On the border of the Ariège

We got up early to an autumn morning with a low mist over the cut corn and a heavy dew in the grass.

We stripped the bed, swept up the dog hair, sand and pine needles and bundled Bernie into the boot along with the stick he'd saved from the waves throughout the week. 

It took us three hours to get to the Ariège border along the route nationale.  We liberated Bernie from the boot and he washed  the salt out of his fur in the fresh waters of the Sarlat while we ate Camembert sandwiches