Mudwrestling

James and I went for a nice country drive the other day. The roads near here soon change from tarmac to reddish brown dirt, bumps and lumps leading over sweeping open hills of grazing land, down to streams and past fields of sheep. Grand dark stands of trees mark the sites of colonial homesteads, many of them long gone. Vistas suddenly open up and gently disappear.

After a few hours, we turned down a little road that should hook us up with a homeward-bound way.

The road got a little smaller.

(Does anyone remember the spooky story about the car breaking down outside the mental asylum? You know, the one your sister told you when you were kids and were sleeping out under the stars - well, maybe not tonight, but some time, yes indeed.)

Oh, but it was beautiful, in a misty moisty sort of way.

It just also happened to be the Mother of All Mudholes.

Hands gripping the wheel, I skiied the car on a cushion of slippery silty slippery mud.

"Keep the speed up! Don't, whatever you do, stop!" my husband implored me, as I gritted my teeth into my best approximation of a rally driver's smile (driving a cute red Mazda, of course). I eased my foot down, steering into the skids like Dad taught me on ice in Canada. (Thanks, Dad!)

We hit a few hidden water holes, scraped the bottom and bounced a lot -- but we made it through, only to find the ruts deepening and the road descending to a mud-bound, rocky stream, which it forded. Theoretically.

James hopped out to check the road ahead. Nope. So he watched me from the grassy bank as I executed a classy and quick 22-point turn, we swapped over and he skidded his way through Mudhole Mamma, agreeing that it was a truly nasty driving experience.

We checked the map ad saw the small print: Passable only by 4WD. And we laughed, until James said:

"Hey - Where are my keys?"

Postscript:

It rained all night, torrents of rain. We lay awake, listening to the sound of James' keys gently slipping through mud to a resting place unknown.

In the morning, the dog loved the long walk in the squelchy mud. It was wonderfully beautiful, especially after we found his keys, gleaming in the grass at the side of the road - no, track - washed clean by the rain.

Thanks be to mud!

Found Pears

This one's from February 8, 2010 when we still lived in the city, and didn't have a pair of pear trees outside the front door.

We had to borrow someone else's tree and these were the tasty fruits (~ahem~) of Bev's subsequent labours...

James

Curl House

Both Bev and I very much enjoyed being shown the architecture of the San Francisco Bay area by Mike and Ania. This one - I think in the Alameda area - gets a special vote.

While the slight weathering and peeling paint could be seen to detract from the design, in a country that over-values neat newness and (sometimes) undervalues architectural originality in vernacular architecture, it provides a different balance.

It's also interesting how the house changes its look even in such two close viewpoints.

James

Cop Fodder

In America, the cops hang out at the donut shop. In France...

Paris, 2008.

James

Imperfect 10

Imperfect Ten, Lake Okanagan.

James

Willie's on the ball

One of out smaller neighbours was having a fly around the front of the cottage on Thursday. One of a few nice portraits of Willie Wagtail from the session.

James

Caught neighbours

Found the neighbours staring over the fence again...

As usual, when caught, they hopped it...

And after losing interest in us, stared at the other neighbours...

But that lot are a bunch of cows.

James