[tennis, anyone?] tenth ball we've lost

Couldn't resist the above from Theo. Who'd be the ball boy?

Speaking of things ancient, which we weren't, Dick Madeley suggests that the:

Wormwood buttering rack, Edwardian rat-hair doormat, woodworm in French fluting and the set of wooden birthing stirrups ...

... are not necessarily an essential accompaniment to the modern bric a brac home, to which he adds:

I’m constantly amazed by the success of shows that get misty eyed over common-or-garden tat.

Well yes, Richard.

[silly season] bit of doggerel

With apologies:

Silly season, and blogging ain't easy
Fish are jumping, and our friends are high
We're far less than rich, and the news ain't worth looking
So hush dearest bloggers, don't you cry.

One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing
You're gonna spread your wings and take to the sky
But till that morning, there is nothing to blog on
With your readership already out on the fly

In a few days it's my blog birthday and it began in that season where the major bloggers who ordinarily run fiendish comment moderation and word verification now deign to remove them and actually make it easy for the poor reader.

It's the time when those who rely on the MSM for material reap a bitter harvest [mixing the seasons a little] and when the beach and other fine places are calling. What of the dogged blogger then - the day in-day out type who toils to attract the reader?

Here's a toast to you - to all blogfriends who perhaps lack the resources, perhaps lack the plans to visit exotic climes, who blog on and on into the starry summer night with the cicadas kicking up a din outside your window, with the humid wind buffeting their evening stroll to the pub or with those green and pleasant hills beckoning to be walked upon.

Here's to my fellow bloggers.

[top ten] political blogs to think over

Suppose the Top Ten UK Political Blogs would need to include Iain Dale, Devil's Kitchen, Mr Eugenides ... and then the thinking caps then go on as to who would fill the other spots.

Bloghounds' Donal, Steve and Andrew would be strong contenders for a start. What of our economics bloggers?

And will the Scots be allowed in?

[housekeeping] one day out

Looks like one of those paint by numbers pics but it is more likely real.

Major day in Real Life today so light blogging, hopefully later ... plus visiting.

For Bloghounders, can't process anything just now, sorry but other steering committee hopefully will.

Have a good Monday, readers.

[day at the seaside] bloody hot

Marina di Modica

Not complaining, mind.

Following on from this morning’s post, arrived home and we’d been invited to the beach for the day. This might sound like a wonderful thing but not:

1. if one’s chest is as white as an old man’s flanks;

2. if one needs to be within range of certain facilities, at this decrepit age;

3. with the temperature rising into the high thirties;

4. if it’s envisaged by our deeply tanned hosts that we’ll lie around like lobsters for a few hours on a rocky outcrop near the end of the beach.

Blowhole at the Marina di Modica

We went down to Marina di Modica and it wasn’t half bad. The sea breeze caressed us, the sailboats were out, the base of a large umbrella was stuck down a rock crevice and provided moderate shade and it didn’t feel as hot as it was.

Actually, it was a shortish time, during which I saw an old brick factory from a century ago with blowholes below it which had been used for pumped water way back when, the area where the turtles lay their eggs in season, heard the story of the landowner – the last of the aristocracy – who sometimes loses so badly at cards that he sells off tracts of land which then become developed into villages and other good things and so on and so on.

We also saw the open air theatre which was originally intended as a swimming pool but because certain measurements went awry, they decided to turn it to its current purpose instead.

The place is where the locals go and there are practically no tourists, for a number of reasons.

Firstly, when the area was finally opened up thirty years ago, Modican families built holiday homes down there and very soon the kilometre or so inland was filled up with them.

This in turn meant that large scale western development was not really possible, foreign capital, in recompense, allowed to develop areas left and right of Marina di Modica.

Another reason was that the authorities have specific foreshore bylaws which preclude such development. For example, any dwelling along the coast is not allowed to be altered in style in any way – in other words, no modern renovations.

A third reason is the lack of reliable public transport to the beach area, making it a cars only affair.

View from the balcony of the holiday house. The split level is the thing here which gives a striking effect - that and the peach and pink coloured concrete.

So anyway, it was back to our hosts’ seaside house for an extended lunch after Welshcakes' leaping around the rocks like a gazelle but the Higham pegged out after that and was soon fast asleep on a recliner on a balcony shaded by a canvas awning and umbrella.

Next thing I knew, we were on the scenic route back to Modica where Welshcakes mercilessly, with cocktail sticks, punctured a chicken she’d rolled and stuffed and another sumptuous repast is sitting in the pan ready to be deep ovened as I write and sip.

How was your Sunday?

I liked the light and shade here - the neighbour's staircase providing shade for us and our balcony providing shade for the people below

[sunday olive tree blogging] the not so ordinary life

The church bells are currently chiming across the valley, all 100 of them, calling the faithful to prayer [or is that the terminology of another religion?], I'm about to head down the shady road for a coffee and croissant, to read La Sicilia in its dead wood manifestation and Sunday has begun.

Yesterday we went down to Consorzio again and the sun was fierce along the way. It's got now so that it's too hot by about 9 a.m. and it doesn't let up until about 8.30 p.m. - "let up" meaning that the shutters can once again be thrown open across the town.

We divided responsibilities yesterday, Welshcakes and I - she would concentrate on the food photography and I'd do more of the cafe itself. We'd both commented immediately on reaching our "under the olive branch" haven that the variegated light looked almost surreal on the tablecloths. Welshcakes qualified that by saying it was more impressionist than surreal and she may well have been right.

Click on the pics and see what you think.

That white linen table cloth and napkins, the scrumptious "pranza" or repast, the service, the Moretti beer and the trees and shrubs themselves, let alone the garden furniture - all conspired to let the previous hellish week's troubles ebb away. It was in no way hot under that tree - perhaps it was warmish.

On the way back up the series of tracks and roads leading up the hill, leading to our hillside retreat, it was bloody hot. One thing which impresses here is that they can take what are virtually concrete boxes with holes in them as houses, add some balconies and walkways between buildings, set the boxes at varying angles to each other and paint them in light shades of apricot and peach and the result is the picture postcard stuff you see on good stands.

If there had been sea, you could be sure it would have been azure.

To cap off the effect, they make much use of foliage of the thicker, overhanging kind, many planter boxes and pot plants and the result is pleasing to the eye. When I mentioned to Welsh that the steep hill simply adds to the overall effect, I did not receive the glance of agreement I'd hoped for.

So, down that path again this morning and may your morning be one of great relaxation and pleasure, free of life's vicissitudes - if only for some hours.