they are

yapping about or what provocation to bark they

experience, is a complete mystery. Perhaps it is to

scare away a tiny testicle tickling black legged

scorpion, or they are barking at their own shadows

they mistake for an intruder, or for no other reason

that they like the sound of their own gruff. Perhaps it

is a call and response love song, uniting the otherwise separated star-crossed canine lovers.

Perhaps it is merely a gainsay of “Oi, shut up over there!” with “No, you shut up over there!”,

but in canine French and in constant repetition and with absolutely no conclusion to the

‘debate’.

The sound of barks wafts over the rooftops of Caromb, a Provençal village which has

Mont Ventoux as its dominating neighbour. It drifts with the wind, weaving its way among

the gutters, chimneys, trees and climbing shrubs. It creeps around the stone corners, bounces

off gable ends and wends its way through the tiny one car wide streets and alleyways towards

an open old rickety wooden framed window, whose shutters have long gone, but whose

rusting metal fixings refuse to detach from their deep set anchorages within the stone wall of

Le Vieil Hôpital.

Not even the bakers are awake.