Since the end of June, I have been recording the weather, courtesy of a gift from my son Mike – a wireless weather station that links to my computer. You can see the results on our linked weather site. Val jokes that, when I want to know what the weather is like, I look at the computer rather than out of the window. And I must admit that I have become a little obsessive about the weather data . . . . rather like Val and the weight of chicken’s eggs. Maybe we compensate for the lack of mindless tasks imposed by employment, by creating our own mindless tasks? Or perhaps it’s a deep-seated need to quantify and impose order? And there I was, thinking I was living the free and easy life, in tune with nature, etc . . . .
Anyway, it’s my collection of weather data that enables me to respond to statements about how unusually wet it has been this Autumn with facts. Facts like: there were as many rainy days in November as in the whole of August, September and October combined. Facts like: we had 132.9 mm of rain in four months up to the end of October, followed by 142.8 mm in the one month of November. Facts like: of the first 18 days of December, there were only 2 when it didn’t rain.
Yes it has been unusually wet. And cold. And snowy. The Universe seems to have forgotten that this is meant to be the South of France. With a Mediterranean climate, dammit!
The llamas, and the llama carers, have been suffering. Both fields have steadily become more and more waterlogged. The mud has got deeper, and wetter, and slippier. There was a lively stream running across the Rough Land this week, and I temporarily suspended walking activities, because I could no longer stand up.
The breeders have been a bit fed up with the weather, but they have responded by settling down in their shelter to do some serious eating. Day after day, they’ve been lined up neatly, stuffing themselves with hay. Even Lilas, who at not much over one month old really should be concentrating on mother’s milk, is getting stuck in to the hay. So, apart from them getting overweight, and us having to wade through the mud with regular hay deliveries, there’s been little to worry about with the breeders.
The walkers have suffered much worse. Back in the summer, their field seemed a llama paradise – loads to eat and plenty of shelter against the wind. Now, with all the deciduous bushes bare, and the grass well trimmed by enthusiastic llama teeth, it’s less hospitable. And the endless rain has produced a bedraggled and sorry trio of llamas.
The big shortcoming of the rough land, which didn’t matter in the warm dry weather we were supposed to have, is that there is no proper shelter. And in the absence of this, the llamas were in danger of drowning. It was time to build an ark!
Luckily, we had most of the necessary materials left over from building the original field shelter, now so contentedly occupied by the breeders. Unfortunately, they were at the breeders’ field and needed to be transported. Even more unfortunately, the vineyards leading up to the Rough Land were surrounded by slippy slidy clay – and completely impassable by Land Rover.
And so . . . lift, trudge, groan, heave, slide, pant, stagger, freeze, haul, moan . . . . . . we moved the timber, roofing sheets, tools, etc onto the Rough Land. And in no time at all, with only minimal collateral damage to our bodies, much to the fascination of watching llamas, a shelter was made.
And today, now the rain has stopped for a while, and the sun has come out (!), the walking llamas were contentedly munching hay in their own little shelter. I haven’t yet seen them lying down in the shelter and telling each other bedtime stories, but I left them with a happy heart and a feeling of real contentment. We won’t be spending nights wakefully worrying about them any more.
Such are the trials and successes of our new life.
