When Hoover and I are away from home we rise earlier than usual. Hoover needs her morning walk before we settle to work, even though that work may be fun and games. In the summer we are up after the sun and it lights our walk from the first moments, but as autumn creeps up on us so the sun rises later and we see versions of its rising that we haven’t seen for many months.
As we walked up the hill through the wood the sun was ahead of us, pushing its way through the clouds.
“Come on, Hoover,” I called as we crossed the railway line. The first rays split the clouds, turning the railway to silver.
The greennsmen are our only other companions as we follow the path across the fairways and past the bunkers. Rabbit, fox and bird prints are scattered across the sand and Hoover is keen to check them out, but I entice her back with biscuits. Mowers slip to and fro across the immaculate grass. If only I could get my lawn half as good as the fairways, I wouldn’t even hope to aim as high as a green!
Only once we have reached the far side do we catch a glimpse of any of the other dog walkers. A lycra clad man pounds the path as his dog runs circles round him. An enthusiastic wolf hound tows her mistress towards the pond where my brothers and I, as children, fished for tadpoles.
By the time Hoover and I get back to the house for breakfast the sun has made its mark and beaten the clouds away.