This morning we took a forest drive to the north of the forest, and brunched at Hockey’s Farm Shop.
Jackie parked in a convenient driveway on Roger Penny Way while I tramped
around after a pair of pink pannage pigs
frantically schnozzle-shovelling heaps of autumn leaves as, seeking acorns and other mast, their nasal-rings gouged gashes along the rain-loosened soil
of the forest floor with its lichen-covered broken branches
and the odd nibbled mushroom.
I barely glimpsed the ear-flap draped twinkling pinhead eyes or customary gleeful smiles as they raced each other around in fierce competition.
Ubiquitous clusters of ponies, like these occupying the bottom of Blissford Hill dozed and grazed, while the late morning sunshine cast
long shadows and flecked dancing airborne motes.
This evening we dined on scrambled egg on toast, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I rank more of the Côtes du Rhône.