On Sunday I woke early and tiptoed to the bathroom. Bruce's tail thumped the floor as I passed by.
A little later we slipped out of the flat together; Bruce shot down the stairs like a brindle bullet and waited at the bottom for his lead to be clipped on, his nose pointed eagerly at the front door.
Fields of gold and green folded into one another, dotted with sheep that wandered closer to stare, curious as we passed by.
We walked back down to the village and took School Lane to the narrow path past the rectory and noticed Reverend David Martin up ahead in black robes, on his way to the 9.30 Family Service, carrying a black knapsack over one shoulder.
As we crossed the parking lot behind the Red Lion, a member of Alvechurch Baptist Church was putting a sign outside the church, welcoming anyone passing by. Usually I would join this small congregation for Sunday worship, but not this Sunday as we had plans to visit friends in Warwick.
Half an hour before the 11.00 a.m. Parish Eucharist was due to start at St. Laurence Church, the newly repaired and installed bells pealed out from high above the village. I listened from the open windows of the flat, reveling in an Alvechurch Sunday morning.