#and the front looks like your granny’s net curtains

[theeemeraldstar]

Obsessed with my arse? I have no idea what you mean 🫣

[gripefroot]

Explosion in Tokyo

“Get back! Everybody, get back!”

The words are repeated over a police intercom, bellowing over the confused, pressing crowd in the street as you choke, dust filling your throat as you stumble through the collapsed glass door at the front of the building. Steve had crashed it open - you’ll have to thank him later. 

“Lift your feet,” you croak to Nat, who’s hanging off your shoulder. She’s biting her lip so hard that blood is beading on her skin, but with a furrowed brow she does. Boots crunch on the glass, and you’re out of the building. 

At once Steve is there, hurried over from where he’d been securing the perimeter with Clint. Natasha’s weight is lifted from you by Steve, and you stumble down the concrete steps towards the sidewalk, thankfully emptied by the police.�� 

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve says shortly, hauling Nat into his arms.  

“Um - he’s still inside.” Your eyes are burning from the dust - desperately you want to rub them, but your hands are just as dirty, if not more. Blinking several times, you turn to gaze at the building behind you. 

It’s teetering. The bomb which the team had been trying to get to before it exploded had, in fact, exploded. That the man holding it had decided to rush into a residential building in the heart of Tokyo was clever of him, maybe, but it’s not like he can gloat about it. Not anymore. Thanks to Tony’s quick thinking, a fire alarm had been triggered inside, clearing out most of the residents before the bomb had gone off. Now there’s just smoke curling from shattered windows, and strange flickers of flame in the interior. Only floors 6, 7, and 8 are busted. Which is impressive, all things considered. But there’s still a sick feeling twisting your stomach.  

“Why is he still inside?” Emergency personnel are rushing forward to help Natasha, so Steve is quickly freed to continue interrogating you.  

“I don’t know!” you snap back. “He just said - he said to get out. He said he had something to do and then he’d come after us - ” 

Steve curses. Very colorfully. “I’m going back in,” he grumbles, slinging down his shield from his back.  

“You can’t. Bucky won’t want you to.” 

“Maybe you don’t know him like I do, Agent, but Bucky’s a little too eager to sacrifice himself,” Steve retorts, his eyes blazing blue as he faces you down. It’s not often that he uses his size to his advantage - and you’re certainly feeling it. Lifting your chin, you barely keep your voice from trembling,  

“It’s his choice, Steve. Whatever he’s doing - he can obviously do alone.” Since he hadn’t asked your help - he’d sent you away with Nat. Maybe that accounts for some of the sting in your chest.  

“That’s crap and you know it, 28. Bucky isn’t - ” 

The wail of sirens increases briefly. Over the intercom, the babbling Japanese gets more shrill. Then there’s static in your ear, and you wince at the same time as Steve as Tony’s voice cuts through.  

“There’s another bomb the perp left in a laundry chute,” Stark says briskly. “Please tell me everyone’s out.” 

Your stomach drops to your feet. The horror numbing you from head to toes is reflected in Steve’s widening eyes. The pulsing thud-thud of your heartbeat is very loud in your ears, the murmurs and panicking of the crowd very far away. Without thinking you turn back towards the building, taking a surge forward with legs that weigh a thousand pounds. But then there’s a vice on your arm, and you jerk back, blinking.  

“You can’t. You can’t.” 

Steve. His voice is shaking, his eyes glittering with despair. But you can’t break from his grip, even as your fingers try to claw him away. It’s no use. Obviously.  

Suddenly a shout in the crowd breaks through your haze. Look.  

“Bucky,” Steve groans. “Bucky, no - ” 

Your head swivels up, eyes searching desperately - there’s a leg poking through the eleventh story window. Bucky’s boots - you can recognize them anywhere. Then a head is peering out.  

“A net! Can we get a net? A ladder?” Steve is saying desperately, to people you can’t see. “Where’s Sam? Tony?” 

Sam’s in New York. He hadn’t come. And Tony’s monitoring from across town with the local armed forces.  

A rumbling starts two floors beneath Bucky. Finally you jerk your arm away from Steve, though you can do nothing - not without killing yourself, too. And black smoke is billowing through windows, around Bucky as he climbs onto the ledge of the window, and... 

...and jumps.  

