Duck

One of the sweetest things we came upon was - a Duck.

This particular duck I have come to think of with a Capital D. We four were walking along on a tour of Mousehole, and the town of Paul, and everything in between. Only a short walking tour but well worth every meter. 

While stepping along next to the shore, we saw the cutest, loveliest tiny gardens just overlooking the water. There were several of these tiny gardens, all enclosed with small hedgerows, so unique that they can really hardly be called hedgerows. Well, I might as well show one to you, just so you know - the one with the Duck:

Rosie and I immediately stopped. We gaped. The duck saw us, but was fine with it and didn't put any space between itself and us. In fact, as we walked along a few steps, it walked too. Sort of, in fact, following our steps, all the while gazing up at our faces. It was uncanny.

It even uttered a quack, or two. Not an irritating, loud sort of quack either. A cute quack.

We never figured out who the Duck belonged to, or which house; but we felt (Rosie and I, that is) that what we really wanted was to adopt it ourselves. The husbands, however, clearly did not feel this and so on we all walked, Rosie and I taking stealthy looks over our shoulders. The Duck watched us leave, and plaintively quacked.

You never know what you might find when you are on a walking tour, in England. Especially in delicious Cornwall. The place is already magical, already beautiful, even without coming upon the dearest, sweetest, whitest little Duck, EVER. 

A lucky Duck.


See you along the way!
the SconeLady