Fig

 

Fig (Ficus cariba)

Many years ago, I used to park next to a huge fig tree, which eventually fell foul to a redevelopment scheme. I’m sure you know the sort of thing; everything old and established is knocked down or simply outshone by new and exciting establishments, which quickly become unsustainable. Within a decade, the ‘new’ looks worse than the old did, and the original heart of the town has been scraped clean of pleasant places to shop.

I loved the shape of the fig tree leaves in the car park. I don’t know whether it produced fruit; I wasn’t interested enough to look, as I don’t care for figs. One might say, I didn’t give a fig about figs!

Although figs had been grown outside in Britain by the 17^th century, the trees were not widely available for sale to the general public, but many years ago, we managed to buy a small ‘Brown Turkey’ tree. We had been advised to contain the roots, so Barry set to and dug a deep, wide hole. I cannot remember now what he placed around the sides to deter the roots, or, indeed, whether the containment was successful. We didn’t find junior fig trees popping up all over the garden, so I suppose what he did worked.

                Squirrels were quick to take advantage of freely accessible food

The tree grew and grew and was soon a splendid specimen, and a wonderful structure from which to suspend bird feeders. (At that time, the cats were confined to a small outdoor area and presented no danger to the wildlife.) There was great excitement when the first fruits were discovered a few years after planting. In the ensuing period, the tree cropped well, and Barry was delighted because he likes figs.

I took handfuls of leaves to school so that the children could experiment with making clothes from them. That was fun.

Then, the tree died, almost overnight. They usually live between thirty and fifty years, though some have been nursed along for one to two hundred years. Ours can only have been about fifteen years old, so a mere adolescent.

            There may only be two figs, but they are already a good size!

Now, we have two fig trees, of different ages, given to us at different times by our eldest daughter. The smaller one already has figs! The taller one needs to be transplanted to a larger container and placed where it’s not overshadowed by the feijoa and the pyracantha.

What is the origin of the saying, ‘I don’t give a fig’? It was based on the obscene Spanish gesture of contempt, made by holding the thumb between the first and second fingers, a forerunner of the more widely understood V sign. It was known in Shakespeare’s time as ‘The Fig of Spain.’  The modern expression is gentler, implying indifference to something, rather than lewdness. It is probably rather outdated now. The modern equivalent might be, ‘I don’t give a stuff’ or something ruder.

People are interesting

 

People are interesting

The television was on, but the sound was turned off. It’s much the best way to watch television some days.

We wanted to watch something last night and tried three or four forgettable series until we found one that we thought would be passable. It soon became apparent that it was dire.

The good actors in it, and there were some, were having a devil of a job trying to inject life and meaning into a poor script. They were also supporting some other actors who were trying really hard but were all too clearly struggling.

When I look at some who have managed to claw their way to ‘the top’ to become slebs, I wonder who decides which characters should climb the greasy pole to the pinnacle. Be thankful I don’t have any influence in such matters. There would be an exceedingly small pool of performers if I did.

We saw the programme through to the bitter end, goodness knows why, but that wasn’t what I was thinking about at the beginning of this diatribe.

As I watched the voiceless speaker, I found myself wondering what he had looked like as a younger man. He was still pleasant-looking, but life was starting to leave its mark on him. He had a beautiful, engaging smile and I could imagine him being an entertaining companion, but he was beginning to look ‘used.’ Too much rich food, too much alcohol, other unwise choices, perhaps, or maybe he just wasn’t getting enough sleep. Whatever the cause, his youthful good looks were being overlaid with . . . age, I suppose. I could imagine him as a young blade, setting maidenly or manly hearts aflutter, and I could believe that he still might have such an effect, though it might take a little longer for the flame to catch.

I don’t know his name, and may never see him again, but he was interesting to watch, expressions chasing each other across his face. Watching another person, really observing them, is illuminating and endlessly fascinating.