The idiot. 

He’s barely more than a misshapen black speck against the roar of orange and yellow flames that are flickering through the nearest three stories of windows. Your breath is caught in your throat as you watch his descent, terror and dread churning ruthlessly in your gut, nausea rising, as your vision seems narrowed in on the sight; white spots popping all around -  

Bucky hits an awning at the ground level of the building at a roll, and straight onto the pavement for several feet before coming to a stop. His body is curled in on itself, utterly still. Disregarding any warnings from the police (or Tony, in your ear), you run to his side, Steve hot on your heels.  

“Bucky,” you mutter, your hand forming a print on his black jacket from dust as you grip his shoulder. “Bucky.” 

He groans, and as Steve sinks to his knees on Bucky’s other side - there’s a little choked cry. Not from Bucky.  

“Damn,” Steve mutters. Gingerly he shifts Bucky’s arm out of the way. Wide, shining eyes peer out. A little girl covered in soot, and in her arms - clutching a tiny grey kitten yowling in protest. “I got you,” Steve says softly to the girl, and with a trepidated glance at him, she wiggles out of Bucky’s limp arms. She’s fine. The cat’s offended though, clawing up the girl’s dirty shirt. The girl gives a sniff, and then tears are tracking down the dirt on her face as she tries to stand, with Steve holding her hand.  

“She okay?” Bucky’s mumble is weak.  

“She’s okay, Buck.” 

“Her mom was out shopping,” Bucky says, breaking into a cough. “Didn’t want to leave the building alone.” 

“I’ll take her to the police,” Steve says. “Come on.” And though the girl probably doesn’t speak much English, she’s happy to hold Captain America’s hand, as he stands to lead her away from the quaking building, towards the crowd of people hovering.  

“Bucky,” you grind out between your teeth, and waste no time to check his bones for breaks. He winces, and you hiss, “What were you thinking, huh? You could have told us there was someone else in the building. We could have arranged a fire truck with a ladder - something - you absolute idiot - ” 

“Good to see you too,” Bucky says, the slightest smile curling his lips as he gazes up at you. And promptly groans, squeezing his eyes shut as you push gently on his ribs.  

“At least two or three broken,” you say dryly. “Where else?” 

“Um - my wrist - ” His brows furrow as he pulls his flesh arm up to rest on his stomach. Bile riles in your throat at the sight of the misshapen appendage. 

“Why didn’t you use your metal arm to break your fall? Hmm?”

“Was holding her. Better - protection.” 

Fine. You’ll allow it. “Can you stand?” you ask briskly. Hoping that no one is looking - you cup his chin gently, peering into his eyes to search for other damage. His face is remarkably unhurt; only some streaks of dust and a scrape on his cheekbone.  

“I can stand. If you let me lean on you a bit, babe.” 

“Of course. There’s an ambulance here already. We don’t have to go far.” 

Bucky grunts, and you clasp his metal hand as he tries to sit up. Then there’s the sound of running footsteps, and you peer around to see Clint rushing forward. There’s blood trickling down his face, but he wastes no time grasping Bucky’s opposite shoulder.  

“You look awful,” Clint pronounces, and together you manage to get Bucky to his feet, though he teeters weakly.  

“Thanks, Barton,” Bucky says dryly. “Since you look so spectacular.” 

It’s only a few more steps to the ambulance, where you see Natasha sitting on the bumper with ice on her head. A few nurses rush forward towards Bucky, and suddenly his weight is lifted from you. Hanging behind, you gnaw on your lip as you watch as he’s swallowed by the professionals. Clint shakes his head beside you, crossing his arms over his chest.  

“Oh, sure. I caught a granny from a second story window but Barnes is gonna get all the good press. Typical.” 

“You caught a granny from a second story?” you ask, blinking up at him.  

“Well - yeah. She couldn’t take the stairs and the elevator was out.”  

“Very impressive,” you tease. “Bet she’ll have a crush on you now.” 

Clint’s face turns beet red. Joking is so easy, but this time - it doesn’t detract as much as you would’ve liked. 

~

Still sniveling a bit, you tiptoe from your room in Stark’s Tokyo condo, silently closing the door behind you. It’s been hours since returning from the detonation scene, but you’d had to wait for hours in impatient misery while everyone slowly cleaned up and went to bed. Dawn will be arriving in only a few hours, but Steve had only stopped puttering around in his room next to yours a half hour ago. He’d better be asleep. Because you’re about ready to make him sleep. 

