Removing an entangled thorn tree that has overrun a small mountain ash was the task today. The heat of the sun did not concern me too much – I had protection from an acer tree’s shade for the most part and the surroundings were pleasant and interesting. Every pass of the thicket of Rhododendrons produced a rustle. A muntjac lives nearby and whilst I’ve seen him and his mate before in the cooler months he tends to remain elusive in summer. “I heard you,” I declared as I passed with the wheelbarrow. “I could be a fox or badger,” was the imagined reply, but I settled on it being a muntjac. It was idyllic.
What did concern me were the flies. Now I’m not someone who dislikes them per se – in fact we have a reasonable understanding. Bluebottles that come into the house generally buzz around a few minutes and with a few close passes they shift their tone with a bit more bass to indicate their wish to exit. In company, I theatrically reply to them with an “okay,” or “can’t you see I’m busy, go to the back door, it’s open” and if it isn’t I let them out. Occasionally I offer out a finger, they hop on and I take them out myself. Butler service almost. It impresses visitors and I tell them that I once saved a fly from a cat, it came back to thank me a few weeks later (with its buckled wing). I don’t know that many believe me but there is a film on youtube that I made with the band I used to front in which the fly has a starring role. A story for another day perhaps.
Green bottles are a different matter. It is only this year I have started to get some accord and previously considered them to be either hostile or unable to understand English. Perhaps they have been studying. The little black ones have always been a problem. Today, they decided that tormenting me whilst engaged in tackling the thorns was sport and they certainly made the most of it, showing their contempt for the bug repellent bands on my wrists by exploring them in detail and communicating their presence every time my hands were full. They were particularly interested in the wound on my left ear. Whilst carrying a log the other day a hanging tendril reached out and pierced the top of my lobe ripping some skin away. Ah, the romance of the great outdoors, I’m really selling it to the desk jockeys.
The flies made the day seem longer day than usual. Whilst dragging the rope securing a bundle of thorns the size of a small car, I reflected that I was doing good training and being paid for it. Some people go to gyms and pay to drag sledges, so I congratulated myself for finding the positives. A chorus of the doubters filled my ears with a definite “Hmmm?” My reply was less than polite. It’s not all fun and games being a fly whisperer.
See you down the road.
