Yesterday afternoon, my supplier of firewood—my neighbor
Gérard Magnat—dumped a huge pile of wood alongside the house. Since rain has been forecast during the coming week, I promptly covered the pile of wood with a tarpaulin.
My job now—which will take me a couple of days—is to transfer all this wood into neat stacks under a corner of the roof of the house.
As I explained in a blog post a couple of years ago [
display], the wood can be moved more-or-less effortlessly with the help of a hand truck.
As for the wood itself, it's a mixture of oak and European Beech. Many of the pieces of oak are irregularly shaped, and very beautiful.
I'm aware that it's a privilege to be able to burn such nice old wood to keep oneself warm.
Talking about wood, I've got a couple of pine kitchen chairs that I brought back from Western Australian some 25 years ago. Years ago, my dog
Sophia discovered that it was a pleasant experience to chew away at the rungs of these chairs. And I now find that
Fitzroy, too, likes to gnaw at this Australian wood.
Often, I find a sprinkling of splinters on the floor beneath the chair. Inevitably, Fitzroy is likely to bite right through one of the rungs. I hope it's the pure wood that tastes good, rather than the varnish or a chemical product applied to the wood. But dogs are not accustomed to informing us why they've acquired a taste for such-and-such a thing. Why is it, for example, that Fitzroy likes to lap up traces of wetness in the shower, even when he has access to his bowl of fresh water?
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