Your footsteps barely make any noise - but to someone with super-hearing, it might be an elephant going down the hall. The thought makes you bite your lip; with the team sleeping at such close quarters, you might not have risked it otherwise. But you had to.  

Bucky’s door.  

Lifting a hand, you let the pad of your index finger. Tap, tap tap. Tap, tap tap. Secret code, so quiet that you can barely hear it. But Bucky can - a moment later, and there’s a groaning and a creak from inside his room. Probably the best welcome you’ll get. You silently push the handle of the door, sneaking into the darkened room, where only the glittering lights of Tokyo are visible beyond the sheer curtains.  

You close the door.  

“Hey,” Bucky mumbles. He’s sitting upright in bed, shirtless, with bandages around his middle and his flesh hand in a temporary cast and slung next to his chest. But otherwise, he’s looking fine - a grin lifts his lips as you let out a shaky breath, stepping quickly to his side, sinking onto the bed beside him.  

“Bucky.” Though he’s hurting, you wrap your arms around his neck, trying not to jostle him. He groans.  

“Babe. Ow.” His metal fingers curl around your upper arm, but he doesn’t try to push you away. Instead, his nose buries in your hair, and he breathes deeply. Finally you pull away, but only a little. You tangle your fingers in his still-dusty hair - he must not have been able to shower. Suddenly his metal fingers are tilting your chin upwards, and you’re forced to meet his eyes. He’s frowning now, eyes flickering back and forth from yours as you offer a rueful smile.  

“Those tears for me?” he asks roughly.  

“No, they’re for Clint,” you retort, voice thick. “Come on, Buck. We thought you were a goner.” 

To your surprise, Bucky chuckles. “Takes more than a homemade bomb to get rid of me, babe. Promise.” 

“No getting rid of you. You’re not allowed to die,” you declare.  

“No?” Bucky asks, eyes sparkling.  

“Never. Well - only if I go first.” 

His lips twitch. “Aha. Bold words, for someone who spent all evening sobbing her little heart out.” 

“All evening?” you say, aghast. “Bucky, what an exaggeration - ” 

“I could hear you,” he reminds you. “I’m not deaf, you know. Even if we are three rooms apart.” 

“Ugh.” You scrunch your nose. “I can’t imagine having to listen to Clint and Natasha and Steve all night long.” 

Bucky’s expression falls into one of woeful resignation. “Don’t.” 

This pulls a watery chuckle from you, and you cup his face in your hands, tracing the scruff on his jaw with your thumb. He grins again, his eyes intent on your face as you sigh.  

“It’s sweet that you care for me,” Bucky teases next, and he pinches your chin between his metal thumb and forefinger. “I’m glad my girl would mourn my tragic death.” 

“Mourn you? Bucky, I love you - if you died I would - ” 

His eyes widen, and he cuts you off with, “What?” 

You blink back. “What?” 

“You love me?” There’s a giddy sort of light in his eyes now, as his smile broadens.  

“Of course I do,” you say, a little confused.  

“You’ve never said that before.” 

“Oh.” Your face feels hot. “Well, I guess I didn’t think...I mean, I figured you already knew.” 

Bucky’s hand is trailing up your back now, and mesmerized by the darkening in his eyes, you swallow thickly. 

“Tell me more,” he murmurs. You draw in a shaky breath.  

“I love you,” you whisper, tangling your fingers in Bucky’s hair. “I’ve loved you for months. I...I’m so in love with you I couldn’t even think straight when you were in danger today. It’s just...it’s just you. Always.” 

“Just me?” he whispers back. 

“Just you. I...could say more I suppose...but my wit is not at its peak right now. I don’t even know why,” you add, with a rueful smile. “Everything that I was going to say to you, it’s just...gone. I can’t even think about it. It’s just you, Bucky.” 

Bucky shifts slightly on the bed. “My ma would say that’s because we’re soulmates. When you can’t think of anyone but that one person...it’s fate.” 

Silence. Baffled, you say with a frown, “Not many people believe in soulmates anymore.”  

