H20 two

Following on from my last water-themed post.

I've always been totally drawn to getting in water. My childhood is highlighted by memories of visits to Southgate Baths in North London and our annual holidays at the Dorset coast where Mum and I would stand in utter awe at the glittering blue expanse before hurrying down the cliff path and plunging into the waves. But it's not just the obvious waters such as municipal pools and the sea, I only have to pass a reservoir, river or pond in the warmer months and the urge to immerse myself surfaces much to the eye-rolling of Ezra if we happen to be on a explorative road trip. 'Mum . . . really'?

         Local pond surrounded by keep out signs, which I ignored a few nights ago - great swim!

We were lucky enough to have inherited a pool with our previous house, a typical rectangle of turquoise which we and especially I used intensively from early May through to late October, and thus the urge to get into any available water was somewhat quashed for many years, although ocean visits still remained the top experiences. 

I assumed when moving to the Loire and seeing the vast placid expanse of blue water that I would be able to get in it but sadly it is not recommended/forbidden due to the mysterious currents. There is one area where the Vienne meets the Loire where it is possible but it's not near enough to be very useful. Last year I did find a pond in a forest not too far away but it's on a path frequented by marathon trainers which provokes all that embarrassment of peering about while balancing on one foot trying to get knickers on at speed before a team of lycra clad folk storm past.

This year in part due to the early and scary heat, I spent time seeking out other water possibilities and am contented to say I have found the perfect spot within cycling distance and or excuse to take dog slightly further afield. The Changeon river starts near Gizeux and doesn't pass through any industrial areas - it probably has its fair dose of unpleasant stuff sprayed onto the vines of the area but the fact that water lilies and dragonflies are very present makes it an attractive proposition at an air temperature of 38 degrees or so. I just looked it up on the map and the surrounding forest appears to be called: Le pont de paix intérieur - the bridge of internal peace. poetic! I've swum there about six times now and so far and its a marvellous, and indeed, peaceful, close to the day at about nine o'clock.

dog that shuns water... weird.

If we are evolved from fish life then I for one am certainly less evolved, happiest when feeling my limbs free and weightless when moving through water. 

                                  Not in the local river... idea of what we may have evolved from

H20

While gawping in disbelief as people loaded their trolleys with plastic encased water in the supermarket yesterday, I recalled that I had written an article for Ecohustler magazine around the time Londonia was being launched - a couple of years back - about bottled water companies. I think I'll put it here on the blog so a few more people might read it and re-consider the wonder of tap water . . .

Aside note; part of the reason for the supermarket visit was an attempt to buy mustard. Such a small, basic commodity, who would imagine it not being on sale in all its usual guises of mustard with cognac, mustard without cognac, mustard with bits in it, or not; strong, less strong, old style, smooth, diet mustard (I jest) and all the rest of the over-choice. But it wasn't there in any form - at all. It seems that there just isn't any of the yellowy substance, mainly as the great drying out of everywhere includes Canada which is the top mustard seed producer of the world. Weird what you think you know . . . I'd always vaguely assumed that Dijon and its surrounding area was the main producer.

Anyway, back to the article. Excuse the background colour - I couldn't seem to paste the copy onto blogger in a usual way . . .

The money being made by corporations selling plastic wrapped water is like something from a dystopian horror movie… oh wait...

The characters in Kate A Hardy’s new dystopian novel Londonia, set in 2072, rely for their water on the deliveries by the ‘water mec’ and harnessing rainwater. Here she explores how today’s bottled water industry has turned this primordial resource into a vast money-making enterprise.

                                      

In our current time when water appears mysteriously and almost unceasingly from our taps is there any need to buy bottled water when so many in the world have virtually no access to this life vital resource?

I can vaguely recall early holidays to France when I first noticed bottled water for sale. Maybe it was important in some areas where sanitation was _un peu dubious_… but certainly not everywhere. I now live in France and have noticed over the last couple of decades, the supermarket shelves telling a very different story.

Our local hyper-planet of largely un-needed stuff recently proposed a _Fete d' l'eau_, or water party, sadly not impromptu water fights and people dressed in scanty swimming attire, just another cynical attempt at mass selling. Fete de being wordage used in French supermarkets to drag you in and spend money on special offers/seasonal goods/bulk buy, etc.

Fete de vin in the autumn I can vaguely relate to – time of the grape harvest, local wine companies making space for their new influx, a certain celebration of the wealth of different wine types, etc, but not water. What might be next? Air?

