Her Indian name is Running Dog.
We went to our local Iron Age hillfort on our walk Sunday. The camp, as it's called around here, was ringed with patches of purple loosestrife, the next in a long string of purply flowers that bloom here.
Again, I am struck by how lucky we are to live here. My dog agrees; she is very happy that we put her on a plane all those years ago and brought her to this fine country, filled with fox scent and fat grey squirrels and tall tall grass.
This reminds me of what my nephew said, after seeing the movie Prince Caspian recently: "Magic only happens to British kids."
So it does.