“And in my day, we thought cigarettes were healthy - didn’t stop my dad dying of lung cancer. Doesn’t matter what people believe, babe. Some things are true no matter if they're believed in or not.” 

“Like you being big ol’ sap,” you tease, and Bucky chortles. 

“Yep. Like that.” 

The blue of his eyes, even as dim as they are in the room, are wonderful to drown in. Holding his face still, you lean in to kiss him - gently, at first, and then hints of your desperation and panic from earlier start leaking - emotions are bubbling, and you whimper as he nips at your lips.  

“I’m sorry,” you say shakily, pulling away. “I know you’re in pain, I just...I was scared. Watching you fall…” More tears are burning now, and you rest your forehead against Bucky’s.  

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his breath warm on your face as his metal fingers tangle in your hair. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I know.” 

“I love you,” you say again - there’s a strange shyness with the words, but they feel strong.  

Bucky grins. “I love you, too.” And then his lips find yours again, pretty fiercely considering his state - and an explosion of heat - this time less dangerous - racks over your body, and you tremble.  

“Bucky,” you whimper, and he pulls away. His eyes are dark, his teasing smile gone - and as you shift on the bed you feel - “Oh, give me a break!” you say, bursting into startled laughter. “Leave it to you to get a boner after falling eleven stories.” 

“Hey,” Bucky protests, though his ears are red. “You just told me you love me. How am I supposed to respond?” 

“You’re a mess!” you tease. “You should be moaning and groaning and telling me to go away because I’m just gonna make your wounds worse.” 

He chortles. “Takes a lot more than that to make me worse off. What do you say? Everyone’s finally asleep - it’s just you and me, babe.” 

Your fingers curl around the ends of his hair. “One condition?” 

“Mm?” 

“You let me help you shower afterwards.” 

“That’s hardly a condition,” Bucky says, eyes glinting. “More like an extra reward.”  

“Then you accept?”

“Of course.”  

His gaze doesn’t leave you as you stand, shedding your sweater first, and then your shirt. In fact, his tongue darts out to wet his lips as his eyes seem to devour every bit of skin revealed as you toss your clothes aside. To be so desired is wonderful, and by the man you love, who loves you back… 

A gentle tugging gets Bucky’s pants off, and holding him steady by the shoulders so he doesn’t jostle, you climb into his lap, still holding his gaze boldly. His head leans back against the headboard, and you see his Adam's apple bob in a swallow. 

“Jeepers! I should fall outta buildings more often,” he says fervently. 

Your smile freezes. “Don’t you dare, grandpa.” 

“Grandpa?” 

“You start talking like a geezer, I’m gonna call you grandpa,” you tease softly. Bucky blinks - but he doesn’t - or can’t - say anything else. 

Because he’s wounded or because they’re something else tinted in the air - you move slowly, eyes fastened on Bucky’s. He’s drinking you in, and little flutters start in your stomach. Even with only one hand in commission, he’s intent on touching you everywhere - your breasts, your waist, your back. Then up to your throat, and your eyes close with the cool metal tracing on your jawline. The heat spreading from your center is travelling across your body, sparking and igniting every cell as it goes, and Bucky’s sudden soft groan sets you over the edge.  

Stars explode, and you bite your tongue to keep from making any noise. A huff of breath from him, and his hips jerk up as he shudders. Then all is quiet again - and you loose a shaky breath as you dare to open your eyes again.  

Bucky’s smiling.  

“I’m the luckiest man in the world, you know that?” he says softly, and leans forward to capture your lips in a fervid kiss.  

“Are you sure?” you mumble back, as his lips nibble at yours. “I can think of a few billion other men luckier than you. They didn’t fall eleven stories today.” 

He laughs against your lips, and smiling, you wrap your arms around his neck to kiss him back, fiercely.  

“You already knew I love you, huh?” you say into his mouth, twirling strands of his hair around your finger. Bucky pulls away, his eyes positively glinting as his lips twist into a smirk. 

“‘Course I did. I’m a super spy, remember?” 

And you laugh, and kiss him again and again.  

The first pink streaks of dawn begin to brighten the room sometime later, and dozing against Bucky’s leg as he runs his fingers through your hair, you stir without any sense of urgency, though your mind is trying to tell you something...probably.  