A fete celebrating ideas for conserving water might have been nice – water filters, household devices for reusing water, a small talk illustrating where our local water comes from, tap water tasting. . . sadly, no. This was just an excuse to push as much water in plastic bottles encased in plastic packaging as possible.

While the demand is there, and until governments finally wake up to the plastic crisis, Supermarkets will continue this absurd practice, but surely there could be another way?

When I was last in the UK, I visited a local community centre in which, near the entrance, they had installed a milk dispenser – the milk coming from a local farm. You could bring your own bottles, or buy a few glass ones from the machine and fill them. Brilliant! Could this be applied to shops generally? Giant water dispensers where you could fill your own bottles for say, ten pence a go. The bottling companies could take turns so none of them would miss out on profits, or preferably, the nearest source would be used for each town’s supermarkets. Derbyshire – Buxton water; Scotland – Highland Spring, etc, rather than lorries travelling several thousand miles away from France, Italy or even Iceland.

There is also much conflicting information about how much water we need to drink each day. Bottled water manufacturers jumped and have continued to jump at the opportunity to sell varied sizes and shapes of bottles to be carried everywhere at all times; a continual topping up. We have been told in the past that drinks such as coffee and tea don’t count in our fluid intake; now the opposite is said to be true. The fact that my mother lived healthily to ninety years old after drinking approximately 166,000 cups of tea and not so much as a glass of mountain spring water might back up the latter argument.

Before the lockdown, on my last London visit, I experimented on myself with regard to water intake. I drank a cup of tea and a glass of water before setting off on my day’s walking and observing and didn’t take a bottle with me. I had another tea mid-morning, then a glass of water at lunchtime. A tea, late afternoon, and water when I returned to base early evening. No headache, pee normal colour. Obviously if the weather is extremely hot it would be wise to top up a little more frequently, and this is often possible in cities where fountains are provided – which they should be everywhere.

The bottled water industry giants are clever in their marketing; the idea of continual hydration has crept in insidiously over the years, throwing aside environmental impact from the millions of tons of waste devastating the planet. To demonstrate just how much, here is some interesting information from the Guardian newspaper.

Imagine laying out half-litre bottles on the pitch at Wembley Stadium. You could fit 1.7m bottles on the grass, packed into a tight grid. Now imagine building up layers of bottles, covering the same area, to build a tower. To contain all the bottled water we buy each year, you would end up with a 514-metre skyscraper – 200 metres taller than the Shard.

Shops will continue to supply the one and a half billion plastic bottles being bought every day – which largely end up in landfill despite what manufacturers claim – while the demand is there. We can all act on a small scale to change this situation. Try the ‘drinking when the opportunity arises’ thing – Before you leave the house, at the office cooler bottle; ask for a glass when you have a coffee; take a glass with lunch, a glug from a park fountain, and/or carry a refillable bottle.

Think before you drink . . .

Kate’s new novel is set in post-apocalyptic London, 2072, which is described by the author as dyst-hopian - i.e. dystopian, yet offering hope. The book shows the more enlightened inhabitants of this broken, post internet and climate-ravaged society endeavouring to live more frugally, resourcefully and closer to nature.

Guardian image

End in sight

Sort of. 

Over the last year I've been walking into our building site with mixed feelings, but in the last couple weeks positivity is gaining hold as we reach the slightly lighter, and more creative tasks. 

The space is beginning to look like a dwelling rather than dumping ground of tools, discarded building materials and renovation debris. Our fabulous builder friend has finished his time with us, the electricians and plumbers have done their mysterious works and now it's down to the family team to complete the rest, which we can do, I think.

                                                                                before

                                                      after - and not finished, obviously

There are still large gaps in the form of windows and doors and as with everyone else trying to renovate at the current time, there are delays but ours are being constructed and will hopefully be installed this month. I've learned a lot over the months: much new French language especially building vocabulary; tiling, plaster boarding, grouting, jointing, basic masonry; organising the order of the various artisans, making the right strength coffee for them, etc.

Some of the rooms have obvious uses - the kitchen and bathroom, others, less so. The salon really needs a wood burner but due to the height of the main house it's apparently not possible; it also has the staircase taking up a chunk of space. Maybe it won't be the salon, more a dining area, the main room upstairs. It'll gradually become obvious as we pass through the plasterboard-jointing/paint phase and we get to source various rescue bits of furniture from our amazing local charity places.

