SOLSTICE DAWN
Our thoughts have been zooming in and out, like some cosmic camera lens, between the macro implications of a Brexit vote and the micro-means of stopping the ants from raiding the bird feeder. (Many years ago at Kyalami I accompanied a TV crew that whiled away the waiting hours by zooming a mile across the racing circuit to pick out the line that wound around the block for the ladies' loos; it was nothing particularly vulgar, just an interesting study of faces and poses and a valuable lesson in the reach of these devices!)
As I was about to say, there's not much point in my pondering the outcome of the referendum because it will shortly be old hat. I should mention, however, that it greatly concerns my wife who has exhorted me to plan an austerity budget just in case. She has visions of the UK drawbridge being raised, the pound sinking into the mire and prices rising through the roof.
NOW LISTEN CAREFULLY ALL OF YOU!
I was explaining to Jodi during my midweek tune-up how fortunate Barbara was to have me doing the budgeting. Left to her own devices, she would live like a pauper, saving every available penny and leaving her heirs to squabble over her fortune.
IF YOU'VE GOT IT, FLAUNT IT!
Such a strategy would also have a negative impact on the local economy. Happily, I do my best to avoid the excessive accumulation of funds, skilfully allocating resources as required, conscious of the adage that "you can't take it with you". Better a nice car than a nice coffin.
Speaking of which, I have been an admirer of Sir James Dyson's inventiveness and in particular of his tower fans. They are slim, stylish and quiet, working on some revolutionary principle (that I don't really understand) which does away with whirring propeller blades. I had considered acquiring one of these fans while Jones was sailing down the Adriatic, discouraged (for once) only by their astronomical price.
Instead, while meandering through a super store, I acquired somebody else's tower fan at a fraction of the price, only to discover that it's little more than a decoration. So much for consolation prizes. Since then Dyson has landed in our bad books by proclaiming himself a Brexiter. No more Sir James in this household.
This brings me to the issue of the thieving ants. I have long been fascinated by these enterprising little creatures, immersing myself as a youth in Eugène Marais's "The Soul of the White Ant" (Ignore for the moment the distinction between ants and termites). We have long since ascertained that there is no point in hanging food waste from washing lines to keep it away from the ants, nor is there any known device that gives the birds access to the food while keeping the ants out. The only practical method is to create a moat with the bird seed deposited on an island in the centre. Which is what we do.
As long as there is ample water in the moat, the scheme works reasonably well - excepting for ants that bridge it clinging to seeds or hurl themselves recklessly into the water. But in the summer heat the moat evaporates in a few hours and ant platoons again invade the island to deplete the bird seed. Thus it becomes a war of attrition. Twice a day I top up the moat and twice a day I find the ants carrying off their loot, staggering down the tree-trunk base clutching seeds twice their own size - sometimes with one seed between two ants.
ORPHANS ON GUARD
The ant's brain has not evolved to consider futility or surrender. It's hardwired to do or die in the knowledge that for every ant that falls in service of the community, two are ready to take its place. If only we humans were as altruistic! While I am not optimistic about the future of mankind, I would happily put my money on ants.
THE HOUSE, VALLEY AND ROCHA DE PENA SALIENT FROM THE TELEF
During the hot, dry months of summer - very hot and very dry - I tend to park my tractor under the trees on the Casanova field. That frees up its garage for other duties, such as replacing the strimmer cords that are forever being ripped out by the tangled undergrowth.
One of the shading trees is an ancient carob whose heart has been entirely eaten away down the years. It's possible to look right through the hollow interior. In spite of the loss of most of the internal trunk, the tree continues to flourish, promising us yet another excellent crop of carobs.
The large green beans are already fully formed although it will be July before they start turning black and mid-August before they are ready to pick. As usual, we will donate ours to a local farmer who brings us boxes of fruit and veges in return.
Another valuable service that he has provided is to graft many of our almond trees - we have scores - with fruit, mainly peach and plum. This week I picked our first peach crop, just a dozen, but glorious peaches that brought a glow to my heart as rosy as the peaches themselves. Later in the season we should have plums and apples too. Additionally, our new vines are thriving although it will be while before they start bearing. One crop that we won't be enjoying this year is almonds. Late rains more or less wiped out the almond blossom and any prospect of good pickings.
On the practical side Jones has done a lot more gardening while Nelson and I have continued to clean up the overgrown fields. He has been cutting the tough suckers that surround the bases of the trees (and rip out my strimmer cords) while I have been strimming the surrounding fuzz of grasses and weeds. Meanwhile, our waste heaps grow in both size and number, destined to dot the fields at least until autumn.
My Saturday morning workers constructed a couple of new flower-bed retaining walls for Barbara as well as laying more rough stone floors in rocky areas that get covered in a variety of the wickedest winter weeds. My aim is both to improve looks and access as well as reducing future labour.
STONE FLOORING IN ROCKERY
Albeit at a glacial pace, we are working towards curbing nature's excesses and making Valapena more pleasantly inhabitable. A couple of hundred years from now the place ought to look quite good.
SOLSTICE SUNDOWN
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