I’m sitting on the sofa, avoiding the heatwave, but the window behind is open and a wonderful draught is blowing over me. The next door farmer has turned out two cows in the field across the river, and one is wearing a bell. This jangles with grazing and flies and grooming and moving around the field. It’s music. I can’t stand windchimes, but this constant theme is both lulling and calling me as I sit. A sound that has echoed around Austria since times forgotten. It’s also, for me, an autumnal sound as usually we have the cows down for a few weeks in September, finishing off the grass before they go into the warm stables. A pastoral idyll. The song could easily drive me nuts, but I can’t get enough of it. The bell isn’t a hundred percent sound as it’s got a clang to it rather than a ring. It’s companiable, like a cat washing itself in the corner of a room in the evening. It’s bringing from inside me, an emotion I cannot define. Almost sad, with the association with the end of summer, it’s nostalgic, and comforting. Now the swallows are adding their song as they swoop over the Thomotalerbach, feasting on flies. The waterfall rushes over the old weir as an undertone, a white noise. Oh, I wish I could bottle this, and take sips of it everytime I feel low.