The sun looms large on another week. Jones rises at 05.00 to meditate on the skies and to take such pictures as these. I remain in bed in order not to disturb the dogs.
There's a lot of skies in this week's blog. These two Jones photos were taken from our hilltop towards the end of the day. I think the upper one is brilliant. If it were in an art gallery, learned critics would write impressively turgid analyses and authoritative guides would explain the symbolism to hushed groups of earnest students.
Independence Day. Martian airships gather for the final assault on earthlings. I heard a knowledgeable fellow on the radio speculating that humans wouldn't last another thousand years. And that, he said, might be no bad thing for the planet. I guess we'll never know.
Back at ground level, life has continued more mundanely. I spent two sweaty hours hacking back the heavy bush that has been squeezing our paths. The hard work lies in hand-to-hand combat with the network of tough, thorny creeper that has infested much of the shrubbery. It fights to the finish.
No, Jones is not cleaning the kennel or checking for spider webs. She's hand-feeding Barri, who has made herself comfortable inside. Moral support comes from Mini. We sometimes wonder how hungry Barri would have to get before she would be driven to feed herself but we're not brave enough to find out.
We had neighbours around to watch the Wimbledon men's finals. One of them suffers from ophidiophobia (also known as ophiophobia or more generally as herpetophobia). [I hope you're impressed!] Midway through the match, Jones called me outside because an unusually large snake was eyeballing Mini on our front patio. I tried to secure it with my grippers but it gave me the finger and vanished in a trice into a thick carpet of vines. I have since ordered snake-tongs from Amazon.
I tried to upload some impressive video (ex a nephew in RSA) of farmers in a tug-of-war with a python that had taken up station in the rear suspension of their bakkie. They had it by the tail. After much heaving, they managed to haul the reluctant reptile out and drag it away from the vehicle. Happily, no pythons in Portugal! (Wordpress says I have to upgrade to their premium package if I want to upload video.)
Slavic and I have been building more walls at the bottom of the garden - in truth, more Slavic than I.
They are really just minor terraces, enclosing trees rooted in the steep banks that tumble down to the lower fence. As well as looking good, the walls serve to retain water in the newly-levelled soil.
Here's a picture I took later when the light was kinder. There's something creative about building walls. I wouldn't ever want a grave stone but I would be happy with a few walls to say: he passed this way. Note how the rocks (along the base) go grey after a few years in the sun.
This is another Jones competition winner, snapped outside the snack bar in Funchais where we lunched when our wall-building was over. One of the great advantages of the venue (apart from its wondrous sandwiches and excellent wines) is that it serves mainly the labouring classes so that patched knees and paint-flecked jeans are the norm. In fact, it's a bit embarrassing to arrive there in anything else.
Our garden is a thing of joy. Who would believe that a world containing flowers as lovely as this could be in such a mess?
Sorry, just can't get away from skies this week. But with skies like these, who would want to? Any critical appreciation should go to Jones.
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