Fetching sticks
After a cup of tea of a morning, Will likes to do yoga on the beach. Bran, who has tried on occasion to join him but never really developed the same taste for it, uses the time to take the dogs for a walk.
The sun is rising over the far side of the island, not yet fully bright. Bran strolls along the sand in a cap and windbreaker, Cafall at his heels and Cof darting ahead. She barks once, hopeful, looking back at him, and he laughs.
"Oh, all right then," he says, leaning down to dig a bit of a branch out of the sand at his feet. He breaks it in half over his knee and tosses each part into the air down the beach. The dogs, recognising the game, race after the sticks gleefully. A moment later they both come trotting back, pleased with themselves, and drop the branches at his feet.
"Wel! Cwn da," Bran praises, scooping up the sticks and tossing each of them again. "Go on, then. Cyrcha! Fetch!" he calls, but the dogs are already ahead of him, and have gone galloping down the beach again.
[Come say hello and play on the beach with dogs!]
The sun is rising over the far side of the island, not yet fully bright. Bran strolls along the sand in a cap and windbreaker, Cafall at his heels and Cof darting ahead. She barks once, hopeful, looking back at him, and he laughs.
"Oh, all right then," he says, leaning down to dig a bit of a branch out of the sand at his feet. He breaks it in half over his knee and tosses each part into the air down the beach. The dogs, recognising the game, race after the sticks gleefully. A moment later they both come trotting back, pleased with themselves, and drop the branches at his feet.
"Wel! Cwn da," Bran praises, scooping up the sticks and tossing each of them again. "Go on, then. Cyrcha! Fetch!" he calls, but the dogs are already ahead of him, and have gone galloping down the beach again.
[Come say hello and play on the beach with dogs!]