The weather gives and the weather takes. In the end the reckoning comes….
Since the wind changed at the end of June we have been promised thunderstorms daily. Any yet, the days have continued hot and sultry, with barely the odd spit spot here and there during the day (though the lawns have welcomed some steady evening rain). Being somewhat “weeded out” since the garden open day, the prospect of a few damp days to catch up with odds and sods was really quite appealing and Sunday saw Judy and I kvetching over coffee about the contribution of the weather to “garden malingering guilt”. Bravely, I have tried to overcome this psychological trauma by eschewing the border spade and, instead, wafting around like the lady in the Flake adverts, with a cutting trug of flowers and herbs for drying. The garret is now full of slightly crispy flora and myriad packets of freshly rubbed thyme (normal and lemon). Absent an unexpected wedding, dried rose petal stocks are satisfactory and the Christmas pot pourri seems secure.
Dog walks have, by and large, become long and languid. By the river on Monday, Lyra managed to be thoroughly lapped by a pregnant woman and two small toddlers. There was mown grass to be rolled in and the fiery heat meant we had to add in a couple of extra dips to keep the paws cool. Whilst madam paddled, I amused myself bug hunting. Fluttery grey brown ringlet butterflies were everywhere, thronging over tall patches of thistle and wild oregano. Red soldier beetles and ladybirds jostled for position on pale purple creeping thistles whilst the bees favoured the rather more ferocious looking bull and spear thistles. In the shady patch under the trees behind the fishing beats the nettles were alive with peacock caterpillars. (In other insect related news a most sinister looking hornet has been spotted in the log pile and we are all thoroughly fed up with thunder flies).
The evening rain has kept the river high, with the cauld running all along its length. Optimistic fishermen abounded last time we were down, each with a watchful herons positioned just slightly upstream. These stood stock still, impersonating plastic garden ornaments, whilst waiting to pounce on any fish looking at risk of cheering up their angler. One large heron, clearly of the view that its pet fisherman was at no risk of catching anything, unfolded itself and coasted upriver to check the craic. It landed next to a smaller, whiter, lookalike and they tussled briefly over pole position on the remaining unsubmerged yard of the could. Lanky won and my elusive friend the little egret took to the air and was soon joined by another. The pair flounced along the river before circling back and settling one either side of the heron, two teenager lovers sulkily thwarted by an elderly duenna.
Down by the last fishing beat there’s a huge patch of yellow loosestrife I can’t remember ever noticing before. Convolvulus has begun to twine through the undergrowth and muscular young brambles have begun to elbow rudely across the path. Hemlock still wafts its lacy veil across the hedgerows, softening the spikes of willow herb, but the hogweed has turned to seed, studded with bright green beads. Mum conducted a consumer test of the gooseberries on the road to Little Swinton yesterday and declared they are “nearly there” (whilst wincing slightly). At noon on the return stroll the honeyed scent of meadowsweet reminded me that it is past time to go aforaging and so today we set off, fashionably late, back up the lane to collect some. Bag duly stuffed we ambled on in the sun past fields of ripening wheat. Just as we were about to turn, the heavens opened. It was torrential. The back lane turned into an archipelago of scattered islands in a sea of milky tea cut across with intersecting circles and a traffic jam of bubbles. We were sodden, shoes not just squelching but foaming. The last 20p sized dry patch on the back of my jeans had disappeared by the corner where we turn up and as I stood in the wash house stripping straight into the washing machine I noticed my new jeans had dyed my knickers rose pink. Thankfully, when I squelched through the kitchen starkers and dripping there were no neighbours sipping coffee. Lyra, so drenched her polar bear black skin showed through the draggles, hid under the table lest we attempt any further adventures.
Ah well, carpe diem after all. After a warming bath I set to indoor pursuits, bottling up the rhubarb vodka and setting some meadowsweet cordial to infuse.
Is your sinister looking hornet a wood wasp? We had one in Aberdeenshire that more resembled a helicopter than a bug. Huge ovipositor, not a stinger, but it sent me scampering into the house! She loved our woodpile, needless to say.