The red mule, already experienced with the small plums gleaned on the road, knew from the start that spitting out the pits was the best and most elegant strategy. The black mare tried other manly techniques, as crushing them, but in vain. Especially that it's apricots we are talking about. And peachs. It's the end of june, it is hot and between lonely houses and forests, we learnt how to enjoy Périgord farmer markets.
Summer brings also vacationers along. Best to learn quickly how to avoid crowded trails. The red mule and the black mare, however, create a clown act, the former the Auguste, the latter the contra-Auguste
I find myself playing the whiteface clown, despite my efforts to keep the mysterious longrider aura.
The long summer nights are now the time for long gallop in the fields. Once, I was lent a pasture where milk cows were grazing. The mare came in shy, the mule came in the game. They played the perfect cowboys all day long. I only hope milk wouldn't go bad.
Laughing in the wind, we travel cheerfully across the green, white and red Périgord countries. Doubts are are scarce, ticks, however, quite the opposite, and the last plains before the Pyrénées Mountains are soon in sight.
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