It’s been a strange day which caught us by surprise. A sticky fug grew as the day went on. By mid-afternoon the mountains began fading, birdsong diminished and no dogs barked. The pissed-off donkey must have taken a trip somewhere, too.
Come six o’clock, and tormented by flies (our attempts, with joss sticks, to replicate a 1900s industrial town and smoking the buggers out, failing) it began raining. Beautiful warm rain soaked the slates and cobbles outside our casita, making it look like a display of sole on a fishmonger’s slab.
For a short while, everything glistened. There was a strange smell too. The hundreds of fallen figs seemed to soak up the moisture and release a jammy aroma like fermenting wine. Possum – who associates rain with mousing, as they’re driven out from their hiding places – became agitated.
The rain stopped and the heat dried the grass, the leaves of the fig tree and the stones.
It’s the first time the sky has been grey and not that blue you gaze up to as a kid lying on your back in the grass, wondering how space can be black.
The blue skies should be back tomorrow, but if it’s not, that’s fine. Rain must always be welcome here, surely.
And flies, to hell with you!