Strange fruit

Last Saturday it was, finally, my turn to take Lyra to the groomers. Lachlan had to work and Keith has declared himself permanently traumatised by the last experience and unwilling to risk further mental collapse. Lyra is not enthusiastic about this trip and, despite being blind, seems to know exactly where she is going. She has deployed swarming under the car commando style and slipping her lead and bolting across several roads as past evasion techniques. I had a sense that the boys were sceptical of my likely success…Lachlan ordered an “escape proof” harness and called me to talk me through the project twice. Keith insisted on coming with me whilst I drove there on a trial run the day before. Whilst this was not completely daft – I do have a poor sense of direction – I felt that the tension in the car had become unreasonably high as I drove back. In a sign of great maturity and personal growth, I decided to pull over and let the nervous wreck drive himself the rest of the way. Much advice was proffered.

The morning passed smoothly. We decided to pop Lyra in the harness for her walk so that she did not immediately twig that something was afoot (or associate it with bad things for ever after.) It was surprisingly easy to get on and madam looked, well, quite ridiculous, in it, with fluff escaping from every gap. She was a rather fine match for the thistles exploding in the field margins. Having tired the pooch out with an extra long walk, Mum and I enjoyed the sun in the garden with a coffee until zero hour. The floofster was bundled, still harnessed, into the car and we set off. Having arrived rather early, the extra time in hand convinced me to deploy a cunning plan Keith had declared unworkable the day before. I parked right down at the bottom of the village and we walked up the (steep and interminable) hill towards the groomers. Lyra had never taken this route before (the boys’ preferred tactic is to park right outside and strong arm her in like a kidnap victim) and was thoroughly charmed by a new walk. She practically ran up the hill and turned without quibble through the garden gate. Two steps in to the garden, some vestigial instinct, or the faintest trace of canine shampoo, set her on high alert. She turned to run for it. I grabbed the big escape proof handle on her back and Andrew the groomer ran out and wrestled her through the door. I did not get a goodbye lick.

Returning home, I awarded myself a magnum ice cream and tried not to look overly smug when reporting back to Lachlan and Keith. In the end Lyra proved unable to maintain a flounce. She greeted me joyfully some three hours later, fluff much reduced, and preened and pranced around the garden all evening hoping for a mislaid barbecue sausage. We have not donned the harness since, but I think an outing in pink before too long may be in order if we are to be able to repeat the process. As mum has pointed out, with some relief, next time we will have to park at the top of the hill and walk down to maintain the surprise…

In other news, harvest is well underway. We passed combines at work on our way down to the woods this morning and found ourselves in a positive snowstorm of chaff. In all the verges there is much rustling as scuttling refugees flee from the shorn fields and overhead the constant peeyoo of buzzards, scanning for prey. The paths through the wood are strewn with bright green depth charges where recent high winds have brought down hundreds of immature conkers. Brambles are ripening in the hedgerows, but I think we will have to wait another week or two before they can be popped in the mouth confidently without a 50:50 risk of buttock clenching tartness. Despite the sunshine, with huge fungi appearing randomly out of the grass, and the beginning of a leafy crunch underfoot, there is almost a tang of autumn in the air.

The garden though is clinging on to summer, with a last, hurrah of colour. The greenhouse border is bright with perovskia, crocosmia and rudbeckia. Scarlet Bishop of Llandaf dahlias are brightening up the hot garden and our roses are back from their midsummer slumber. A eucomis I had thought dead and buried has suddenly appeared in the gravel garden and I have started peering again at the yuccas just in case there might be a flower spike after all (no sign but you never know). My two remaining peaches survived the winds the other day and are ripening nicely and Mum has enjoyed the first fig. I have also successfully rooted a bit of turmeric in the greenhouse. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it but I count this as an absolute triumph. Less appealingly, there is lots of cutting back still to do and the ponds are yet again covered in weed. I am bracing myself for another dip… There is definitely a lot of work to be done but somehow I find myself in holiday mode. Yesterday, with friends visiting, we dug out the croquet and clacked and clunked around the lawn. Catrina and Wendy came over to watch and licked my mallet for luck so that, for once, I was not last out.