I don’t get to spend enough time in hammocks. There is something deeply relaxing about this mode of relaxation. A shame the weather is getting colder now and this one — lying outside the houses that stand above our allotment — probably won’t be used much now, until the spring. (Spring 2021 seems even longer away this year than usual, sadly.)
The efforts of all those highly transient squash (or possibly pumpkin) flowers earlier in the year have resulted in precisely one pumpkin (or possibly squash) growing in house or garden. And here it is. Whether it will be big enough to carve faces in come the end of this fresh month — we will just have to wait and see…
A foul, miserable day of weather that matched the general mood. September sun has just about sustained the local pubs, but once it stops being very agreeable to sit outside — as it definitely was today — then they will slowly rot away and die, like most other things that bring fun into our lives, presently.
The plum tree seriously needs pruning, and now is apparently the time…. this information being imparted by Peggy, fellow member of the allotment society and knowledgeable in these matters. Expect some documentation of the subsequent surgery, at least, once we get our pruning saw. Yes, this would be a nicer photo without the water butt, but it is what it is.
An innovative approach to keeping oneself, one’s beer and one’s smoking materials free from moisture. The weather could not decide what to do this afternoon.
Late July, a time of year when certain things are fated to happen. I have time off work and do as little as I can, and the garden begins producing fruit. Fate has done its duty with both in 2020, despite everything.
Now the pubs have reopened, dogs are once again obliged to spend their Sundays wondering why their owners are not letting them just clamber over everyone else in the beer garden. This one has given up on it all, and decided just to keep a close eye on the piece of litter: before it dozed off, anyway.
When the sun shines, we all deserve to perch on a fern somewhere and stretch out at 5.25pm on a Friday evening. Lockdown or no, it’s been a busy week. And butterflies have a lot still to do.
The scarecrow itself is long gone. But its boots remain, like a sort of imprint, or memory. I doubt they’ll scare the birds off much. But then again, nor do scarecrows, particularly.
The beetle negotiates the wood crevasse, in its funny little helmet (where are its eyes?) and feeling the way ahead with that unicorn horn, which is so protuberant that here it’s become annoyingly just out of focus. I have no idea what species this is; it’s not a European rhinoceros beetle as it’s the wrong colour and we’re not supposed to have them in the UK anyway. It was about an inch (2.5cm) long.