“What time is it?” you mumble. 

“Um - 5:53 a.m.” 

“Shoot! Steve’s alarm is going off in seven minutes.” Surging up to a sitting position, you swing your legs over the bed and start to grab your scattered clothes. Bucky just chuckles. Typical.  

“It’s kinda nice not to be the one running out,” he teases. 

“Don’t get used to it,” you retort, casting him a wink over your shoulder. “As soon as you’re better, you come to me. I can’t walk as silently as you can.” 

“Sure, babe.  But you do a pretty good job for someone who hasn’t had any super-serum in her. Apart from what I’ve contributed, I mean.” 

You give a laugh, dragging on underwear and sweats. “Wow! You’re a pervert tonight, aren’t you?”

“Um - you do know you seduced me, right? How am I the pervert?” 

Clutching your sweater but deciding against it, you lean over the bed to kiss Bucky one last time, hungrily and regretfully. “I forgot your shower,” you say ruefully. “But you make sure you get one, mmkay? Before the flight back to New York, please. I wouldn’t mind finagling a seat next to you.” 

“You’ll probably have to fight everyone else to sit by me,” Bucky jokes. “They’ll all want to fawn over the sicky.” 

You roll your eyes. “If that’s how you're gonna be, I’m sitting by Clint.” 

“What! Hey - ”  

But you ignore his soft protests, sauntering towards the door with a final, cheeky wave in his direction before opening the door handle as q - u - i - e - t - l - y as possible. A silent close. Then you’re tiptoeing back to your room, cheeks warm, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling too giddily.  

Soulmates, Bucky had said.  

Soulmates. 

The word tingles. 

Maybe his mother knew what she was talking about.

[anenglishmaninontario]

Campers Cove 27th to 29th July

Day 1

So part of what I wanted to do while I was out here was to get myself doing things which I hadn’t done before or at least hadn’t done for a long time.  I reckon this counts.  When I mentioned to certain people that we were planning on doing a swathe of camping I was greeted with a few titters and lots of “I can’t really picture you camping” (you know who you are you cheeky cow).  I spent much of my younger days on camping trips across Europe in what amounted to a canvas sack on wheels so this kind of camping is going to come pretty easy to me.

Just to make sure though, the first trip was less than an hour away to Camper’s Cove near  Point Pelee National Park along Lake Erie. With the dogs safely ensconced in the boarding kennel and a fully stocked camper made ready off we went.

Campers Cove is a great little privately run campground on the shores of the lake full of a mixture of RV’s of every size, some tents and some permanent residents marking territory with a boggling array of gnomes, fountains, palm trees which lit up at night (and which rather unfortunately couldn’t fail to remind anyone as immature as myself and Lauren of anything other than a collection of genitals waving in the breeze) and all manner of mail boxes in every shape and magnitude.  It was very easy to see why someone would choose to retire here and spend everyday in what is essentially a massive playground for those with enough money to buy a decent sized RV but not quite enough for a 10 berth yacht in the Mediterranean.  We stopped off at the camp shop to register and making note of the souvenir clothing and ice-cream counter headed out to our pitch.

I watched from the sidelines the first time of setting up so as to check out how it was done (and so that I could snatch a sneaky cigarette) and it was something of a surprise.  The familiar folding out of beds and clicking of support poles I was ready for.  Less expected was that once the door was opened and the awning extended, out came a carpet followed by tables, a washing area, strings of fairy lights, recycling boxes, a cooking tripod, an electric cooler complete with radlers, beer and caesars, boxes of games equipment, enough chairs to hold a moderately sized pep-rally and lastly a quarter-sized national flag complete with bungie cords to be strapped to the nearest tree.  I definitely refute the suggestion that I cannot cope with the outdoors and that I would flounder if asked to rough it but I have to say that if this is what camping looks like then this will be a breeze.  When I was a kid, camping meant close quarters living, waking up cold and knotted in my own sleeping bag, tinned food, UHT milky, a suspicious looking bucket filled with blue chemicals which served as a toilet and being unable to wash for days on end until enough courage was built up to use the communal showers on French camping sites.  I’m less bashful these days as I’m certain some people may know but even now I think I would have difficulty using such open facilities particularly if camping with people I know well.  Strangers are less difficult to disrobe in front of.  Not quite sure what that says about me.  “Hello we’ve never met. Ta daaaaaaa”.