                                                   The space that became the bathroom 

Today will be continuing the wood ceiling in the kitchen, tiling in the bathroom and preparing for guests while imagining a time I can invite them into the new space and not into the house; it's been fine but building site plus guests has been an interesting cleaning challenge . . .

                                    Ezra's work boots which finally pegged out this morning...

Holding back a green tide

It sometimes feels like that, our garden; keeping stuff at bay enough that us humans can create space to move around within the vegetation. But we did comprehend (vaguely) how much work it would be on viewing the house on a roasting August day in 2020 . . . no, we probably didn't but, well, what's the odd challenge in life? Apparently, according to the estate agent, after the offer had been accepted, several French viewers had stared like frightened rabbits at the sheer enormity of it all and had politely declined, presumably moving on to purchase somewhat tamer properties.

So here we are, guardians of a patch of the Earth's crust, and over the months since the house purchase it has felt increasingly like that as the changing climate becomes more and more obvious, highlighted by unusual weather patterns, less rain, earlier heat, vegetable growers noticing less pollinators, etc. I've started observing the rampaging vegetation now as a sometimes tiring but wonderful thing, our bit of land as a safety zone for our fellow earth dwellers; a sort of payback for our own albeit smallish (hopefully) contribution to the climate state. Not everyone regards their garden thus; a friend of ours on viewing our wilderness, nodded, eyebrow lifted a little and announced that she also likes biodiversity and has devoted two whole square meters to it within their own half hectare.  

We received a leaflet a couple of months ago from a biodiversity organisation on how to adapt ones garden for climate change. I rang them back and said that we were doing okay but maybe they would like to glance at the surrounding 'farmer's' very successful attempt at soil destruction, hedge crushing, etc. 

An enthusiastic man appeared a few days later, did the tour of our land, agreed we were doing all the right things apart from a bit more water capture, but then added that too much might upset the building's foundations so we're undecided on that suggestion... Re the farmer next-door, a Gallic shrug was the response and a following assurance that the messages of climate disaster were gradually filtering through the farming community. I hope so, as most of the fields appear devoid of any life and the local strawberry producer has been importing boxes of bees into his poly tunnels in order for the fruit to be pollinated. 

The man rang back a week later and asked if we and more importantly our land would host a group of people interested in making changes to their own gardens. I agreed, the date set for next weekend, and will now sally forth, ultra-mulch everything, weed enough that folk can wander, and maybe pot up a few baby trees that have appeared in what we consider to not be in the right places to pass on to the potential re-wilders.

We had a delightful couple of Dutch B and B guests stay recently who were avid birders and observers of insect life. The reports of what they found in our compound were proof that leaving things alone as much as possible is the direction to head in. 

The birds they mentioned and most of which I have noted too: Red and green woodpeckers, black caps, jays, hoopoes, blackbirds, thrushes, wrens, three kinds of tit, kingfishers, bullfinches, goldfinches, herons, egrets, magpies, redwings, wagtails, golden orioles, cuckoos, lapwings, tree creepers; something they only knew the name of in Dutch but got very excited about, and of course, many, many sparrows- currently nesting in the roof insulation as we attempt to finish the roof space in the gîte . . . 

As for the insect population, I think even on our piece of nature-friendly land there are less bees and other insects than even last year. On our veg-buying visit to our organic vegetable farmer friend half a mile away, he gestured towards the large rapeseed fields that border some of his land and said that the bees hasten there in spring when the flowers come out and are then poisoned by the crop spray. He's left his own cabbage and Brussel sprout plants to seed so that there will at least be some uncontaminated brassica flowers but it is a small drop in an ocean of dead-zone soil. 

However, on a positive note: insects I have observed:

Honey bees, bumble bees, inc the orange bottom variety, big black bees, many types of hover fly, ladybirds, shield bugs, gendarmes (red and black insects) mayflies, lots of aphids! dragonflies, wasps, few hornets (phew) grasshoppers, crickets, not too many mosquitos (yet!) beetles of many sorts, butterflies - red admirals, peacock, common blue, marsh fritillary, marbled white, cabbage white, meadow brown, painted lady, and others I have yet to recognise.

School subject highest on any list, I reckon. Forget economics and Maths beyond a certain level and start re-wilding/gardening/wildlife observation/making the most of a balcony, window box, shared flat's garden; in short, enthusing kids rather than just scaring the life out of them re the fast encroaching changes on our only home - despite what Mr Musk says.

Do you know what God's greatest gift to mankind is?

