74.

17th September.

Swallows all in a line,  all on  the line swung between alleys. Strings of  chittering families. The lucky last of the final broods. Going soon,  well fed and fresh for the start of the race to the south. May the many barns stay ruined and open for their next year. I shall miss their tinkling run of notes and frantic calls as they cross hunt  the skies.

Still hot most days and  grass like sand . Leaves droop and wilt and the Autumn raspberries, barely swelling to any size worth collecting are intense in their dry flavour. In the early morning the fine cobwebs hang like gauze hammocks, from stem to blade. Slug trails where the night's dew makes the only damp places.

A single stork stately walks the field; a lost migrant on another epic jouney to Africa.

An occasional blackcap sings  a memory of spring and summer.