I digress.  Once the camper is set up every bed is about queen size, has its own power adapter, lamp, window zip blinds and curtains.  I will be at the front end furthest from everyone else in case the snoring bursts any eardrums in the vicinity although the AC and fan are likely to smother any of that noise to everyone’s relief. There is a fully functioning kitchen and shower-room and enough beer in the fridge to test the powers of even the most ambitious alcoholic.

Having excelled at my role of hands-off set up engineer the chairs are set up around the fire-pit and a beer is cracked open and a drawing competition commences.  Mom shouts out scenarios and we draw something we think reflects what she has said.  I soon discover that drawing from imagination is something I haven’t done since I was 10 and and let’s face it, it shows.  Luckily I’m up against kids about a quarter of my age so I hold my own pretty well considering.  The sketching attempts end up in the fire-pit (so that no evidence remains) and I make a mental note to take a You-Tube course on basic drawing skills before attempting anything like this again. Two beers later and the artistic activities are replaced by games so lets see if I do any better with those.

In short, no not really but it was highly entertaining.  We start with a game of badminton at which I suck like a Dyson on heat but which has the distinction of taking me from a lowly position of visiting friend up to Uncle Alex and briefly to the great heights of Badminton God and back down to my usual moniker of Mr Alex once it is discovered that luck plays more of a part in my success than any genuine skills. Still it is good exercise.  The first real energetic movement since I arrived here (apologies to my personal trainer for undoing all his hard work).  I am already familiar with this game but by far more entertaining is what seems to be a campground perennial over here, the game of Baggo.  Almost every other RV seems to have a version of this set up on the grass.  If, like me, you are unfamiliar with this game I’ll describe it for you.  In essence this is basically a game of ‘get the bean bags in the hole’.  A description that belies a game of great sophistication and complexity.  Ok perhaps not but its history and variations, not to mention the vast array of double entendres that litter its rules and scoring system make it worthy of mention.  As already noted, the aim is basically to drop a bean bag in a hole, at approximately 30 feet or at the very least to get it on the board.  A bag in the hole scores 3, a bag on the board scores one.  There are many variations on how the scoring system seems to work which I discovered when playing against other families at other times but the rules around here seem to be that any score that both players get cancel each other out (i.e. I get one in the hole and so does the guy I’m playing with then nobody gets the point and we ‘wash’, ooh-er missus).  The player with the highest score after an innings of four bags takes the total score minus the opponents score.  The aim is to get to exactly 21, no more no less. Trickier than it sounds.  In a rather highfalutin history provided by Wikipedia, it is said that the game originated as Cornhole using bags of corn in the later 1880’s and, to cut a very short story even shorter it is now called Baggo, presumably to avoid getting it confused with certain body parts.  Some of its more fruity terminology is outlined below :-

Cow Pie-  bag lands on the board – 1 point

Backdoor/Dirty Rollup – bag bounces over another players bag into the hole – 3 points

Baggo – bag goes in the hole.  Airmail is when it doesn’t touch the sides – 3 points

Cornfusion – players cannot agree on the score – punch up ensues

Cornholio  – bag goes in the hole, same as a baggo but mainly used by disciples of Beavis and Butthead – 3 points

Cornucopia –  player gets all four bags into the hole in succession – in the Wells family this automatically wins the match.  In other situations this is simply 12 points

Dirty Bag – bag bounces off the ground onto the board.  Presumably if this bounces on to the board then into the hole this is a Dirty Backdoor Bag but this is not clarified – 1 or 3 points depending on where it ends up

Slippery Granny – 3 bags in a row on the board.  I have no idea what the provenance of such a term might be but she’s worth 3 points whoever she is

Triple Dip – 3 bags in the hole in one round – 9 points and no further comment

Madden –  when a player violently tosses their bag at another player – no points and possible being sent to bed early

Perrego –  when a player refuses to play Baggo as they are intimidated by their opponent.  It is debatable whether this actually makes them a ‘player’ – match forfeited

Wash – all players get the same in the hole or on the board – no score

I’m sorry but if none of those raised even the slightest immature snorting of your tea then we can no longer be friends.

