Mindfulness is simply paying attention in a special way, non-judgementally
and in the present moment. In the
Mindfulness of Breathing meditation the focus is the breath, but it could be
almost anything. You could be mindful of
a flower or the flame of a candle. This
morning I discovered that it can also be the mindfulness of walking a dog.
This Mindfulness of Dog Walking doesn’t take place on a
deserted beach or on a cross country ramble, but just an ambling walk around
town. Dogs love routine and although I
have always tried to avoid becoming a creature of habit, since we came to live
here and particularly since we adopted a scruffy dog, I have come to enjoy the
routine of our regular walks.
This morning I decided to pay attention to every aspect of our walk
around the small town of Alaior in Menorca.
The walk was fairly typical.
We left the house at just before 8.30 in the morning and as usual turned
right. This takes us to a large plot of
weed covered land where Donut the dog can do his business. Although it is off the pavement, I always
make a point of using a poo-bag – something the locals are rather lax about. At this time of day parents are taking their
children to the adjacent school. There
is quite a large population of Muslims in our town and the number of hijabs
tends to grow every year. The women all
seem to be frightened of dogs and pull their children close to them as they
pass. They also avoid eye contact so
whilst the locals always give you a cheery “bon dia” they always remain
silent. I wonder if they are forbidden
to speak to strangers, particularly men.
We run into other dog walkers, nod and exchange ‘bon dias’
whilst the dogs sniff each other’s bottoms.
I don’t know if there has been research into what dogs learn about
each other from these encounters. It is
obviously very important to them. Most nose to nose meetings are friendly with
much tail wagging but occasionally, for no obvious reason, they can react with
a growl. So whatever information is
being exchanged it seems essential to scent mark every tree and lamp post in
the neighbourhood. I like to refer to it
as sending and receiving ‘pee-mail’.
We head towards the centre of town, enter the square and
take a seat outside one of the coffee shop.
The Spanish love their coffee but unlike Costa and Starbucks; they serve
coffee in sensible sized cups not giant pint-sized mugs of weak coffee topped
with 2 inches of foamed milk and sold at extortionate prices. I have come to love my early morning
café-con-leché together with a freshly baked croissant shared strictly
50/50 with my dog.
The winter is the peak time for citrus fruits. Everywhere you look orange trees are laden
with fruit. Consequently a popular alternative to coffee is delicious, freshly
squeezed orange juice. The oranges are
enormous and far juicier than anything you would find in a British
supermarket. They are also extremely
sweet but seemingly not sweet enough for Spanish tastes as they are always
served with sachets of sugar.
The town used to have many traditional bakers but most of them
have closed. Mainly because all the local
supermarkets sell freshly baked bread so cheaply. The bread is baked on the
premises but there are no bakers needing dough and baking in traditional wood
fired ovens; the dough is produced elsewhere and delivered daily to the
supermarkets who cook it in electric ovens with pre-set baking times. Usually these baguettes and pans are slightly
over baked for our English pallets so bizarrely we buy our bread in the petrol
station. They also have dough delivered
but the pointy ended pans they produce are whiter and more to our taste. Our regular morning purchase of bread at the
petrol station has become so routine that they see us coming and it is already
on the counter waiting for me as I open the door. Each pan costs just 95 centimos, about
75p. Brilliant value but I feel slightly
guilty for not supporting the few remaining traditional bakers.
We pass one of the depots where the supermarkets’ dough is
produced and where they make many types of cakes and pastries. The smell as we pass by is unbelievably mouth-watering. We have come to know Tollo, one of the bakers.
He must start work incredibly early in the morning and around 8.30 he
emerges covered in flour and heads to the nearest bar for a much needed cup of strong
coffee. He is a strikingly handsome man.
Aged about 40, very personable, with a
full jet-black beard, he looks like a character from an old Spanish movie and
must surely make a few women’s hearts flutter.
He speaks excellent English and we always exchange a few brief words
before he hurries back to tend his ovens.
How he copes with the extreme heat in July and August goodness only
knows.
The circuit has taken just under an hour and now leads us
back home where Donut will be fed and we will start our day. Naturally, as the seasons change, so do some
of the rituals of our walks but it remains a charming way to begin the day.
