Tuesday, August 7
The problem with sleeping with a greyhound is that in the morning when they wake up they stand over you and poke under your covers with their cold wet nose.
This morning we were up at 6:30 and went for a 2-hour walk in the countryside.
Along the road by the campsite are two wonderful big old farmhouses made of dark, mossy stone, with this region’s characteristic pitched roofs. They’re nestled in a thick clump of tall shade trees amid vast expanses of wheat, corn and sunflower fields, and each farm has its own little pond and family of ducks. The houses and outbuildings are arranged to form a central enclosure, like a grassy courtyard.
We stopped at one with a shed facing the road to watch the sheep in the pen outside it. There were chickens sharing the same shed and pen, and when the sheep moved toward us, so did the chickens, staying underneath their sheep chaperones and peering warily through their wooly legs. When the sheep decided they didn’t like our looks, they turned around and the chickens turned with them, and the whole flock tiptoed and waddled together back toward the shed.
Beau busied himself pouncing on lizards and flushing quail.
Back in my little garden in the early sunlight, it was a warm-on-your-face-cool-on your back morning, and I hand-washed some clothes and hung them up to dry while I enjoyed real percolator coffee for a change. I’ve been short-cutting it with instant coffee but now I remember what I was missing. I’m getting one for the road. After all—I made an investment in that rallonger and its multiple outlets.
By afternoon it was pouring rain again and I had to bring my clothes indoors. What a lucky stroke getting this caravan. What do we call it in the States? A trailer, I guess. It was great weather for a nap. I slept on Beau’s side of the bed because he wouldn’t move over.

Everybody is Dutch in this camp. Is there anyone left in Holland this month? Everyone is blonde, blue-eyed, angular and energetic. Everybody says “Jah!” They show their teeth when they smile. Their caravan awnings are printed in bright colors.
I was musing about this on our walk this evening. “They have everything but the wooden shoes” I thought to myself.
Then a group of kids passed me and they were wearing wooden shoes. Red ones.

Where are all the French people vacationing? Will I find them when I get to the Atlantic beaches?

Of course everyone—French, Dutch, German, Italian—must be wondering what the hell an American woman is doing here. Camping, even.