I am sitting at a heavy, oak table on a beamed and shady terrace. There are six oak chairs and an oilskin tablecloth which is spotted lime green and chestnut. The only sound is from the crickets, whirring in the old plum trees. It's called stridulation - that sound they make rubbing legs or wings together - and it conjures up this place. The plums are small, navy blue and dusted with white. Some are have fallen already, forming a raisiny carpet on the prickly ground and little brown butterflies are feasting.
Beyond the wrinkly trees is a rough border of herbs. The lavender and rosemary dance with bright insects: there is a large citrus butterfly with tangerine wing spots; small blue ones; swallowtails and hummingbird hawk-moths. Whip smart lizards lie in the heat, hidden in their cream and brown stripes.
The air is hot and heavy in my throat and eyes. It smells of heat and herbs, dust and pepper. There is patchy, scratchy grass underfoot, pale and littered with dried leaves. The harvest is in and in the distant meadow the bales are sitting fatly, round and golden. Fig trees give a splash of green. Their flat veined leaves are deeply lobed, divided into three teardrop shaped sections, New figs, tiny and pale, cling to the angle where the stem meets the branch.
July 2019
