A death at the mill

The day began with a death. A mouse, a very small, baby mouse, lay down in the middle of the hallway and went to meet his maker. His little eyes were closed, and I could see his eyelashes. I took him out and laid him among the nettles and brambles.
It rained again. That’s the third day in a row. The grasshopper is still stuck to the window, and I suspect he may be dead as well. This afternoon I went out and hacked ivy off trees, and collected dead wood, nearly braining myself in the process as the twigs I was after brought down a twelve foot branch. The local farmer was tending his asparagus, and the first I knew of him was his four-month-old puppy Fifi racing over to meet me. She’ll probably be a big Alsation when she’s grown, but right now she’s a wriggling bundle of delight.
Conversation was difficult as he has Spanish but no English. We have un peu French but no Spanish.

The pic is the vieux ville of Bergerac.