Monday, July 4, 2016
On the village green there is a large tilleul tree. As the sun climbs it becomes home to thousands upon thousands of bees. They come in all types, shapes and colours.
The tree hums. In fact it hums so loudly that we can hear it as we leave the front gate for our morning walk. Enormous black bees work alongside smaller honey bees. Bumble bees mingle with grey bees which hover, wings beating a hundred to the minute, like humming birds. All have a sense of place and purpose. Time is too short and life is too sweet for discord.
The bees knock the stamens from the tiny lime flowers as they collect pollen. The falling stamens are in their way worthy of study - they fall, are picked up by the breeze and float away. The scent, as the sun warms the air, is rich and sweet and dense. Above all dense - in a sensuous sun soaked almost oriental way.
Angus and Sophie stop and stare. Not that we don't have better things to do but today, for some reason, this small , simple wonder of nature holds our attention.
On our way home we see a local farmers sheepdog standing at the side of the lane. He is besotted with Sophie.
Sophie, as she makes plain, is not besotted with him.
Bob returns from his power walk round the lake. He and his sister settle down in the shade of a holm oak and doze. So begins a hot July 4th in deepest, deepest France profonde.
A record of those little things too inconsequential for a diary but too important to go completely unrecorded.