Yesterday we headed into the mountains with the cousins to seek out mouflons. Cool. What the hell's a mouflon? At least that was my reaction when Steph suggested we sign up for this mouflon-spotting hike. Turns out a mouflon is a mountain sheep, originally from Corsica. It was meant to be rutting season. Rutting. What a great word that is. Anyway, we didn't see any actual rutting but a couple of impressive and solitary males standing, very ruttishly it has to be said, on the horizon.
I forget how close we live to the mountains, and how glorious the landscape is up there.
Sometimes, stuck in Beziers, without a car, living our same little routine day in day out, I begin to feel stifled. But within an hour we can be up in the clouds. And the kids are becoming good walkers, especially Matilda, who loves being up front. She is going through an extremely gratifying period (for me) where she has decided that she will like everything I like. So because I love walking, so does she. Parenting success.
Owen kept telling us to chut and excitedly spoke about mouflons, but I'm not sure he really understood what all the fuss was about, he just enjoyed the general ambiance. And quite a lot of daddy's shoulders.
Nell was her usual happy, screechy self. And became the first of my children to be breastfed atop a mountain. Nice that there are still new things in store for number three.