With all the fuss over the eclipse in America this week, Jones decided to do a little eclipsing of her own. Not bad eh? We watched TV coverage of the event and were duly impressed. Jones confided that one day she wanted to experience a full solar eclipse for herself. As you might know, she's into the heavens in a big way. I said I'd see see what I could do to make her dreams come true, given a little heavenly cooperation.
This blog does little other than meander around an unremarkable few days and the creatures that have occupied them. Sometimes, that's just the way things are.
Between studying the heavenly orbs and the usual chores, Jones has spent a lot of time collecting carobs - as I have. By now most of the beans have released themselves from the branches and fallen to the ground. If the undergrowth has been cleared beforehand, as it ought, it's just a case of picking up the beans - taking care to avoid thuggish thorns, antagonistic ants and dodgy dog turds. Jones crouches to gather the carobs around her; I could as soon crouch as glide, so I kneel or use a gripper. The latter works well but is slow, like driving a car stuck in first gear.
Collecting carobs is a time-consuming business. The only machines that will do the job are human hands. It takes a couple of hours to fill a 30kg tub, for which the miller pays 9 euros. So it's not a quick way to get rich. On the other hand, it's an activity that passes the time, stretches the body, brings an inexplicable sense of achievement and reminds us how our ancestors had to earn a living. Note Ono, my chief hanger-on, in the background. These days he seldom leaves my side.
At 17 the old fellow is finding life tough; his joints creak, his limbs are stiff and cataracts mar his vision. Descending the stairs has become a hazardous business for him, the more so as he tries to leap down the lower treads. One of us needs to be on hand to guide and restrain him. And he's sleeping badly at night, disturbing us as he tosses & turns, goes for a drink of water or heads downstairs for a pee.
FOLLOWERS IN THE BATHROOM
During the day he dogs my heels, following me from room to room or into the garden. Mini, my other faithful follower, is bidding to dislodge Ono from our affections. Long gone are the days when I might expect to have the bathroom or loo to myself. As I often remark to Jones, it's not easy being a deity. Not that we begrudge Ono any of this. He's family and what we do for him, millions of parents and carers do for their charges every day.
Another canine time-consumer is Barri - far right - whom we are trying to wean off hand-feeding sessions twice a day. At times she tucks into her food with the others. At others she just sniffs her plate and turns up her nose although she's perfectly happy to be fed and always loves her treats. We can't figure out what the problem is - whether she's just having us on or whether it's tied in with the hip dysplasia that blights her life. She's the only dog that looks into my eyes and knows me - that's apart from Mary - Mary whom we still miss so. I hope dogs are allowed into heaven!
GARDEN SCENESlavic and I continue to work on the garden paths and borders while Jones sets about her plants. At lunchtime I fill the bird-feeder with a mixture of seed and cat biscuits, the latter intended for the azure-winged magpies.
The seed bowl sits in a water bowl to keep the ants at bay. From the lunch table we watch our avian visitors as they swoop down to squabble over the booty. The doves will seldom share the plate, not even with one another. The magpies, on the other hand, will gather around in threes and fours.
The sparrows are the most convivial feeders, when the doves will give them a look in. There are more spectacular birds in the area including hoopoes, golden orioles and bee eaters but it's rare to see any of them around the house, ditto the shy black birds, our songsters.
On the song front, top of the pops is an evening serenade by little owls. At sunset that’s close to magic. On a still evening, with a glass of wine for company, with the dogs laid out like shadows on the cobbles, it is magic. I hope the birds all keep their heads down because the hunting season has just got underway and there are birds on the menu.
Inside the house, the orphans have made themselves at home on the couch, a cool, comfortable retreat at a time when cool spots are much sought after. Even Jones complains that she is sick and tired of being hot and sweaty, which is like a polar bear moaning that the water's cold.
We eagerly anticipate the lower temps that are promised us next week, possibly even with a shower or two. As if in testimony, the first ornithagalums, autumn's harbingers, have appeared in the park.
ORNITHAGALUMOne night I dreamed that three of our dogs were standing on a wooden platform that a huge crane lifted far into the air and deposited I know not where. So I called the other dogs and went in search of the missing trio. After evading a group of walkers with their own dogs I somehow landed up in a labyrinthine building from which I couldn't find an exit. (This is a common dream of mine.)
As I wandered the corridors I asked lots of people how to get out and they all directed me helpfully one way or another, but never to an exit. One woman gave me such excellent directions that I told her she should be in public relations. Consciousness came as a relief, as it generally does. My dreams do me few favours.
Another evening I met Ricardo, a nurse, who spoke excellent English. He confided as he stuck a needle in my arm that he had acquired his fluency during the years he had worked in a hospital in Bournemouth. Why had he returned, I wanted to know. "Brexit," he replied, as though that explained everything. Thursday's UK news bulletins highlight the stream of EU nationals leaving Britain as bumbling politicians squabble and sterling sinks steadily towards parity with the euro.
It's not uhuru that's coming up as the Brexiteers make out, but Christmas and, sadly, not only the turkeys are about to be plucked!
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