A question posed to me by a man I gave money to on the Avenue de Belleville yesterday. He had leaned forward from his perch on a bench where he was surrounded by his worldly possessions of a few carrier bags, hands raised, open faced. I had replied, somewhat unnerved, expecting an impromptu sermon on that airless late morning.

". . . Probably not."

"It is the smile."

He had beamed, demonstrating his own particular wide, toothy smile. 

"Bien sur," I had replied, fluttering something in response to his hand on heart gesture. The phrase stuck in my mind the rest of the day and still seems to be there this morning, my face muscles being given a gentle prod away from their tendency to sag into a downward trajectory if left to gravity's influence. 

Not one usually for tourist information I had noted somewhere that looked like a slice of Hackney on a site of 'insolite' (quirky, unusual) Paris places and we had taken a long amble from our hotel to Pere Lachaise cemetery including the proposed graffiti embellished street. The said road was actually quite short and not as stuffed with artists and alternative eateries/second hand clothes emporiums, etc, as I had imagined but the whole area was fascinating especially the enormous food market that extends nearly the whole length of the main avenue. As we arrived the vendors were starting to pack up from their early start,  reloading the line of graffiti-covered delivery lorries. I stood for a while watching the chaos as people scrambled to get the useable goods stashed and the mountains of debris cleared away, and could only vaguely imagine the amount of food that comes into the city everyday, displayed in markets and shops, eaten at home or on foot, and cooked in the hundreds of Parisian restaurants. 

In comparison to Belleville's colourful mayhem, Pere Lachaise cemetery is peaceful and almost silent, its alleyways between the tombs shaded by trees, the light tinted green, almost as if being in a forest glade. We sought out Chopin's grave and Mark stood a while in respectful silence while I mused on the appearance of the less tended tombs with their rusted doors and remnants of plant offerings. At the summit of the hill, clipped lawns invite lounging but it is not permitted. A series of benches however offer a resting point, surprisingly high-up view over the city and observation of the resident crow population.

Paris is renowned for its brisk and haughty restaurant staff but during the two days we only encountered one café owner whose indifference to his clientele was spectacular - huffing when I requested a black tea after he had slung a mint tea sachet onto the table to accompany the teapot of tepid water and snatching the ten euro bill from Mark's hand without so much as a merci, Monsieur. All other eateries we experienced seemed to be run by and worked in by friendly and efficient people. 

Michelin or similar was never going to be on our menu but we did have a few good brasserie experiences, notably a bistro on Belleville avenue which offered a hearty menu for 15 euros. I don't buy anything much on a city trip, preferring to spend money on sitting about in cafés and observing the locals, or tourists in the more guidebook quartiers. Arriving from a hamlet in the middle of farmland, the sensory overload of a huge city is overwhelming, nowhere more than around the Louvre where the crowds throng, selfie sticks in hand, following flag-holding guides or posing in front of the glass pyramid in carefully chosen clothing. There is no café there for crowd-observing but we sat on the steps dazed from sound, colour and movement.  

My purchase of the trip was a small silk scarve in a frip shop (second hand clothing), if the budget had been somewhat more elastic I could have bought a resin, two foot high, leopard skin-painted Micky Mouse statue which graced a podium in Samaratime, a department store which makes Gallery Lafayette seem tawdry in comparison. The small golden price tag next to the mouse stated, 3,600 euros. We gawped. For about five minutes. All my stored up, what is the world coming to sauntered forth, more so as I noted other similarly useless objects: Mickey's partner mouse for another 3,600; why not have the pair? a crystal pot with golden teddy bear head lid for a cool 1,000; champagne approved by Lady Gaga for 650 a bottle; a diamond encrusted stuffed anteater attired in pink flares - I jest, but there could have been one, possibly was if we had looked around a little longer but fifteen minutes was ample.

3600 euros

or, 7,50 euros (each!) on Belleville Avenue

Lifelong London obsessive, I found, sadly, on my last visit that a lot of strange and quirky little streets and shops seemed to have been transformed into dull places of chain shops/coffee hangouts. Paris appears to have retained more individuality, maybe due to less overseas property investment . . . I'm in no way any sort of economist but eleven years or whatever it is, centuries perhaps? (feels like it), of Tory so-called government haven't helped the cultural landscape of London. 

The choice of non-chain cafés in Paris is boggling, most of them complete with their white-aproned waiters, little round metal tables and the ubiquitous rattan or faux-rattan chairs. We chose one after a long, hot walk around one of the Eastern arrondissements, and I allowed myself an evil Coke. This happens probably twice or three times a year. It has to be in an interesting eatery with a good sketch-able view and the bottle has to be very cold. That first gulp . . . worth waiting for.

