Sunday 16th September 2018

Sunday.

And on the 7th day, God got up late made a brew and watched a recording of Match of the Day.

Or he would have done, had he lived in our gaff.

I say he, God could be a woman of course, or something inbetween. Or both. Or neither.

We get up, feed the cats, make a brew and after checking the interwebs, find that Trump is still in power, so go to the sofa to watch the football, stopping halfway through to make more coffee, warm croissants. Those of you who are observant will notice that we had breakfasts over the weekend the other way round, just for a change.

And then, well, the plan was to wait for the sun to come out and the wind to drop. But I get bored, so go up to Temple Ewell to hunt for a butterfly, the Clouded Yellow.

Clouded Yellows are a rare migrant, but they can fly over from France in large numbers some years, like this one, but I have not seen one this season, and only once before, and not close enough to get a shot. So before the season ends, I had better go to the well known sites to have a look.

Temple Ewell is always stunning, the climb up from the car park is always worth it, then to the large meadow, and the hope of seeing something on the wing, or better, basking.

But the sun wasn't yet out, and the breeze up on the down keen enough to ensure any remaining butterflies would be roosting in the long grass.

I wander about for an hour, I see no butterflies, but plenty of flowers, and more up through the woodland to the top meadow; eyebright, harebell, creeping thistle, and many more.

Watching me all the time was a herd of heifers. One edged closer and the rest followed, they watched me as I stooped to look at an Eyebright or some other flower, maybe they thought I was come kind of cattle? And as I walked up the down, the continued to follow me.

But with no butterflies to be seen, I made my way back down to the car, leaving the cows behind.

And after lunch we went out again, looking at an alternative site for the elusive Clouded Yellow.

Behind Pfizer's I had been told. Well, in a way, behind that and across the river was the truth. So I had planned the trip, driving almost into the poshest of the three Sandwich golf courses, The Royal St. George. From there, down a track and parking at a bend in the rad, we walk up onto the flood defences. The sun was now out and the wind had dropped, indeed there was a few Large White about, a couple of Common Blues, a Brown Argus and a Small Heath, but no Clouded Yellow.

I took shots of the river, just an expanse of mud at this low tide, but that was it.

Time to go home.

I listen to the late game on the radio, then cook dinner; steak and chips and corn and garlic mushrooms, and a bottle of Prosecco Brut, but that didn't need cooking.

We sit down to eat, listen to Desert Island Discs, and before long, it was getting dark and time for Jools to prepare for the week ahead, cook her snap, iron and so on.

Where did the weekend go?