Sunday 16th August 2020

We woke up to the sound of several fog horns.

Dover for one.

Not sure if South Foreland still has one still, but two more distant ones could be heard sounding. Maybe Calais and Dunkirk? One thing for sure was that it was a grey and dull start, but that was to change quickly.

Just as well as I had an orchid meet planned for 90:00, and after that, maybe a walk up the downs too.

As long as the weather would play ball. I mean in this summer of endless sunshine, or pretty much like that here in east Kent, typical then for today to be so grim.

We have breakfast, and get ready to be out of the house by twenty past seven.

Weather improving.

We load the car, though I have no plans to take shots at Barham, as there are only so many shots of Violet Helleborines you need, he said in August though would feel different in three months in the middle of November.

Off to the A2 and on to Barham, turning off past the Black Robin and parking under the old railway bridge to wait for the others to arrive.

Although the bridge is a substantial structure, it is hard to think that a few decades ago, trans would be labouring over it, climbing towards Canterbury on the Elham Valley Line. The trackbed is now overgrown and not recognisable as once being a railway. The houses in its shadow are now in an area of peace and calm, except when orchidists come to meet off before driving off.

The group assemble, I take a register of attendees, and all those who said they were coming had arrived, so at five past nine we drove off in a five car convoy to the orchid site. Horses had to get out of the way as we drove at sensible speeds. And once arrived at the hard standing, we find no one was there camping, and so we have it to ourselves. We fill it up with our cars

And up the path into the heart of the woods, overgrown on both sides, due to it being high summer. Up the slope to the beechwood, and after a few minutes, I pointed to four spikes pointing to the canopy at the base of a tree.

The group take turns to snap the group, but there are more, I say.

Most groups are now going to seed, with only the top portion of each spike in any state to snap. But there is the old dependable group, the one which used to be the first to flower, but now seems to be the last. I go to seek it out, and there are three fine spikes, all in their peak to snap.

I call the others over and they are delighted.

It is now the end of the season, and after the VJ there is just the ALTs, and this year they are very early indeed. IN some previous years, I have had to wait for the end of September for spikes to set seed, this year it will be next weekend, at least up on Temple Ewell Down.

Four of the group said they were more than happy to go to Temple Ewell, so we bid farewell to the others, and drive to the A2, then along to Lydden and down to Temple Ewell.

As ever, there is the climb through the wood to the treeless down, and once through the gate, all around were butterflies, including two Silver Spotted Skippers landed on cat's ears in front of me, allowing me to snap them.

All around were Adonis and Common Blues, as well as Chalkhills, Small Heaths, Meadow Browns, but it seems that the Marbled Whites had finally finished.

Up and up we went, through the next gate, then down to where las week I had seen dozens of ALT spikes. But a week later, spikes were few and far between, but we see enough to satisfy the others. And on my way back up to walk back to the car, I see a massive spike, some six or seven inches high, and graced with a fine spiral of flowers.

I call the others to look, then declare the season over.

I meet Jool in the wood where she is harvesting the biggest sloes we have seen, before walking back to the car, and driving to Whitfield, just up the hill, to see Jen and Sylv.

Betty is a poor thing, a living skeleton, less than 5 stone, incapable of moving, and finding the task of swallowing water almost impossible. Her granddaugher, Sam, is alo there, and she sits beside Bett's bed holding her hand, singing music hall songs.

It is an end that will come to most of us.

We chat about things, but it is a sad chat. The end for Bett is coming, but it could be months. Packs of medicine lay unused as Bett cannot swallow anough to be able to take them.

What can you do?

After seemingly being near death and comatose on Thursday, Bett is now awake 23 hours a day, shouting for Jen at all hours, so they take it in turns to sit with her, and all look shattered. Jen could not have done it on her own.

We go home to have lunch of cold sausage sandwiches and a fresh brew.

The storms keep being put back and put back until they fade away to nothing.

Rain dd come, at first a few spots, then a steady rain for an hour. But not enough, and later, when we dig more wild carrot out of the lawn, only the top fraction of an inch is damp, the rest is bone dry.

I cook dinner, a proper fusion meal: roast beef, roast potatoes, sweet chilli stir fry and fresh corn, the beef served with home made raspberry, sloe gin and balsamic vinegar jus.

It works, all washed down by fizz.

By the time we tidy up its eight, and the weekend has slipped by once again.

On the radio, Man Utd lose in Europe, still, got to laugh.