Livestock

Very early on we decided that rural postal delivery was a bit hit and miss so we rented a Post Office Box in town. That makes the letterbox fastened to the outside of our gate a bit redundant.

The other day the village mayoress sent a WhatsApp message to say that she'd left copies of the programme for our village fiesta in everyone's letterbox. Now, if we don't use the letterbox, the wasps do. Both Maggie and I have made the painful mistake of putting our hand inside only to have one of the black and yellow critters sting us. Not yesterday though. In full Balkans genocidal mode I dosed the letter box with fly spray before attempting to extract the programme. To my surprise a lizard zoomed out. Google says it's unlikely I did it any damage. Not so the unfortunate wasps that had built a little nest in there. As in the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song  - Four Dead in Ohio - there were just four wasps at home. It was a very small nest. I suppose the rest were probably hanging around the swimming pools of the better heeled.

This morning, I'm coming out of the supermarket. A mother is loading up her children to the car parked next to mine. "Look, a grasshopper!," she says - actually she said it in Spanish but you get the drift. I stared in the general direction but saw no beast. We have tens of them, probably hundreds, in our garden anyway. We also have millions of, and I exaggerate not, ants in our garden. Bumper year for ants. Anyway, I'm driving home and, in the rear-view mirror, I notice there is a grasshopper sitting on the rear headrest.

Just to add that the legion of cats that are living with us, some of them temporarily, bring us lots of animal gifts. Usually in bloody bundles but, last night, Bea brought home a shrew which we managed to wrest from her grip and herd into a closed room where the cats forgot about it. Maggie eventually caught the tiny beast and released it into the corn stubble opposite.

Noise and more noise

Maggie and I have a slight difference of opinion about aircon in cars. It's fine, I don't really mind it but I always find it a bit odd. The jet of cold air supercools wherever it is directed whilst the sun, streaming in through the glass, cooks other body parts. I prefer the windows open. It's not as cool, granted, and it's not always the best option but, generally, I prefer the feeling of space and being able to breathe. Usually, of course, when we travel together we have the aircon on.

I must have been feeling uppity because, a few days ago, the windows were open. As we went along at maybe 80k the sound of the cicadas in the countryside was as plain as the hotel neighbours groaning through the wall. Cicadas are pretty loud and insistent for small beasts.

I didn't understand the idea behind a few. My father, exasperated by my questioning and my inability to grasp the abstract concept, told me that a few was 13. I still sometimes think of a few as being 13.

I heard a small boy being given similar sort of information; the sort that sticks with you for the rest of your life. The boy had said something about the noise from the grillos. Grillos are crickets. "No!" corrected his mother - at least I'm supposing it was his mother - "Cicadas (cigarras) sing by day, grillos sing at night."

I don't think I knew that either. I wonder if there's an overlap? And when do the grasshoppers (saltamontes) get their turn?

I went to make a cup of tea a moment or two ago. The noise from our summer garden was as it should be. The cigarras were singing.

Have a listen