I’m currently hiding in the kitchen scowling at some decidedly inclement weather on the other side of the window. The dangerous side of the window.
I’m sitting here primarily because I was losing the will to live in my boil-in-the-bag all weather gear. I appreciate that the upmarket stuff that I was wearing is supposed to breathe, but the breathing mechanism seems to sort of break down a bit when one is covered from head to toe in atomised weeds, grass and rabbit*. As if further justification for my wanton procrastination were required, the weather arrived in grand style in the form of a whopping great lightning storm. And Thor saw fit to lob his sizzling javelins as your correspondent was stood at the top of a hill, soaking wet, clutching a metal strimmer; which is perhaps a less obvious lightning conductor than a golf club, but was still likely to get the job done.
*I saw first hand why I am stalked by a collection of buzzards every time that I take the tractor out this morning. I was innocently tidying up the bits of grass that the mower can’t cut and blew up the carcass of a rabbit that had previously been clobbered by the mower.
The downturn in the weather is particularly galling as, if all – and I mean all – forms of media are to be believed, the weather is utterly wonderful everywhere else (except the bit of France where all the rain is coming from, I don’t why that makes it it worse, it just does). When one adds the fact that the vines are very nearly about to flower to the mix, the news stories about trains and roller coasters being cancelled because the people who operate them have forgotten what happens in summer are completely intolerable.
If you have been with us for a while or just know how the flowers work on vines, you will be aware that rainfall at this time of year is not our friend. In the first half of July (in Chudleigh at least), the inner workings of the flower that have been encased in fused petals (which look at little like tiny grapes) emerge when those petals fall off. The interesting parts of the flower are covered in pollen, which is blown around the vineyard during the flowering process, lands on another flower and makes little grape babies. In turn, we smash those babies to pieces and make wine from their blood (I accept that I may have taken that analogy a little far, I blame this morning’s horror show with the strimmer).
Vine flowers rely on the wind as opposed to insects** to facilitate the movement of their pollen from one flower to another. Grass is pollinated in the same way which explains the rather uninspiring flowers that have evolved on both. As any hay fever sufferer will know, all that wonderful/miserable pollen is mysteriously absent when it is raining. This is because it has been washed onto the floor, as opposed to being in the air, looking for flowers to make delicious grape babies with.
**There is a limited amount of pollination carried out by pollen and solider beetles, or the very occasional bee, but this is more of a happy coincidence sort of a deal. Vines don’t advertise.
At the time of writing, only the very earliest of flowers have emerged – I’m not about to start counting, but I’d guess that 1% or so wouldn’t be far off the mark – so all is not yet lost. The forecast over the next few days shows an improving picture, so logically there should be wall to wall sunshine and nary a drop of rain until the end of October. Cross your fingers please.
Something awful happened the other week that was as surprising as it was disappointing. Our previously invincible Hilux pickup sort of ground to a halt and refused to start again. In truth, I blame myself for this mishap. After six years of faultless service – other than bits falling off it on account of all the rust – I committed the cardinal sin of treating it to a new starter motor, an oil change and even a tyre that was full of air, as opposed to that aerosol stuff that cheapskates (that’d be me then) fix punctures with. After all that pampering, it was an absolute nailed on certainty that it was going to keel over and die at the first available opportunity.
This posed a bit of a problem. At any other time of year this would mean a bit more fetching and carrying on foot, but the pick up is also my portable water supply (in a tank on the back) for spraying during the growing season. As I have successfully deluded myself that using a person mounted sprayer as opposed to a tractor mounted sprayer was a better bet for murdering the mildew every couple of weeks, this promised to become a major problem rather quickly.
Once I had wiped the tears from my eyes, shouted a bit, poked it with a screwdriver and scratched my head for a moment, I had a solution and rushed out to the shop for farmers down the road. And in absolutely no time I was sat in the tractor, looking at a pick up cab full of wife and children that was tethered to the front of the tractor with a tow rope. It was attached to the front of the tractor as I couldn’t find a handy place to hook it onto the back, so we looked very ridiculous. Which was excellent preparation for the return journey, when we were both going backwards.
By the time that we next meet, it is very likely that our new tractor mounted sprayer – one can only take ones delusions so far – will have arrived from France. Unless there is a strike at the ferry terminal or something, which seems unlikely…