Having won some and lost more matches of Baggo and scored more than a few Slippery Grannies and holding myself back from more Maddens than I am willing to admit to, a few rounds of poker ensue until it is time to retire the children and sit by a blazing campfire being eaten into insanity by mosquitos and drinking ourselves into a position of not caring.  I’ll leave aside the somewhat bizarre notion of lighting a campfire in 25 degree heat and say only that it is one of the most relaxing pastimes I have come across here thus far.  The temperature remains so high that at bedtime my second favourite pastime is discovered by opening all the window zippers in the bed leaving only the insect netting and sleeping essentially out in the open looking up at the stars.

  Day 2

Another day, another new experience.  Well several really.  Firstly, campfire traybake breakfast.  Fabulous.  Secondly, in all my recollections, I have definitely never been sat on a tractor trailer being taken on a 5 km/h tour of a campsite at 10 o’clock in the morning.  Pretty sure it wasn’t on my bucket list but if it ever was I can certainly tick that one off now.  If they have a suggestions box I imagine it is full of tiny bits of paper with the word ‘cushions’ on them but hey, it was an experience, if not quite the rollercoaster that the photo would suggest.  The third and most gratifying of the recollections was later in the day at the beach.  I mean naturally I have been to a beach before, and many with less gravel than this one.  Beaches on the ocean, beaches by the lake, beaches up a hillside.  All are familiar to me.  What has so far been less familiar to me is actually taking a chair to the beach and actually planting it in the lake.  With temperatures this high it has to be said that this is genius.  Unhinged perhaps.  Precarious most definitely.  But given the temperature even when the clouds come over is in the high 20’s, depositing one’s chair actually in the water is still genius.  No need to move, no need to go swimming, unless the mood strikes.  Cooling down is as easy as picking up a Bubba flask of sneakily concealed radler, leaning back and letting the water come up as far as your tits.  Luckily for anyone reading this, the act of submersing oneself in semi-dress in a lake dampens the ability to carry a camera a little.  Modern mobiles are waterproof but I didn’t want mine floating away in a rip-tide so luckily for you all there is no photo evidence to strike you blind.  There will be photos of other people doing this on a future post though just to make sure it is clear that this is not the invention of my fevered imagination.

  Day 3

Following another fine evening of games, cards, drink and burning stuff we are getting ready to pack it all up and head back.  Getting things set up had been a mixture of random chucking stuff out of the truck and the camper and arranging it once retrieved.  The take-down was far more ritualistic.  Everything has to fit in its place so must be correctly folded.  Anything that has touched the ground must be brushed off.  Recycling must be separated and taken off to the appropriate place, unused firewood safely stored for future use.  Grey and black water tanks must be emptied. The Wells’s have a well oiled machine and within an hour we were on our way home.

So overall, camping? Yeah no problem.  In fact it is something I feel I ought to do more of when I return to the UK.  There is something therapeutic about dragging your life down the road on wheels and then feeling like you are in the middle of nowhere and living a simpler life.  If I thought this was the peak of the trip so far though, where we were headed next would blow my mind.

Training Camp Campers Cove 27th to 29th July Day 1 So part of what I wanted to do while I was out here was to get myself doing things which I hadn't done before or at least hadn't done for a long time.  

[isabellelambert1975]

12 crazy (but fabulous) garden ideas from Spain

Garden ideas picked up from holidays abroad have inspired garden designers for years.

Every year, there are several award-winning RHS show gardens based on places we visit, from Provence to the Yorkshire moors.

Some garden ideas will travel better than others. There will be a few that are like that bottle of retsina – so delicious in the taverna on the beach, but tasting of paint-stripper once you get it home.

‘Do you really think that’s a good idea?’ These stray kittens adopted Hugo and Anna. They’re clearly astonished to find someone up and taking photos at dawn, when most people are sensibly in bed. And I like the idea behind them – hanging an ornamental window grille on a blank wall rather than over the window.

But I recently had a short break with my brother, Hugo, and sister-in-law Anna in their house in El Canuelo, a small mountain village, near Periana in Spain. I spotted lots of ideas that I loved for their sheer exuberance and use of materials.

Some were crazy (at least for Northern hemisphere gardens). Some were perfectly sensible garden ideas.

I leave it to you to decide which is which.

