The week has passed. That's about it. This might be a good point to end. But I've got a few photos show you. So I'll add a few lines between them. One of my duties is to clip our numerous bushes. It's less topiary as an attempt to maintain discipline in an unruly garden. That's Mello's green plunge pool on the cobbles.
On some days, as the sun and clouds have vied for control of the skies, our pool has stood idle, excepting for visits from numerous suicidal insects. (We're forever saving bees! Leroy Merlin lost our first order for a new pool cover; we've now placed another.) So we fired up the jacuzzi again and decided on dips according to the weather.
One afternoon Barbara led me along the road to the scene of a collapsed fig tree, a tree that had long anchored the steep bank below the road. We can only think that it was caught by a strong gust of wind. Fig trees, as you may know, have frangible branches. They're treacherous to climb and make hopeless firewood. On the other hand they produce excellent figs.
Just beyond the concrete pole (top right), the road leads up to the parish "deposito" from which council water is pumped to villages in the vicinity.
Barbara alerted me last Sunday evening to a flood gushing down the road. I in turn alerted the council. The man who took the call didn't sound very enthused. I suspect that he was just sitting down to Sunday supper. Whatever the case, the flow stopped a little later. I suspect that the problem lay with ball valve controlling the inflow.
While we're on trees, here's a shot of the thicket of oak trees at the top of the park. (They're not cork oaks but a species with prickly leaves. We're not sure which.) Several dozen trees cluster around the path to the upper gate. I love them - repositories of the souls of former occupants. Much to my dismay, a number died in the drought last year. Even then, their limbs served to keep us warm.
Jonesy has been as active as ever, dashing around the neighbourhood to feed her adopted animals. She collected a basket of lemons from a neighbour's particularly productive tree - ours does its best - and turned them into a pot of marmalade. It's delicious - best served on toast with a cup of coffee at 7 in the morning.
The scarab beetles are still busy collecting poo balls. This hard-working character's prize had attracted a fly who's playing cock of the hoop. We take care not to step on the beetles as we make our way along the path from the top gate, where they seem to be most active. We show no such consideration to the flies.
This is a not very good photo of a most beautiful plant, commonly known as a figwort, and scientifically known as a mouthful that doesn't belong in my blog. This one sprang up on the edge of our drive and survived a crushing from a passing van. Note Barbara's "hands off" ribbon to warn workers not to touch it.
Here you see Bobby with his friend Mello. Mello is far the most alert of our beasts and always the first to give warning of strangers. She loves a good bark and seldom misses the opportunity to rouse the neighbourhood. From the tone of her barks Bobby discerns whether she's just sounding off or really has cause.
CAT GROOMING AMONGST THE POOCHES
If so, without bothering to get up, he then barks too to let me know that Mello is barking outside and I ought to go out to see what's afoot. There's no denying that Bobby has style.
Sun or cloud, we've kept up our twice-daily walks. Before we set out, Jones ties my bootlaces - a service she's provided since I put my back out attempting to tie them myself.
For some months I have been wearing thin-soled slip-ons (that I can shoe-horn on myself) but I reverted to wearing boots after bruising my (right) foot.
Our steep, narrow, twisty paths hide malicious stones in the thick green verges. I'm planning to do a lot of pruning with Slavic one day when Jones isn't looking. Meanwhile, I've ordered laceless boots from a site online. What I really need is a bendy back but they're harder to find.
Thursday we woke to rain. That's a lovely sound and most unusual in these parts in the month of June. We snatched a gap in the showers for a damp walk, impossible to avoid the dripping plants brushing our clothes. Another downpour chased us home.
The rain collected on top of the jacuzzi, where it looked ever so pretty when the sun came out again. The gauge registered a welcome 8 millimetres. I fear that it's the last we shall see until October. For the next several months it will be all hands to the hoses. There - that's enough ado about nothing.
Time for a snooze. Fim.
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