It’s unfair that some people barely change their appearance throughout their lives and look much the same at eighty as they did at twelve, or even as babies. Is it their genes that decide that, or their mode of life? It’s probably a combination of both.

Even those who appear unrecognisable from the earlier selves seen in photographs occasionally reveal a little of their youth, in a gesture, an inclination of their head, a fleeting expression.

Ultimately, while pleasing looks may be an initial attraction, it is character which is the most important feature in the forging of a relationship, whether that is platonic or romantic, social or business.

Elderflower and elderberry

 

Elderflower and elderberry

Some of the flowers are a darker pink.

Our next-door neighbour has a lovely Sambucus nigra variant in her garden. Every year we appreciated its dark foliage and pretty pink sprays of flowers. Eventually, we decided to acquire our own. I was unpacking it, ready to plant it in the garden, when a small piece broke off. I put it in a little pot, not expecting much from it, and, to my surprise and delight, it put down roots and grew. So, now we have two. I have since discovered that it is very difficult to eradicate sambucus as it readily grows from root fragments.

We also have a common elderflower, with green leaves and white flowers. All the elderflowers grow vigorously and attract bees, butterflies, and other pollinators. The berries, which succeed the flowers, are an important food source for birds in autumn.

Of course, they can be used to make elderberry gin, jam, or jelly, if the flowers haven’t already been used in elderflower wine or cordial. Our trees are grown to attract wildlife – they need the flowers and berries more than we do.

It was once believed to have magical powers. Burning the wood might cause the Devil to appear, but growing an elderberry tree next to the house denied him access. Some people call it the Judas tree, because legend holds that Judas Iscariot hanged himself from the branch of an elder tree.

Sambucus is deciduous, so each spring sees a rebirth of fresh growth and life.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Exploding fish

 

Exploding fish

Soused herrings

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Quite dramatic, eh? To be precise, it wasn’t the fish that exploded, but the container. As Barry opened the fridge door, the jar of pickled fish was sucked out and crashed to the tiled floor. It went off like a bomb, broadcasting glass shards across the kitchen.

The cats were indifferent, but the dogs were immediately and irrationally excited by the event. Fortunately, they are obedient and ever anxious to please, so they managed to resist the plump sections of herring marinated with dill. I gather the air went a bit blue, but I was in the shower room and didn’t hear anything to sully my ears.

I came downstairs to an atmosphere redolent with vinegar. Most of the glass fragments had been gathered, and the floor washed, but tiny slivers continue to wink at us as we go about the usual tasks. Doing my exercises while waiting for the kettle to boil, I spied shiny splinters hiding on the tiles, the sort that can be seen from one angle, but not another, thus making them almost impossible to pick up.

Like water, or any liquid, glass is dispersed far and wide, as though it’s trying to spread its seed and grow new crops. Just imagine if we could grow our own jars and bottles. I suppose we could, now, in a sense, with 3D printers.

Maybe I should return to making my own soused herrings. The last time I did that was fourteen years ago, but with mackerel rather than herring. Same difference - they're both pickled! 

Mackerel 

 Ready for pickling

Sourcing fresh herrings is not straightforward. A quick look online informs me that I could buy 7kg for £45.00 (plus £6.95 delivery) or ten fillets for £29. 10 at a cost of £6.90 for delivery. Alternatively, I could order one kg for £13.18, plus £19.99 delivery, or one kg for £6.50 with a delivery charge of £10.00 - that would be significantly cheaper. Nonetheless, fish is no longer a cheap meal and hasn’t been for some while.

I don’t think I’ll bother, but I won’t be buying any more jars of pickled fish, either. I wonder if the fish had actually been fermenting, though I had bought it recently and stored it in the fridge immediately after unpacking. The ‘use by’ date was some long way in the future, so it should have been all right.

Now, I have to think of something else to go with our evening salad. I’m sure I’ll manage, but if all else fails we could always have bread and pullet (pull-it is an old family joke!) 

