Everything is 'busting out all over' now. I love this time of year, before everything begins to look tired and windblown.
We have two bats. I don't know what kind they are, but all the time I have lived on the farm (twenty one years) we have always had two bats. Can they be the same two? How long do bats live?
We see them flying up and down the yard at dusk every night. They obviously never have babies or the group would get bigger, so we can only assume they are the same sex!
My poor Buff Orpington cockerel died yesterday. It was a hot, sunny day and he used to make a nice dust bath for himself by the holly hedge in the pasture. When the farmer walked down the field at tea time yesterday with Tess, he was there as usual but he had died at some time during the day. He must have been seven or eight years old and he has been slowing down over the past year, but I am sad to see him go.
Looking through a piece for today's date in a book by Derwent May, who writes the Times daily Nature Notes, I see he is writing about field poppies. I love them. They have become symbolic of the loss of life in war. As children we used to pick bunches of them but they usually died before we got them home - or at the very least lost some of their petals. As I write this I remember how, as children, we used to make dolls from poppies by bending the petals back and tying them round the middle with a blade of grass, thus making a red dress and leaving a 'head' of the seed head. We would take bunches of these home.
It's funny how things like this come back to one out of the blue. Simple country pleasures which seem to have all but died out in this computer age.