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and the familiar rumble-chumble of the old wooden baling contraption that’s normally hired in by the village has been superceded by a shiny little piece of kit by John Deere.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.
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.