All The World’s A Stage

It’s baling day.  It’s hot.  It’s after lunch on a Saturday.

I notice this year times have already changed and the familiar rumble-chumble of the old wooden baling contraption that’s normally hired in by the village has been superceded by a shiny little piece of kit by John Deere.  Which of course compels me to hum that irresistible little song by The Worzels for the rest of the afternoon.

I guess bailing’s going to be quicker this year – especially as the harvest was poxy.  Less work and more fun.  Nobody seems in much of a hurry to start.

I want to join in but today I’m stuck inside painting the landing.  As I move on to the window frames I am tickled by the sight of my neighbours hanging around waiting to start, all rosy and glowing and full of post-luncheon silliness.

Sometimes I feel like I’m living on a set for Fiddler On the Roof or something.

And of course the sight of me poking a camera out the window at them just makes them even sillier.  I had of course underestimated that it was the weekend and just after lunch.

I like the Portuguese way.  It’s a good way.

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