Potato Day

I’m not big on weekends at the cottage. Nobody there speaks English and there’s not a lot to do. But one day is all right, and today was a lovely day. Indian Summer or, as they call it here, Babileto, which is Grandmother’s Summer. But, really, it’s still summer. People start saying Autumn as soon as school starts, and I’ve already seen plenty of Hallowe’en posts, memes and adverts appearing.

No! Hold back the time. Do not go gently into that winter chill. Today was high summer, if ever a day was.
We had to go up to help with the potato harvest. Actually, as far as labor force, we were pretty superfluous. There were less than 20 rows, in a little corner of a much larger field, and they had about three families helping. I had nothing to compare it with, but I know my father-in-law thought it was pretty sparse pickings, due to the unusually dry summer, but it looked like quite a bit to me.
And, as the field is at the top of the town, the view was spectacular, over the fields, and forests rising up the mountains (well, big hills but there are mountains behind them not far away) After, we went and roasted sausages on sticks over a fire at the neighbor’s house. Slightly different view, still lovely, all the different shades of green, and you can see the ruins of a castle from about the 12th century.
That time is part of this time. Everything is one.

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