By mid-afternoon yesterday the sun had disappeared behind banks of white billowing clouds as they swept through a sky that had been mostly blue for much of the morning. While we were busy in the house those white billowing clouds courteously made way for streaks of angry dark clouds which soon took over the heavenly landscape. The first indication we had of a rain-filled evening that would stretch into the night-time hours and beyond was the house becoming darker minute-by-minute.

And then, the unmistakable prolonged deep baritone of thunder reverberated through the atmosphere and made its way into the house to rouse Jackie and Jillie from an afternoon nap. They responded with vigour and full intonation to the giant that was obviously lingering on the roof of the  house and threatening the peace of the afternoon. No matter, the giant was unconvinced and just kept voicing its intention to drown the landscape.

When we awoke this morning it was to the tail end of the last of the rain events finally tapering off. But it was still dark and though the clouds were merely a bit grey, nothing that a good run through the laundry wouldn't return to white, off in the distance scudded much darker clouds, headed our way. The dilemma; do we ignore the signs and make off for the ravine as usual, or wait, shower, have breakfast, then check the sky again. Option two won out and though no more rain fell and we would have been able to have our usual  traipse through the forest without rain inundating us, we ended up going out after breakfast, after all.

Rain dripped from the canopy with the slightest encouragement from overhead wind, but the atmosphere was cool and clean, scrubbed clean by the rain. The hard-to-ignore odour that was manifested throughout the area yesterday of local farm fields having been fertilized with manure was no longer in evidence; that too scrubbed clear. A cardinal was trilling beautifully as only those birds can do though I mistook it for a song sparrow, only to be corrected by my husband.

And then we ran into two long-time trail regulars whom we haven't seen in months. They had bought a cottage over in Quebec on a relatively nearby lake two years ago, and spend the summer months there with their three feisty energetic Border collies. First thing they said was a chorus of "we sold the cottage". Too much work, though Barrie is himself energetic, always looking for things to do. But the lawn in front of the cottage, sloping on a hillside they said, took hours and hours to mow, and because their portion of the lake was so shallow, weeds tended to grow amok on the floor of the lake, necessitating that they do a lot of raking to clear the water so they can swim or boat and it exhausted them.

However, they sold the cottage for $100K more than they paid for it and plan eventually to look for a smaller cottage on a smaller plot, preferably on the same lake but with a different elevation. They'll wait out the current real estate cottage market, though. Where prices have gone through the roof with city dwellers anxious to escape COVID, by moving to rural areas.

Pussy toes

In the woods, the first of the fall asters, the common white varieties, are beginning to bloom. And we also saw a clump of pussy toes all by itself, where several had grown last year, and nor were the clumps growing elsewhere last year in evidence. Later-blooming asters tend to be more attractive than the white varieties. The mauve, purple and pink asters are more colourful, the flowers tend to be a little larger and the petals themselves more generously shaped.

The real surprise of the morning, however, took place when we were preparing to exit the ravine, up at street level when we were moving past a colony of blooming pilotweed, and a lovely orange butterfly flew by to settle on one of the flowers. It kept its wings folded, but we were impressed anyway, with its colouration and size. We thought at first it was a Monarch, then noticed the dainty black spots on its head. It was a Soldier butterfly, a close relative of Monarchs. It must have heard a military command to join the rest of its company, for it wasted no time in lifting off again and fluttering off.

 

When we're out in the ravine coasting along the forest trails, my husband often brings up something he's read recently. One of the books he's reading at the present time (he always has several on the go; one to read downstairs relaxing, another a bed-time read before sleep) is a compendium of travellers' tales, from the long distant past to the present. Snippets, really, short passages taken from much longer descriptives of travel exposures and experiences.

This morning, he told me that back in the 16th Century in Thailand there was a tribal custom in an area where, presumably, a chronic food shortage prevailed, that when the elderly among them had grown completely incapable of performing their expected duties normally discharged in benefiting the entire group's social structure, by either working in the fields or preparing meals, or looking after the young, they are 'sold' in a public market for food themselves.

I expressed some skepticism, and when we got home tried to see if I could find an allusion to the practise on line, but found nothing to validate or to reject the story. What I did find, however, was academic studies focusing on times of food scarcity in Britain and Spain and elsewhere in Europe, when cannibalism was practised; people sold in an open market, others hanged for theft, cut down and dismembered; not widely practised particularly, but it did evidently take place according to academic studies.

Another study pointed to the early Crusades of the 11th Century when Christian soldiers butchered and ate Syrian prisoners they captured in a town they had besieged and conquered. The story of this event went back to Britain where most of the soldiers had come from, and was not well received. Some versions were that the commanders of the Crusade forces knew nothing of the atrocities, other that they encouraged it, to build a formidable reputation to make their enemies quake in fear. It all seems so improbable...

Such thoughts roaming through one's mind while out in a natural setting; what could be more incongruous? On the other hand, perhaps there's a connection; that civilizational norms at that time merely scratched the surface of what humanity is capable of. And it provokes the thought that if we are capable of mindless cruelty to other animals, why would we not mount atrocities on other humans? We still do, in many ways, from slave markets in Libya, Eritrea, Burundi, Central African Republic, Mauritania, and other grim places of the world. Not to mention the kind that flourishes underground in Europe and North America.

Thoughts like that don't linger, though. We feel so infinitely distanced from such events. And for us, our minds focus in a relaxed and peaceful manner on the landscape before us. This morning it was an absolutely drenched landscape. Around five in the morning, our sleep was suddenly interrupted with the unmistakable sounds of thunder claps moving toward us at an initially muffled distance, that distance gradually and surprisingly quickly closing in with ear-splitting claps. And, of course, accompanied with copious rain.

Again a vibrant, luminously verdant landscape lay before us, trees still dripping every time a breeze rattled foliage. At eight in the morning the temperature stood at 24C, with deep humidity. In the shade of the forest canopy it was pleasant, that breeze doing its utmost to bring a modicum of relief. My husband picked raspberries and Jackie and Jillie lined themselves up to patiently await their share of the juicy little berries. Alongside the raspberries nicely ripening, are the larger thimbleberry plants whose berries are doing their best to catch up. It won't be long before we're picking freshly ripened thimbleberries.

The impact of the heavy rain on the forest floor is evident in concentric streaks of gathered detritus, washed by the rain from its even coverage of the trail, to rounded lines of clearance interspersed by concentrated piles of detritus. The forest floor had already been challenged to absorb plentiful rain events in the past week, so rain left puddles on the trails, some reflecting the green of the forest trees. Jackie and Jillie can't bear to plod through the accumulated rainwater, though they're curious about its presence. Jillie nimbly passes around it, while her brother stops to sniff its substance before following her route.

And then, back home, to wander briefly about the garden, to note how well the garden pots have fared given the downpour. This year we were unable to plan on our choice of flowering plants to express the colourful beauty we've accustomed ourselves to over the years. There were alternate choices in the absence of our preferences, and some of them turned out very well indeed. In particular, the gigantica begonias planted in some of the garden pots and urns, astonishing us by their robust growth, and their floral production.