Natural energy bars

 

Natural energy bars

Susannah recommended some ‘energy bars’ she had discovered and enjoyed. I sent off for some. I couldn’t buy them singly so had to order a mixed box of sixteen, four each of four different flavours. The recipes were blueberries and chia seeds, red berries and quinoa, apricot, chia and pumpkin seeds, and cacao, coconut, and chia seeds.

I tried the red berries and quinoa first. The taste was quite intense and sweet, and my overall impression was of highly flavoured cardboard. Barry finished that one and declared it, ‘All right. Quite nice as energy bars go,’ which was damning with faint praise. I then sampled an apricot, chia, and pumpkin seed. That was less sweet, but not pleasant. Again, Barry finished it and repeated his opinion, along with, ‘I’ve tasted worse.’

I don’t think I’ll try the other two. I could do with the energy, but these bars are just not nice, at least, not for me. Susannah can take the rest home later this week, as she really likes them.

I have deliberately not named the brand. The vegan bars are made in the UK from natural ingredients, and nicely presented, in colourful wrappings, which are not claimed to be recyclable. The makers emphasise that no palm oil is used, and support the wildlife charities, Born Free, Orangutan Appeal and Say NO to Palm Oil.

Is dread too strong a word?

 

Is dread too strong a word?

We joke that Bank holidays are the times that Jellicoe likes to test us. He usually waits until the evening, but it was mid-morning today when he jangled our nerves. It was time for elevenses, and while Herschel and the dogs were alert and keen, Jellicoe was nowhere to be seen.

He had been sitting on the bridge over the pond, earlier. It’s his favourite place in the garden, where he can keep an eye ‘over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth,’ as Genesis tells us. Flying things, too, are another interest of his, though he doesn’t usually bother with butterflies and dragonflies.

I called, ‘Cats, cats, cats,’ which usually brings him running, but that failed. I then tried shaking the treats tin, full of tasty dried liver (!), which normally causes him to race towards me. Nothing!

Barry went out to look for him and found him lying on the ground, miaouing to be picked up. He brought him indoors and set him down, but he was lethargic and rather uncoordinated, staggering a little. We decided it was time to try the honey remedy. A fingerful of orange blossom honey was rubbed around his gums and mouth, and within a couple of minutes he had revived sufficiently to eat his food, although he didn’t finish it. However, he wanted to investigate Herschel’s bowl, as usual! It's a variation of the grass always being greener on the other side.

We put him and the remains of his food in the conservatory and shut him in there for peace. We applied some more honey, and he ate a little more of his food. I conducted a fifteen-second breath count, and it was within limits, so we left him. When I went to check on him twenty minutes later, it was hot in the conservatory and he was breathing rapidly, so I opened the door and sat with him for a while.

After the air had cooled, Jellicoe’s breathing was at the higher end of the normal range, but slower. The mid-afternoon feed will tell us more, perhaps, but I have a feeling our bank holiday weekend is going to follow a familiar pattern with Jellicoe visiting his friends at the vet.

We are beginning to dread bank holidays!

Later: the three o’clock feed went well. Jellicoe came bouncing into the sitting room when the Alexa alarm sounded. He seemed to want to eat in the conservatory, so I gave him Herschel’s food and Herschel had Jellicoe’s.

There is just one more meal for the cats today, at 7:00 pm, so we’ll keep our fingers crossed until that one has been completed, hopefully successfully. 

Rehash

 

Rehash

This is a story from some time ago, brushed up and polished a little. I hope you enjoy it.

 

A Night to Remember

Was I dreaming, or had a noise outside woken me? Whichever it was, I was instantly alert, my body tense, my eyes straining in the velvet black, my heart pounding in my ears. The little noises that are swallowed up in the daily round were insistent and sinister in the small hours of the night. Identifying each one, the settling of the floorboards, the creaking of the wooden walls, the scuttling of small creatures in the roof, I convinced myself there was nothing to fear and tried to relax.

