At last the rain has come, the rain for which we've prayed, pleaded, pranced about, postured, prostrated ourselves, placated the weather gods. (Forgive a little lively alliteration!)
Four inches in three days has all but submerged us. The bounty from the upper patio spout cascades over the rims of the tubs.
The rain is the gift of Storm Emma; to be sure, a very gusty, windy, squally gift but welcome none the less. Almond blossom that's graced our trees this past month now lies strewn like confetti across the cobbles.
We've ventured out for the occasional inter-squall squish through the hills, mainly short and sharp as yet another shower loomed. Note that Ono is now attached to a lead. We've had enough of his absent-minded wanderings off.
In secret dells and dens known only to us, hoop-petticoat daffodils thrive like Wordsworth's "host of golden daffodils". You might quote back at me Gray's elegy, lines that Barbara loves: "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. And waste its sweetness on the desert air". These, at least, have not been wasted although we've yet to see what impact Storm Emma has had on them.
SPIDER THAT CAME SHOPPING
Storms aside, our days have revolved around the usual shopping trips, hospital visits every other day (my back improves) and dog-filled, woodfire-warmed TV-illustrated evenings.
CAMELIA
For weeks Jonesy has been clearing a rock-strewn patch of garden that lies in a hollow surrounded by boulders close to the house. She used to call it the cove but recently renamed it "Sparky's Spot" in memory of our little dog. A day or two before Emma struck, Jones called in the menfolk to assist with rock removal.
The menfolk were more ambitious than she had anticipated and, having retrieved the remaining rocks, set about creating something special in Sparky's memory.
The idea was to build a small circular central island, intended to take a plinth (the men's bit), and to surround it with low-growing greenery (Jones's).
Having completed the island to our satisfaction, Slavic set about creating an access to it from the upper garden. Steps already lead up from below.
As you see, all that lacks now is the low-growing green foliage surround.
Before we attend to that we have to clear up the mess that Emma has left.
And that might not be for a few days as big black clouds are still billowing in from the west.
Thursday afternoon after lunch, as the sun emerged briefly, we took ourselves down to the Algibre in the hope of seeing water where a dry pebble bed has lain so long.
And water there was, a turgid, turbulent torrent that rushed past us as if on some urgent mission known only to itself. It was lovely to behold.
The stream brought hope to the thick ranks of dry brown canes lining the banks, canes that long since appear to have wilted in the drought.
Rivers are meant to run, to roar, to carry their secrets with them to the sea. If for once I wax a little lyrical, 'tis with good cause. Joy is a flowing river bringing life to the land and we have such a river once again. Hallelujah!
Suficiente até o dia!
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