This very short post is proving very difficult and frustrating. That bloody new editor has appeared and is absolutely impossible to use. All I want to do is stick in a photo from my gallery and it won’t do it. I’m back on the old old editor going through WP admin which is a pain.
So…On August 9 I posted a photo of the toad, named Terry by our youngest, who had taken up residence inside the Mimosa Hostilis (the Vicious Mimosa tree).
We had a big storm a few nights ago and Terry hadn’t come back in the morning. For two days the hole was empty, then yesterday evening this appeared.
This is not Terry. Meet Theresa.
We have a couple of big trees that nobody can identify with any certainty. I call them crown of thorn trees because one of them possesses long spikes on the branches and around the trunk, like the things people put around lamp posts to stop burglars shinning up them. They are lethal, the longest around 25cm (10″) long, shorter along the branches.
The leaves and flowers are similar to a sort of mimosa.
Okay. I have done a bit more research, global this time and have discovered what this tree is. It’s not native at all, it’s Mimosa Hostilis (figures) and it’s native to Brazil and the equatorial rain forests. What it’s doing here is a mystery, but it must really hate this climate.
The specimen by the woodpile is inhabited by great capricorn beetles, massive, scary-looking things that devour the tree from the inside. They are a protected species so it’s forbidden to kill them. I personally wouldn’t get close enough to take a swing at one anyway.
There is a hole at the base of the trunk hollowed out by the insects and there are often larvae buried in the sawdust. Yesterday I noticed that the fine red sawdust had been dug out, and looking inside found a toad in residence.
Toad is still there today, keeping cool. It’s a good place to be, living in the larder.
wars and revolutions in the streets
corrupt kings flee to friendly palaces
even those who ask nothing
will be swept away
Trixie’s idea of how a garden trug should really be used.
It’s our wedding anniversary today and the weather is finally starting to settle down. We took a picnic out, all the way to… the plum tree.
and we had our first pan bagnat of the year
Finbar was tied up just in case he decided to run off, but I think those days are over. He’s getting very sensible in his old age.
Trixie didn’t move from the chair she’s appropriated.
Ninnie got as far as the doormat.
It’s a good thing we don’t crave excitement.
Haymaking was put off for three weeks which is what I wanted, to let all the wildflowers finish and set seed first. The hay is now all raked into an interesting geometrical pattern like a Neolithic temple site, waiting for the baler to come.
This is the west meadow looking south
East meadow looking west. The red and white tape is to cordon off an area where saplings are planted.
The south section looking up towards the house.
The part I like best, the bottoms where the willows are, a section about 20 metres by 200 metres that isn’t mown and is just left to its own devices.
when the rain lashes in grey-green green-grey
and the stove is lit again in June
and the long meadow grass is a heavy sea
some small things bring light
with their own private sunshine
Trixie is twelve years old this month. We tend to forget she’s getting on a bit, she’s such a good little trooper. We took her to the vet this morning for the second time in her twelve years, because she won’t eat. It might be only a surfeit of voles or that dead bird she found and ate. She has some cat medicine to settle her digestive tract, and we have instructions to watch her carefully over the next couple of days. Crossing fingers.
there are more important things going on
more distress and more poignant stories
but when the Mistress of Pasta is unwell
sadness seeps into the silence
the light in the sky seems a little dimmer
Three more beauties. The first wild peony to open
a white bee orchid
and another serapia
A meadow full of them.
Hundreds of Pyramidal orchids
masses of Bee orchids
And a few Serapias
I love this place with its layers of song
and the traces of criss-crossing hoof and paw
bird voices calling taking it in turns
to send echoes racing.
I love it as I love Redon colours
the tragic beauty of a Marc
brushed with fingertips never seized
always the onlooker.
We think we own because we have measured
signed papers handed over cash.
Sunlight stretches leaves unfurl
blossom scatters in the wind.
A shower patters, ringing wild garlic bells.
The blackbird looks at me with bright eye,
tugs at a worm.
I watch the world whisk by
in the flash of a white scut.