I had bought the shack a few months ago as a summer retreat. It was a simple construction and had neither electricity nor plumbing, but it suited my requirement for a peaceful refuge in bucolic surroundings. My working life was demanding, and I wanted a place in which I could relax completely.

On a sunny day, it was no hardship to fetch water from the well and heat it on the paraffin stove, though it was a different matter when rain pelted from a slate sky, and a sharp wind cut through my clothes. I should not have cared to spend the colder days of the year in my rustic accommodation, but living in it for brief periods helped me to appreciate the modern conveniences of my city apartment.

There was just one thing I had never quite grown accustomed to, but it played a minor role in my rural retreat and I planned my days with care to deal with it. I had grown honeysuckle and jasmine around and over the privy, both to make it look more attractive, and to mask the smell. I didn’t enjoy visiting it in the dark, especially on a stormy night, but sometimes I had to.

Having been startled awake, I realised I needed to venture out to use it. I lit oil lamps and candles in the house as a beacon in the darkness for my return. It was a warm, moonless night, with bright pinpricks of starlight in the enormity of space. I looked up and shivered, though not from cold. There was a strange atmosphere in the clearing around my shelter, as if eyes were watching me. In the distance, a dog barked, and was answered by another.

 Not for the first time, I wished I had a dog, but it wasn’t practical in the city, and certainly not fair, as I worked long hours. Perhaps I should start a dog hire company to accommodate people like me. It would be rather hard on the dogs, though, having to adapt to different ‘owners’ all the time. The idea amused me and distracted me from the conviction that I was not alone.

Returning to my little refuge, I was shocked to see that my beacon had disappeared. I could understand one or two of the candles guttering out. The ever-present wind sneaked through every small gap in the log walls, but the lamp flames were protected by glass shades. How could they have been extinguished?

A silent-winged owl soared above my head, making me start and clutch my dressing gown to myself. I felt a touch on my shoulder, and looked round, but saw nothing. I hurried along the path, and something grabbed at my ankles and tugged my hair. I shook myself free and stumbled on. Gasping, I reached the door and fumbled the latch. Inside, I felt for the emergency candles on the windowsill. I was trembling so much that I dropped several matches, but when the candles and lamps had chased away the darkness, I looked around.

Nothing had changed and yet everything had changed. I sensed a tangible presence and noticed a circle of flower petals on the floor. I had not brought any flowers into the house.

I spent the rest of the night in my rocking chair, every available candle and lamp ablaze. As night faded and dawn approached, I needed clean air and fresh water, and went to the well. All around, I heard faint rustlings and whisperings and caught half-glimpses of creatures slipping into the woods surrounding the clearing. There were more flower petals around the base of the well. I felt that I was not alone and yet I was - completely alone. I regretted the lack of close neighbours. My rural shelter had become a nightmare. Was it of my own making? Had I imagined the events of the night?

I sold the property soon afterwards, my sense of peace having been shattered and replaced with a feeling of alienation.

Years later, I was talking to a friend about that night.

‘What time of year was it?’ he asked.

‘Summer, midsummer,’ I said.

‘And there was a well on your land?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It was the fairies,’ he said.

I laughed, incredulous.

‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Midsummer’s Night is a magical time, when the veil between this life and another is very thin. I’d say that your well was an ancient holy well. You didn’t observe the rituals, so the fairies were angry with you.’

I shook my head, unable to believe him.

He smiled at me, and nodded. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ he quoted.

Maybe he was right.

More noises in the night

 

More noises in the night

In February, it was screaming foxes that disturbed my sleep. Last night, something else woke me at 3.00 a.m. There were three distinct cries, loud and insistent enough to alert Herschel and Jellicoe. They leapt off the bed and assumed position on the windowsill, prising open the wooden shutters to try and see what was happening.

The first and loudest was the clattering call of a magpie. This is often an alarm call, frequently heard in daylight hours, but uncommon in the wee small hours. It continued for around fifteen minutes.

