On a whim I write, several weeks of excuses to not to do so, but now finally it is all quiet once again. The moody skylines return, one big turn in temperature still to come to shock all the green leaves which are nervously hanging on. The mushroom traffic in their reliable old Skoda's have been returning but fields around haven't provided the feast which was available last year. Instead the crocuses have sprouted if not trampled on by deer or Jaffa's paws. Jozef's old Combine Harvester still sits happily nestled on the tree-line of the meadow, abandoned after a second cut last month. A trust with us to keep an eye on it we presume, but we don't know for how long. And now time is only dictated by the daylight and the hens and not by who is arriving. That time is slowly running shorter, especially as the distracting neighbourly gossip rants pick up back to the pre-summer levels. Plenty to say or at least for me to listen to.
The 3 w's of wood, warmth and winter and then some hopeful, incredible breakthrough in my language skills. I don't tire of this just yet, even with those slog months to come.