                                           first cold coke and lemon of the year after a long walk

Certainly not a chain shop. No window display, no indication of what was being made or repaired but the owner or assistant was intently busy making or repairing something

a fine Parisian mural

...and a fine mur vegetal created by Patrick Blanc in 2013. Growing strong and housing many birds and insects Second arrondissement

Just as the buildings and streets of Paris are photogenic, so are its inhabitants. My small camera is currently broken I made do with the phone but somehow asking people if I can take their picture on my phone seems weirder than with a camera so I took a few surreptitious snaps instead. Next time I will be properly equipped as there were so many opportunities missed

                                Unbelievably cool taxi driver with coffee cup balanced on his BMW

 

The last afternoon concluded with cake and tea in the sort of salon du thé in which I felt I should apologise for my pavement-worn shoes (and self) but it was worth it for the strawberry millefeuille and tea served in  wonderfully heavy old silver hotel ware; and the evening, a coup - getting into the opera to see Strauss's Elektra on a 15 euro ticket which was transformed into a 150 euro place in the parterre by a benevolent usher.

Good morning, Paris

from our very salubrious 6th floor hotel room (luckily with lift)

And good evening

 

Another life

Strange, sitting in bed with the window open on a far-too-hot-for-May morning with a zillion birds tweeting, to recall a certain day way back in mid 80s London. I'm including these few paragraphs from an early novel, Going out in the Midday Sun, in my latest book as an illustration of the decade's excess when it came to food advertising budgets (and probably everything else); I imagine they are now somewhat less extravagant, or maybe not . . . 

I'm meandering into non-fiction territory with the new book, at the moment entitled, Celebrating the Inconsequential inspired partly by a very long walk which I described a few posts back. We'll see where it goes. So far I'm enjoying a new literary departure very much, when I get a chance to write in between trying to keep our garden/bird and insect sanctuary alive in this alarming heat.

On a Monday in 1986, a stylist is late for an office furniture shoot.

 

    Randy Fisher's photographic studio sat in a Kings Cross backstreet. The client and slimy Marvin, the art director, were due there at 9am. It was 9am.

    Holly had the knowledge as well as any cabbie, but all the snarl-ups were well in place plus a few extras, including a lorry unloading toilets into a new loft complex in Leonard Street. The driver, attired in baggy shell suit, a fag drooping from his lips, wore an unhurried air as people leaned from their car windows yelling and gesticulating; the air was thick with honking and swearing. 

    Holly found her notebook and added a phrase to her anti-styling song, humming another slice of the tune. Calm: there was no point getting worked up. If she did, she would be lying in the back of the car under a blanket with a firework-display migraine by the end of the afternoon.

    She arrived at the studio at 9.15 and climbed the iron staircase, nerves jangling. Randy's new assistant Marcus opened the door and mouthed: "Watch out, Marvin's already had three coffees." Randy was up a ladder fiddling with the large-format camera, the height revealing cowboy boots under too-tight white jeans The Eagles were on the sound system and the client was leafing through a book of models.

    Marvin kissed Holly lecherously and lightly groped her backside. Coffee breath and stale cigarette smoke enveloped her: Marvin, the huge beaky bird of prey, shaking from his diet of fags and intravenous black coffee with five sugars drip. 

    "Hi darling, you're late . . . we'll have to spank you."

    "Yes, sorry. Traffic." But he was already gone, sucking up to the client.

    "Holly our Stylist — Roger Hillway from Streamline products."

    "Hi."

    "Hi."

    "Did you find everything Holly?" said Marvin, looking even more beaky than usual. 

    "Yes – selection of smart office wear dresses, new Mac computer, phone, and . . . the donkey head." 

    "Good, good," said Marvin, rubbing his hands. "Well, we've chosen the model." A round of snorting laughter emanated from the three men. "She'll be here at 10.30, should be done by 12.00. While we're waiting for the lab to process the film, we thought we might all go out for lunch."

    Charlene arrived, blonde and busty. The outfit was chosen, the props arranged, lights placed. No need for makeup as Charlene was to wear the donkey head. 

    "But you could have just used me," Holly was about to say, but realised Charlene and her breasts were the reason for lunch.

    The courier came for the film, they all got in a taxi and were at the door of 'School Dinners' by 1pm.

