. . . and the hands on the clock keep goin’ around, I no sooner get up than it’s time to lie down – but life is not ‘tejus’, not for J and for me, anyway! In fact, time is doing a bit of ‘fugiting’ these days and fitting stuff in is a bit of a struggle.
Blogging has been one of the things to suffer from not enough hours (or inclination if I am honest). I am also aware that what has J and me fired up is of limited interest to others. I’m referring to life at our mountain hideaway and the ‘farming’ that goes with it. I mean, a bit here and there is OK but who wants to read about mud, rocks and greenfly day in and day out? Not me!
Most days up here kick-off at about 7.30 with a bit of rock gardening. Turning our rock-strewn plot from this:
. . to this:
. . is proving to be long and ‘tejus’ and not without a few tweaks and spasms. We must be getting close to the halfway point now despite the impression that the buggers are multiplying over night!
J goes off for a walk most days, exploring the tracks through the forest. The last couple of times she’s arrived back breathless with excitement having come across, at fairly close quarters, a Eurasian Golden Jackal. I went with her today in the hopes of getting a glimpse and a photo – no luck this time around.
Canis aureus – Eurasian Golden Jackal
Odd projects keep cropping up to fill the time when I should be reading or taking a nap. The latest came about when workmen putting up new electricity poles discarded a couple of small crates that are used to transport those great big brown insulator things. Anyway, being an old soldier, I did the right thing by them and got J to stuff them into the back of the car. One has had a make-over and now serves as a very functional and ‘country chic’ saucepan stand. Here’s the before and after:
There is also the joy of catering in the field . .
Then, there are all the other distractions that seem to eat into blogging time:
sharing the forest with birds and jackals
. . and views with no one else
. . and finally, for those with time on their hands:
Alan Fenn, out there – somewhere