The animals may be busy, but nature is knackered

In the mornings here now, giant cobwebs of mist drift around the fields below us, and in our own garden, the real spiders’ handiwork is covered in droplets of dew. There are few feelings more uplifting than wandering about as the sun comes up, lazy and weak, on an Autumn morning.

Apart from gigantic quinces dropping to the ground like bright yellow bombs, most of the fruit is long gone. One or two apples are clinging to the main tree, but even they will have that bland taste of damp sawdust by now. It’s been a hot, dry and bountiful summer: but at this point in late September, nature is tired and ready for the long kip until late February.

Only the animals are busy. Our two terriers have discovered a mole-tunnel, and like some canine Time Team are busy excavating it for posterity, otherwise known as ‘fun’. It’s a shame they had to do this right across the main lawn, but such are the joys of dog ownership. The mole himself (who probably deserted it some months back in favour of more damp terrain) has been only rarely seen this year. They don’t thrive in dry weather – unlike quinces. Anyone want some quinces? Post and packing free?

Sidney the Squirrel has stopped eating the walnuts, and begun to store  them. He has a moveable stash down by our plum trees. Every day he dutifully takes them down there, and every morning by lunchtime Tiggy has dug them up again. Neither she nor Foxie know what to do with walnuts, so the produce sits there until Sid reappears the next morning, discovers his nut-store has been vandalised, and moves them somewhere else. This play could run and run.

The farmer’s cow has been safely delivered of a calf, and very cute she is too….light rust in colour, and really quite stunning in the late sunlight. Calves spend a short time only stumbling about, unlike foals. Within a day or two, they are happily mooching around with mum, who is gainfully employed replacing her store of milk with grass chewed non-stop. Life as a cow is lived very much in the slow lane, and involves the bare minimum of philosophy. Although Marguerite disappeared last week to become locally sold beef, her chums seem unperturbed. Perhaps they think life ends like that: one minute you’re there, the next you vapourise and are no more.

The farmers too have been busy getting in the wheat, then the prunes, the corn and the sunflowers. With a huge herd of cattle for fresh milk, you could make a nourishing muesli out of all that, but that’s not how the farming model works here, more’s the pity. The prunes go to the de-stoning and packing factory up the road towards Castillones,  the corn goes into store for the cattle during winter, and the sunflowers go to make one of the many ridiculous disasters to emanate from the EU, biofuel.

Our local farmer Laurent produces milk and red meat to give the population heart attacks, and just feeding them in winter means fields full of corn as far as the eye can see. In the other fields are the cows, busy farting methane in order to destroy the ecobalance – if indeed there is such a thing. Most of this entirely dysfunctional output is, of course, massively subsidised by our old friend, the Common Agricultural Policy.

We’re in luck this week: the forecast says sunny until Saturday, which is helpful as we too have lots to do. Saplings need to be protected from destructive deer, the new Slogger’s Roost at the end of the garden still needs a few finishing touches, the grass needs one maybe two more cuts before we leave, and above all, the Quince trees need a hard prune. I have to get the fecundity of the bloody things to reduce somehow.