    Holly groaned internally at the sight of the restaurant. She had gone there once before with a crowd of advertising executives and had hoped never to return. They were shown downstairs into the cavernous space and presented with menus by a gazelle-like young woman dressed in blazer, stockings, suspenders and painfully high stilettos. The client and Marvin perused the wine list, occasionally stopping to mentally undress Charlene, while Randy flashed his new mobile phone: "Yeah, sure I can fit that in this week, what's the budget? Not bad . . . on the way to getting the Porsche, eh! See you on Thursday then — ciao." 

    Holly glanced around the room at the tables of overfed businessmen on expense accounts and wondered how the world had got into such a state. She requested the day's special after a brief glance at the menu and excused herself to have a few quiet moments in the loo away from Marvin, who had started to rub a foot up and down her leg. 

 The loo was already occupied with women checking their makeup. Holly made do with a perfunctory glance at herself in the reflective steel hand dryer: short blonde hair, disarrayed from the rushed start to the day, winter pale skin. 

    The large brown eyes stared back while her mind wandered: What are you doing here? Why did you spend four years doing an art degree then to work in this superficial world? —must phone mum — wonder what Sam is doing now . . . do I miss him? No, but . . . Her thoughts were interrupted by a blast of Robert Palmer singing 'Addicted To Love' as the door opened and two more women swayed in to the crowded room, one of them bumping into Holly. "Oops sorry . . . d'you think he's going to ask me out then?"

    "Why wait — grab him! I would . . . if I wasn't already attached — here try this, it's new by Givenchy, Organza."

    "Oooh, that's just what I need, an Organza . . ." 

    Holly left and weaved her way back around the crowded tables. "Oh, there you are — we were beginning to wonder what you were doing in there," grinned Marvin, nudging the client.    

    "Champagne all round," Randy announced to a waitress in a gymslip. 

    "Would you like a caning with it?" She produced a long thin cane and whipped it across her stocking encased thigh, thwack! Today's special is sausage and dumplings," she added, pouting, lips glossy red.

    "Waahay!" shouted Marvin. "Yeah, bring it on!"

    From a long way off, Holly saw herself sitting on the cliff edge near Durdle Door in Dorset — a warm breeze, nodding pink scabious, the cry of wheeling gulls. She had to get off this hamster wheel: wake, rush, buy crap for stupid ads, sit in traffic, home, sofa, crash, eat, sleep.

    Randy’s elbow nudged her. "Top up? How's the sausage . . . phwoooaah!"

    At last the bill came: three hundred and fifty quid, to be hidden in the final invoice. 

    Taxi back, film back, no re-shoot. Holly packed the props, slipped out from the studio and found a car-shaped space where the car had been.

 

 

A bird can make a day

In my case they always do. However complex the day or low the mood the sighting of birds, or even just one lifts my spirits. I'm not a bird spotter, more a bird admirer; someone who is constantly fascinated that birds exist all around us, a free and marvellous show of movement, colour and incredible sound. 

Birds of the past week: a flotilla of tiny ducklings, legs paddling frantically as they attempted to keep up with the mother duck on the little river near our house.

The yearly visitation of the exotic Hoopoes, hopping across the lawn, beaks stabbing at worms to then take off with their wonderful floppy striped wings and land again in the silver birches, their odd calls echoing around the garden: hoopoepoepoe.

A pair of Lapwings circling and dancing above a newly planted cornfield, their strange electronic sounding peeps and whistles startling in the early morning silence. 

Cuckoos: absent last year, or at least I never heard one. This year we have about six within the different copses of trees surrounding our house, the cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo a sort of call and response opera embellished by the chattering sparrow commune of our laurel hedge.

The Golden Oriole. What a song - strange and beautiful liquidy sound. However much I have peered upwards into the tree tops I've never actually seen the bird, surprising as it is bright yellow - not really golden, but perhaps Yellow Oriole wouldn't sound so poetic. 

King of singers: the Nightingale. Our birder friend Johnathan would probably snarl slightly at my mentioning of these songsters as he considers their singing so robust that it drowns out all other birds but who could not be entranced by the the complex and magical sounds this little brown bird can produce.

As fate would have it, I started writing this blog yesterday to then receive a B and B booking from two ardent bird spotters drawn to our site which mentions that we are part of the LPO (like RSPB). Our guests set out this morning with binoculars and were immediately in rapture after sighting, apparently a very rare bird in the garden which has yellow eyebrows - or maybe I misheard. Anyway, binoculars must be obtained, and birdlife more seriously catalogued.