one of many reasons to like summer

Apricots! And Vide Greniers (car boot sales)
The apricot: probably the king of fruit, as one of Iris Murdoch's characters noted in The sea, the sea (incredible book).
Cooked with nothing other than a dribble of Banyuls (local version of sherry) they turn from, nice but not extraordinary fruit to absolute irresistible fruit, especially when served with cream . . .



Bowl from last Vide Grenier and a marvellous old battered spoon from a car boot in Birmingham many, many years ago.

Moments in time

If I'd spent five more minutes looking for my sunglasses before leaving the house, or had gone back to check the door was locked, I would have missed this moment.
We (me, son and dogs) had driven up into the nearby mountains/very large hills to escape, for a while, the incredible heat suffocating our town - not complaining! I love the summer, and it is a REAL one this year, but dog walking has become a pathetic amble down the road, well after the sun has disappeared for the day.
So, into the hills we went and walked along ferny lanes that smelt of boxwood and moss rather than the boiled marjoram and tired lavender of our parched garden and lane. On arriving back to the car I decided on a 'me' voyage back, that is to say, let's just continue along this road and see what happens, with no map and no GBH/RSJ/GPL or whatever it is.
After some way the road was barricaded by an open gate and a car. Just as I was contemplating a small track off to the right which would have ended up in some rubbly field, a man appeared and asked if we could wait five minutes as a 'troupe' of 'Brebis' (sheep) were about to be led into another pasture area.
I nodded, got out with camera while the dogs howled in the car, and watched a memorable scene of the young woman herder rattling a plastic bucket, striding ahead of the emerging pack, her cry of "Yeep, yeep" filling the dusty air while the man clapped his hands in manner of a slightly underdressed flamenco dancer.
I don't know why or how the brain makes and stores memories but I'm sure the smells, sounds and sight of that moment will be stored.

Soundscape

Our personal one here in The Hothouse at the moment is the emerging summer sounds of nightingales, who also sing throughout the daylight hours, the next door's cockerel - clearly not on the correct timer - who calls throughout the late morning, their goat, various parrots, the donkey-birds (see post last summer, swallows and various chorusing frogs.
This small green one, hidden in the pampas grass was making an electronic beeping noise. It emerged onto the terrace - much to the cat's interest, and I picked it up to have a closer look.
Isn't nature a totally incredible thing? That colour, the eyes, the toes. It just sat there calmly while we stared at it, amazed that such a tropical-looking creature had appeared in our European garden.

The road into winter

I'm finding it hard to deal with the cold this year. I know people live in - 40, etc and I'm not grumbling, really. I think it's mainly the early morning starts (5.30) in order to get boy on right train each morning.
By the time it's dark, fire lit, shutters shut, I could quite happily snuggle into bed, but really, six o'clock - a bit pathetic.
Yesterday really was 100% leaf-pile hibernation temptation, today less so as the sun is shining brightly and the washing is steaming gently outside rather than on various strings hung around the house.
Summer is a distant memory, awakened by the sight of cushions in need of a wash in the sun shelter, a tangled mess of swimming goggles in the shed and the brown crumpled heads of roses still clinging to leafless stems.
Was it ever really 42 degrees? But then, I can remember standing next to the same roses looking at the heat haze in July thinking, 'could it ever have been - 4 degrees?'

Oh . . . hello, summer

It arrived as usual here: wham. About a month behind schedule, and all the more welcome for that.
Suddenly, the town is full of people clutching maps and estate agent's brochures; hanging baskets have been hung, and it's just fine to be sitting indoors with a thin t.shirt on, rather than some vile matted old jumper.
In the autumn, I will have a cull of all fetid winter wear - really, this year they will go . . . maybe. It has to be done while the weather is still warm otherwise at the first hint of cold, I'll be seeking shelter in something indescribably awful, but, oh so comforting. This winter my 'second skin' was a purple jumper from 'Emmaüs'; actually, I think it was last year's too. I don't even like purple, not on me anyway; some people look great in it - hi Pen. There's just something about the wool mixture, the length of the sleeves, the perfect draught prevention shape. I've put it in the gardening cupboard and only time and weather will tell if it re-emerges or not.
Anyway . . . I'm sitting here in a vest top before tackling various gardening jobs, including dead-heading the roses. It's been a good year for them (an Elvis Costello song?) huge, bursting with colour and fragrance.
Here's a couple of photos, but it's difficult to capture the pure sumptuance of them. I know that's not a word, but I rather like it.

The cat has turned into a mighty hunter and is polishing off the rabbit population. I did resist the temptation of running over and trying to rescue the poor dangling baby one, here shown, then reality kicked in: feeble, half dead thing, possible trip to the vet . . .

The cherry stoner is out of the cupboard for its once-a-year appearance and Mark has made much jam. The most exciting batch is from the 'bird cherries', small, perfectly round, British post box-red specimens. I think they may be the Acerola variety, in which case I have stocked myself up with about a years worth of Vitamin C when picking them yesterday. These are the cherries from our young tree, I think the 'breast of pigeon' variety. Next jam: apricot.