On Saturday we,we and we went to Alstonefield in the Peak district, Derbyshire, to take a long walk across some fields and dales to Hartington and back. The landscape was beautiful, the wind bracing and wholesome. The perfect antidote to Friday nightâ€™s debauchery thanks to Adamâ€™s birthday celebrations. I had a good time with people very close to my heart.
The overriding emotion I feel at the moment of writing is one of sadness and pity. We saw a little white cat with black splotches on the road of a derelict farmhouse, barely more than a kitten. It had a tumour on its right eye the size of a large marble. All the while we were walking across those fields, we saw sheep quite accustomed to human presence standing up and trotting away from us, yet this little cat just sat there mewling in the middle of the disused road, asking for something. I think it wanted someone to put it out of its misery. I wouldâ€™ve broken down right there except for the fact that grown men donâ€™t cry; it took me a while to catch my breath. I didnâ€™t even dare examine it, because I knew immediately that there was nothing I could do anyhow. My sister habitually brought stray cats and other animals home, and it was my part to play the callous, sensible person who had to play the card of reason. And some did die, causing grief all round. I will never know for certain what will happen to that poor, trusting sonofabitch that has dominated my thoughts. I hope it dies peacefully. But Iâ€™d like to think somebody with more balls than me picked it up and took care of it.
Sorry for such a downer.