 At the same time, a female tawny owl was calling persistently, a soft ‘kee-wick,’ but there was no corresponding ‘hoo-hoo’ from a male, so she was clearly not inviting a mate.

 A third higher-pitched sound created a counterpoint to the first two sounds. In musical notation, the score (ahem!) would have appeared as an ostinato bass clef A, a repeated middle C ‘kee-wick,’ and a high C exclamation.

I think the quick high C may have been a cry for help from an unfortunate rodent. This cry is an attempt to make the predator desist, or to warn others of imminent danger. It is not often successful.

I wondered, though, if Mrs Owl was attempting to procure a magpie fledgling snack, and that was why the adult was rattling so vigorously. I also wondered if there was more than one owl marauding, and that was the reason for so many high-pitched squeaks.

After twenty minutes, peace was restored, the cats abandoned their vigil and returned to my legs, and night-time slumber claimed us all once more.

Naturally, Barry and the dogs slept through it all.

There was no evidence in the garden this morning of any murder, but then there rarely is.

 

Why do dogs yawn?

 

Why do dogs yawn?

This morning I noticed both Roxy and Gilbert yawning before they went out for their walk. They had been dressed in their collars and were waiting to leave, not taking their eyes off Barry, alert to every movement.

I know that dogs sometimes yawn to alleviate stress, so if a dog yawns when a small child is fussing around it, it might be a good idea to intervene. Small humans don’t understand dog signals and dogs can only communicate in non-linguistic ways. Because of this, it is never a good idea to leave young children alone with dogs of any size. A dog disciplines its puppies by biting and shaking, but puppies have protective fur, not delicate skin, and will not be harmed. Humans have no such protection and can and will be severely damaged.

I’ve never been bitten in anger, but once was caught by Frodo’s teeth when he was unaware during a seizure. It hurt – a lot – and it bruised badly. He would have been mortified, my Velcro dog.

I looked up other reasons for canine yawning. Tiredness can cause it, but my dogs were anticipating an enjoyable outing. Dogs may yawn to calm themselves or each other, or to indicate submission and that they are not presenting a threat. Roxy and Gilbert know each other very well and do not have to compete for their position in the pack. In any case, they are working Labradors, bred to cooperate with people, and other dogs.

Dogs may also yawn in an attempt to regulate their body temperature, in much the same way as panting. They can also show contentment through yawning when they are being caressed. Sometimes, they will yawn in response to their people yawning. 

None of these causes fitted the situation, so it was clear that they were yawning because they were excited. Now, a few hours later, they are relaxed and sleeping, Roxy spread out in a dog bed and Gilbert keeping my feet warm. I don’t think he will ever grow out of that endearing puppy habit of seeking refuge next to me. 

                 Emerging from the pond, each with their own ball!

Appointments

 

Appointments

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

We had a couple of days of appointments this week. On Monday, Barry had his nose examined again. Apparently, there’s still ‘something’ there, despite it all having been excavated for the second time three months ago. Now, he’s got to anoint his schnozzle three times a week with a cream, and then go back to talk about dogs’ diets in another three months.

Whatever he does, and whoever he sees, Barry opens up all sorts of conversations with people. Debbie, the nose consultant/plastic surgeon, has a twelve-week-old Golden Retriever puppy, and they were discussing its dietary requirements.

 On other occasions, he will be discussing the First World War (a particular interest of his) photography, space exploration, the origins of the Internet, and a myriad other things that fascinate him. By contrast, I am quite tight-lipped, and discuss only the things for which my appointments are made. Barry is a talker, and I am a listener, so our partnership works well. To be fair, he also listens extremely carefully, and retains information like a sponge.

Yesterday, he had appointments with the hygienist and the dentist, and today it was my turn. I found that the gap created by the extraction of my molar had affected my speech – one less surface for my tongue to strike against. I am accustomed to it now and no-one else has commented that my speech is less clear than it ever was. Anyway, Vishal explained the options, but he’s going to be a little disappointed in me, since I’ve thought about it again and decided to do without an implant, bridge, or denture. If I were still talking for a living, I might think differently about it, but I’m not, so I won’t.

