This is how it goes down here... in the very most and utterly South West corner of England... er... sorry... Cornwall.
Yesterday we's wrapped up in grey mist. Can't see a thing. A bit of clearance driving to St Just with Big Sis for lunch and a mooch. But getting close to St Just itself? Grey mist. Can't see a thing.
Today - it is bright, frightening sun. The Old Man and I must have his Sunday Walk. I say -
"Don't want the beach today! 'T will be like trekking the Sahara Desert... with gulls."
So we go inland to the wood, where the small river flows along its edge.
Aaah... Chiffchaffs chiffchaffing, buzzards circling way up high. Crickets and grasshoppers bounce out the way as we walk the path. On the wooden bridges we stop and stare at the water as it flows more sluggish, cos of the grass and weed that developed during last year's drought and still thrives.
From one bridge we watch a slender, bronzy, damsel fly resting on a blade of grass. From the other bridge we watch a magnificent Emperor dragonfly hunting above the water, turquoise and green, built like a helicopter. (see my Post from last September "In the eye of a dragonfly") Suddenly another dragonfly, smaller maybe, joins it above the water. They fly and tousle. I don't think this is friendly. The Emperor holds its competitor against the water's surface. And the enemy admits defeat and flies off, leaving Emperor to continue hunting.
Splash! Splash! A small Jack Russell is paddling upstream.
"Come on lazy, swim..." calls its Owner, "....Can't take him on the beach for a swim, see." he says. (Summertime ban on dogs on beaches.)
"Yes you can," say we... "Down Long Rock. Beach full of dogs."
We leave the paddling terrier and the scattered birds and dragonflies. Go back home for The Old Man to see to his rising bread dough.