It’s confusing. The grass has started growing, the sheep are lambing, the sun is shining.
It makes sense for lambs to be born in November when the grass is growing and will continue into the New Year. Easier for the Ewe to suckle her young when she can feed on fresh shoots.
They tried to put me off – the winter is cold – everything is shut. But it can’t be as cold as Ireland, I said ( or Hibernia, meaning Winter, as the Romans called it as they turned away and decided it was to much trouble to invade).
I have been fooled before, I said.
I have seen enough beauty and nature to persuade me to take a chance on a Corfiot winter.
Now the dogs and I venture out at 7 am . We go up to the top of the mountain where we can see the Ropa Valley filled with a mist and wait for the sun to hit the village on the far side. There is a heavy dew on the grass and on the spiders webs. Ripe olives are dropping to the ground to fill the nets.
As we go back down the mountain, the sun has already begun to warm the air. The path ahead is filled with slanting sunlight taking a shortcut into the neighbours orange grove.
In the Ropa Valley, the goats bells sound. Shots ring out from a hunter’s gun that reverberate around the mountains. Then silence again except maybe a cock crowing or geese making a racket about something. The dogs chase a cat then settle down to a day of idleness, when they thank their lucky stars that they were rescued.
I wonder if it could always be just like this.