Twenty-eight.

Woodpecker is knocking at his mate to remind her he is a good bird. The sun stands proudly on the pedestal created by the mountains around Grenoble south east of my route.

Cows and horse do perpetually eat grass: it must be like heroin, or they've found the only foodstuff that doesn't runaway, so have accepted it as their lot. Such silly creatures, however I've ripped my shirt leaning over to get a quick lick off a swelling heifer. In a few million years grass will have evolved feet so they can tell the thieves and mowers to fuck off, but then grass eaters and green fingered humans will have invented, developed or evolved wings to say come back here you swines!