My recycling bag after a few days at das Boot suggests Bacchanalian evenings, and massive fruit consumption. The fruit consumption would be about right. I was reading and nibbling at a newly washed bunch of grapes this evening, only to realise suddenly I had eaten the lot. The impressive number of empty wine bottles is rather more deceptive. I brought two almost empty ones from London. Or rather one almost empty one (it turned out to have barely enough to cover the bottom of the glass), and one somewhat less than half full. Those are the two empties in the recycling. Then there are two lager cans, so I feel quite justified in quaffing a glass of Chianti tonight, toasting the evening and das Boot, wishing I could stay on and didn't have to return home tomorrow.
Geese are flying overhead in a V formation, noisily talking as they go. The cuckoo has stopped singing. But the swifts and swallows are swooping about, grazing the surface of the water, munching the numerous insects. The light is fading from the sky, leaving streaks of pale blue and silver tinged with pink. Only three weeks to mid summer and the evening is long and warm.
I'd post pictures, but Blogsy seems strangely reluctant to allow them, so it's all prose when afloat until I can work out what that's about. I'll try including one that has seen the light of blog before and see if that works.
This morning started bright and then turned cold. I was off to the cemetery to meet Nial and Janet, friends of Mother and Aunt. Both have agreed, with Linda, to tend to Aunt's grave. They had seeds for wild flowers that should attract butterflies and bees, but we thought lavender would be good too, and so went to Tuddenham Nursery, a place new to me, and somewhere I wish I could have taken Aunt in those last months. We chose plants, including one for the place where my father's ashes are interred, then went into the admirable café for refreshments, before heading back to the cemetery for some planting. Just three plants made all the difference. We'll get more, but immediately the headstone looked softer, Aunt's spirit seemed to approve choices, and we gazed upon it with a mixture of emotion and satisfaction. Unsurprisingly much of our conversation was about Aunt and her funeral, her determination to die in her own home, the wonderful support from Linda and Rita which made that possible.
Well I wrote that about ninety minutes ago before MasterB signalled he wanted shore leave. The Chianti is more welcome than ever as he wasn't in his harness, and I made the mistake of looking away as he approached the undergrowth that separates the marina from the neighbouring farm, I looked down to see the tip of his tail disappearing where I could not follow. He must have enjoyed himself. I didn't. Forty-five anxious minutes until I heard the slight jingle of a bell and his nose peeped out at me. I'd had visions of spending the night watching the bank, making sure he came home safe; other visions where he was hurt, trapped; that I never saw him again. To say I was pleased to see him is an understatement. He was rather full of himself and skipped away so it was several minutes before I had him in his harness. Another twenty before I pulled the plug on his explorations and bore him back to das Boot. Yes, I'm proud of him. Yes, I am glad he had his moments of freedom. No, he will not be going out at the marina without his harness on tomorrow. The evening does not feel quite as peaceful as it did earlier on. And I am very glad that the Cat of the blog is alive and aboard das Boot with me right now.