Air surfing

I often wonder whether birds really register happiness when flying - like we do when say being propelled along by waves, sliding down a snowy hillside on a sledge or parachuting - not something I've tried...
Today, during a very windy dog walk in hillsides above our town I was sure of it.
The large colony of crows that inhabit the forest on one of the higher hills were all out from the trees this early dusk: diving, swirling, rolling on and in the thermals and gusts of wind. I've often seen them flying sedately from one perch to another, cawing to each other. This was so different. Unless I was reading it inaccurately - and who are we to really know - it just looked like a totally fun bit of time with no great reason other than the pure pleasure of flying.

 

Building No 53

We pass this wooden dog house on every walk up at 'Lapeyre', a tiny hamlet consisting of two houses, surrounded by vines and sheep pasture.
A very small and elderly hunting dog used to pop out from it and bark reedily until we had walked enough distance from his territory. These days the house appears to be empty - the dog presumably having moved on.
There are many sounds connected to this walk: the chickens cackling as they run freely in the hamlet's streets (street), the bleating of sheep, the crow colony that occupy the oak trees, and the friendly greeting from 'Monsieur oui, oui, oui', the white-haired inhabitant of Lapeyre. But I miss the barking, and wonder if another hound will be offered the house, or perhaps it was only constructed with that particular dog in mind.

Building 31

Small concrete shed on the very top of the 'woolly hills' above our town.
I suppose it's function is something to do with the radio masts, but I like to imagine an old guy sitting in there next to a small wood-burner, looking down onto the town and all its festive scurryings as he pours a thermos-cup of coffee and sighs with relief that he is alone up there with just the sound of the crows in the scattered clumps of box trees.

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Ist Jam of 2013

Marmalade to be precise.
It's a filthy day: hail, sheeting rain, all animals inside asleep and lots of computer/paper work being done.
Between other jobs, Mark is making marmalade. Each year we say 'Hey lets drive to Seville and buy the oranges there . . . ' so far we've only got as far as the local green grocers.

Mark's method:
Wash and cut oranges in half.
Boil then simmer until slightly soft. Makes it much easier to de-seed and cut oranges.
cool.
Ask wife (me) how busy she is and let her do next bit if possible. Scrape out seeds and cut oranges into thin slices. Or chunky slices - thin in this household as more people are likely to eat it.
Put seeds in a pan and boil up for pectin, (or put seeds in little muslin bag to cook with fruit, if indeed you have such a thing.)

Boil up fruit and sugar; kilo of oranges-kilo of sugar.
Drip bit of unset jelly onto a cold plate from time to time . . . oh, I'm sure everyone knows this bit - to see if it's set.
Find bag of web-covered jars in shed/attic. Wash and fill. Voila!

Make toast/butter/marmalade and tea and sit front room by fire/radiator, listening to howling wind and crows in the treetops.