The on-going news of misery, terror and hatred, and consequent anxiety fueled by the british media, over the last few weeks, I have decided one has to take pleasure where one can in the smallest joys of life. GOS and I went to a very sad funeral as well last week, where we went to celebrate the life of a very kind and gentle man ; a dear friend’s son-in-law who had committed suicide. None of the family had realized how unwell he was. I think it was one of the reasons I enjoyed my time out in the water gardens next day so much with the friend who had been really poorly.
The spotting of a hummmingbird hawk moth on the valerian caused great excitement. I never thought to see them in our garden here as I have only encountered them abroad before. Such ungainly, comical looking creatures. Seriously weird. Then, of course, it has been incredibly hot in the UK for June. Does that attract them? It was reading 33 on the temperature gauge in the car driving back from the funeral. The good weather has meant all the farmers have got in the first silage and a lot of the hay harvest and most have finished shearing. It has made the horse flies very aggressive and working outside hard has to be interspersed with “shade breaks” and cold drinks.
We are not used to so much sun.
Our ladies lost their woolly coats last Thursday night when a neighbours son popped down to shear for us. This gave them a lot of relief from the heat. He was a high quality shearer I can tell you, having come fourth in the junior world championships over in New Zealand last winter. Although our “ladies” were not aware of the celebrity of their hairdresser and were as akward as they could be!! And chaos always ensues after the hair cuts as the lambs no longer recognize their Mums and go round and round the field bleating desperately until paired up again. They are all settled down again now and on lovely fresh pasture.
Another l little joy this week was eating the first early potatoes and mange tout. Tried a picture of the veg patch in acrylics . . .
Must go and dig spuds for tomorrow . . . .
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