Summertime and the Living is Easy 

Summer time and the livin is easy, Fish are jumpin and the cotton is high (Ella Fitzgerald)

A slow morning in summer

It is thirty two degrees, and it’s only nine in the morning.  I am melting into the swing hammock as I sit and write this.  The scent of Linden trees pervades the air.  Swallows flit in and out of the nest they have been industriously forming in the old barn.  A woodpecker taps in the distance. I have to remind myself that I am no longer on holiday here and that there are chores to undertake on our small homestead.

The weeds are raising their defiant heads around the roots of our fruit trees – encouraged by the long spell of hot weather and the opulent watering we give them daily.  The furniture is dusty from the long hot summer days and needs my attention.  The vines are tangled with heavy grapes that need picking.  I turn back to my morning coffee that is refusing to cool in this heat, and determine to sit here for a while longer.

After a leisurely breakfast in the garden, virtually unheard of in England but our ’norm’ here, we take our daily walk with our dogs.  Braving the unrelenting sun we meander our way down to the edge of the village to let them swim in the small cool lake.  Finding that the shepherd has already taken his place there with his thirsty flock, we hold back the dogs until the herd is satiated.

Morning walk

 As we approach the lake we hear a low murmuring, “Ducks?” I ask. The sound grows stronger as we near and we realise that the sound is not in fact ducks, but frogs!  The village lake is green and alive with their activity under the hot sun.  Our puppies are fascinated by the bright butterflies and the frogs who leap and flop into the water before they can reach them.  Dashing in and out of the cool water in chase, they come up only with mouthfuls of pond weed. Then they roll in the dust of the road in pure joy.

As it is such a beautiful day we decide to venture further.  The open land rolls out before us as we make our way down to the river.  The ground is parched and brown; golden stubs of burned grass stand proud here and there.  My husband strolls in front of me, his battered straw hat affording little protection from the scorching sun.  I think to myself that he looks like a cowboy! As I gaze up at the surrounding mountains, drenched in a haze of heat, the image swells in my mind: I could easily be in Montana. This could be the setting for a spaghetti western! An untethered small brown foal adds to the picture; no fences no tethers – there is still trust here.

A young man approaches and asks if we have seen one of his three horses?  I point to the foal, but he nods his head (the Bulgarians nod for ‘no’). Then “No”,  we tell him. Their roaming area is so large that it could take him quite a time to find them.  No one hurries, there is no risk that the horses will have been stolen or harmed.

Escape back to a simpler place and time

This is such a beautiful, quiet, safe and unspoiled place.  We marvel together at the vastness, the beauty, the solitude. Repeating one of our frequent conversations we ask each other “Should we tell other English people of the pearl that we have found, or keep it to ourselves?”.  We do not want the area to spoil – it is truly an undiscovered gem. At the same time we feel ‘greedy’ enjoying all of this to ourselves. This area is everything anyone could ever want.  There is no cotton, but the sunflowers grow just as high in summer time!