Then I saw the hygienist, a lovely young woman who is always very encouraging. She chatters the whole time she’s working, but she’s not attempting to have a conversation. She seems to be telling herself what she has to do next. It’s really pleasant listening to her as she almost sings her instructions to herself above the noise of whichever tool she’s using.

So, that was the excitement for today.

We were promised rain. We had a small amount during the night – about one millimetre. There was thunder and a short downpour when Barry was out with the dogs, but that was it. The sun is shining in a watery sort of way.

No doubt, when the forecast rain does fall in earnest, it will be a deluge of Biblical proportions. 

Identification

 

Identification

CJ of CJ & Ink suggested that an app called iNaturalist could be helpful in identifying my apricot bug, so I downloaded the app. Thank you, CJ.

The first identification told me it was a ‘plant bug’ in the Miridae family thus agreeing with Steve Reed’s opinion that it was a flower bug. Thank you, Steve.

A second identification then identified the bug as a ‘true bug’ in the suborder Heteroptera, of which Miridae is a member.

So, we’re all agreed with Andrew that the interloper is ‘a bug.’ Thank you, Andrew.

I looked up whether plant bugs and true bugs were the same – that is, were the terms interchangeable. The short answer is, ‘No.’

True bugs belong in the Hemiptera order, of which plant bugs, in the Miridae order, are a subset.

I don’t think I’ll take up entomology as anything other than a passing interest – it gets very complicated very quickly.

Thank you, everyone.

Every day, something new . . .

 

Every day, something new . . .

Of all the dogs we have known and loved, Gilbert is the one who has proved to be the most interested in parcels. He is extremely excited when a parcel is delivered, whatever the dimensions of the package, and his nose is pressed as closely as it can be when a box is unwrapped.

 He can hardly wait to investigate the contents and I’m sure he thinks he is helping.

It the parcel contains something food-related, like ‘Whimzees’ dog chews, or ‘Thrive’ cat treats, he becomes ever more attentive. Sometimes, if he is very lucky, he might receive a treat, and so might Roxy, who is always watching.

Occasionally, a box may contain plants, and they are especially fascinating. Dogs learn so much through their noses and are often to be found burying their heads among the plants, either in the garden or the conservatory.

Once the contents have been revealed, Gilbert is happy to resume whatever he was doing beforehand, usually sleeping.

Apricots

 

Apricots

Still hanging on!

Will the apricots survive this year? Usually, most of them drop off before they’re fully ripe. We have a number of fruits this year, but this photograph shows a developing apricot with a small passenger.

I have attempted to identify it, but without success. I wondered if it was an apricot weevil, but it doesn’t seem to have a long ‘nose.’ The nose is called a rostrum. I wonder if orchestra conductors realise they are standing on a nose?

Any entomologists out there?

Flowering cactus

Flowering cactus

Close-up of developing flower, cropped from a larger shot

                              This is what it looked like in May 2024

Gingerbread man

 

Gingerbread man

Run, run, as fast as you can,
You can’t catch me,
I’m the Gingerbread man.

While scrutinising the online shelves the other day, looking for something different, I chanced upon a gingerbread man, one of the joys of (my) childhood. I was intrigued, so ordered one.

The little man came wrapped in tissue paper in his own cardboard coffin, for want of a better word (!) The box lid has a line illustration that just begs to be coloured in.

He was beautifully iced, with a wonderfully cheery smile, and holding a colourful bunch of flowers. He was created by Biscuiteers, a company new to me, but apparently a household name since its inception in 2007.

The company offers an alternative to flowers and chocolates as gift options for birthdays, anniversaries, and other celebrations. There are themed biscuits, gift hampers, icing workshops, afternoon tea events, corporate gifts, and many more imaginative outlets. All their goods are handmade and therefore unique.

