This morning Jackie undertook some serious pruning of shrubs and clearance of beds. I gathered up the debris and transported it to the ever-increasing pile awaiting burning. It was a heavy, overcast, and humid energy-sapping day, and I was pretty exhausted from my recent ordeal, so my lady had more oomph than I did.
Later this afternoon I took a walk between the maize fields, along the edge of the wood, and, turning left on the road to Milford, from which cattle could be seen etched on the horizon, back up Downton Lane. I knew this would be a solitary stroll, enabling me to contemplate the sorry situation in Sigoules.
Although we sometimes close it, we had wondered why the front gate to the garden of the empty house next door in Christchurch Road, was often left open. Recently we noticed that Mike, the postman, was still delivering letters. Today, the open gate suggested he had fought his way through the brambles to the front door. I imagine there will come a time when the heap inside blocks the letter box opening.
The maize is ripening.
An unfortunate crow had, I thought, become ensnared on an ivy-covered forked post and been unable to free itself. Upon reflection, as explained in my next entry, this interpretation appeared erroneous.
This evening we dined on paprika pork with egg fried rice followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. Jackie’s drink was Hoegaarden, mine being Reserve des Tuguets Madiran 2010.