The Biscuiteers website is colourful and attractive. The merchandise is not cheap, but considering the work that goes into each item, it is reasonably priced for something one would not consider an everyday purchase.

I have not eaten the gingerbread man – he is guaranteed to remain fresh for at least three months. He may be joined by a gingerbread friend for a couple of smaller relatives.

 

First aid

 

First aid

Cross stitch waiting to be started

I wasn’t expecting to use the bee remedy I mentioned in yesterday’s post so soon, if at all, but this morning, Barry found a bee on the conservatory floor. He picked her up and took her outside away from curious cats and dogs.

I mixed a sugar water solution and fed it to the bee, which was very sluggish and disorientated. After several minutes I picked her up on a stem of herb robert (Geranium robertianum, wild geranium) and put her on a ceanothus flower. She is breathing and moving around, but not making any effort to fly, and it is now several hours since she was first found. It is also rather cool and breezy, not the best conditions for a weakly bee, so I don’t really hold out much hope for her, but at least she’s got a full tummy.

I don’t know what species of bee she is; all I do know is that she is not a honey bee. She is such a little creature, so fragile, so important.

Another cross stitch waiting to be started

As busy as a bee

 

As busy as a bee

All images courtesy Wikimedia Commons

There wouldn’t be sunflowers,
Wouldn’t be peas,
Wouldn’t be apples,
On apple trees,
If it weren’t for fuzzy old,
Buzzy old bees,
Dusting pollen
From their knees.

Aileen Fisher (1906-2002)

It has been a pleasure to see so many bees recently in the garden, flying from flower to flower, taking the nectar and filling their pollen baskets. 

 Honey bees usually sleep for up to eight hours at night-time in the hive, though they will sometimes sleep in flowers. Young bees may take frequent daytime naps.

Sleeping bees sometimes hold each other’s legs, but a single bee may fall over sideways, holding on with its mandibles to its sleeping post.

Some bees require emergency treatment. A bee that is not flying or collecting nectar is a bee needing help. The quickest way to help it is to find a flower. Otherwise, prepare a sugar water solution of one part sugar to two parts water, and offer it to the bee. Sugar water should not be left out for bees as a general rule, because it will not give them the nutrition they need and may prevent them from visiting flowers and pollinating them. One would think that honey would be a good thing to offer tired bees, but that is a way of introducing potential disease to a colony.

It can take as long as thirty minutes for a bee to recover sufficiently to gather enough energy to fly away.                                                     

However, if the bee does not respond and consume the sugar water, it is likely that she has reached the end of her life.

I have never seen a sleeping bee and the photographs I have included in this post show something I hope I will one day experience.

Manners maketh man . . . and woman

 

Manners maketh man . . . and woman

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Our local community Facebook group published two pleas recently.

The first was from the driver of a funeral hearse. Making its stately way to the crematorium, it was overtaken by a driver so impatient that he or she felt the need to sound the car’s horn. It’s possible that the car driver had an emergency and needed to reach his/her. destination post haste, but although hearses proceed at a slower speed than most other road users, they are not moving so slowly that they hold up following traffic to any great degree.

If there is to be a large procession of mourners’ cars, which can cause delays, the police issue warning notices so that people can find alternative routes. That doesn’t happen very often, and in this case, there were only two cars. The funeral director was upset, and asked for respect to be shown, but I imagine the mourners were even more distressed.

The second plea came from a cyclist who was nearly mown down by a huge SUV heading straight for her as it closely overtook three cyclists on the opposite side of the road. The shaken cyclist asked for awareness of other road users. Again, taking a charitable view, possibly the driver had an emergency. Perhaps drivers of super-sized vehicles on our narrow, twisting roads forget what they are driving, or maybe they think everyone else should just get out of the way, or preferably, not use the roads at all.

What is happening to commonsense, responsibility, and respect?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

 

Pinched!

Pinched!

We could learn a lot from ants about how to live communally. They're not peaceable creatures, though.

. . . if you B&Q it!