Crochet your own sun awning…

There is a street in Alhama, Andalucia, which creates shade by hanging crocheted mats between the houses.

A variation on the tasteful cream sail – hang an all-weather crochet mat out to shade your terrace for the summer. And it’s great recycling – you can crochet old plastic bags!

I asked crochet blogger Emma Varnam whether this would be easy.  ‘Essentially, they’re using the granny square technique, so it wouldn’t be difficult. I haven’t tried crocheting with recycled plastic bags yet myself, but plan to give it a go. You could also use recycled t-shirt yarn.’

I googled ‘crocheting with plastic’, and discovered a whole world of crocheting with recycled strips of plastic bags. It’s known as ‘plarn’ and is easy to make yourself.

There are lots of YouTube videos about crocheting with plarn, many of which are about making bedroll mats for the homeless.

I couldn’t find ‘crochet your own sun awning’ anywhere, but you may be handier than me and be able to work it out for yourself.

Or hang brightly coloured parasols…

The same street last year. They used brightly coloured umbrellas/parasols in netting to create shade. Not the most resilient of treatments – this was taken towards the end of the season, when quite a few umbrellas had clearly blown away.

Brightly coloured umbrellas strung together to create a shade awning in a street in Alhama, Spain. Photo by Jane Campbell

There are quite a few pictures on Pinterest showing streets in Portugal with this treatment.

Edge your border with car tyres…

Recycle car tyres as border edging… I particularly love this one, because the car tyres have been painted in pretty pastels. That seems so counter-intuitive, but it’s great.

Car tyres, sliced in half and buried in the ground as border edging (the border itself had just been cleared). They are painted duck egg blue and green, a soft pale pink and cream.

You can see the colours a bit better here.

This treatment could be good in an allotment and it also gives the plants lots of support.

Improve pot drainage with a pretty stand…

Pot stands improve drainage. Sometimes they are too effective, and the pots dry out. But if you have plants like pelargoniums or succulents, then a pretty pot stand will be prevent their roots from sitting in water. And so much more attractive than pot feet.

I also like the way the colours of this pot echoes the floor tiles. I think it would be great to see a return to patterned pots – but they do need to be good quality.

Paint a ‘skirting board’ outside your house as well as inside…

This is the sort of idea that might not work so well in a Northern hemisphere, but I do love the use of colour outside in Spanish houses. It’s both exuberant and controlled – colour is part of the architecture.

A yellow paint ‘skirting board’ harmonises with the tiles and really makes this terrace area at the Bar El Canuelo work. Note that the step risers are painted in the same yellow.

More painted walls at Bar El Canuelo. I love the painted frame around just half the window.

Spray paint your solar lights…

Hugo doesn’t like the blue-ish tinge to the solar lights he bought for his new cactus and succulents bed. So he has spray-painted the lights yellow. He also reduce the height of the spike – when he bought these solar lights they were supposed to stick up above the ground.

Change the colour of your solar lighting by spraying it with paint.

Line your garden path with architectural plants…

This has to be one of my favourite garden ideas from Spain. I just love the idea of someone staggering down the path (see photo below) when they’ve had a few….especially as there is no handrail – possibly another quite Spanish touch.

I think this looks beautiful, but it is quite definitely prickly.

A front garden path and steps, lined with agaves. Striking but prickly!

Pots on walls – don’t forget safety and drainage!

If you have a pot on a high wall, it may be blown off (onto someone’s head).

One solution is to cement the pot onto the wall, but that will prevent it from draining. Here at Bar El Canuelo, they have drilled a hole in the side of the pot, and added a small drain.

Pot cemented onto a wall, with a drainage channel made of a piece of local roof tile.

Pots on walls instead of pictures…

I love the Spanish use of pots on walls, especially as the pots themselves are often so beautiful. I think this is something that could work elsewhere, especially as ‘indoor gardens’ and houseplants are now gaining such popularity.

The Bar El Canuelo with its traditional Spanish wall pots. So pretty!

I love this pot. Be aware of watering issues when you hang pots on walls – you don’t want water trickling down the wall. Also hanging pots dry out more quickly than pots on the ground, so choose plants, such as pelargoniums, that are happy with drought.

Hang a curtain over your front door…

Now you may think that this is a ‘hot countries’ only idea.

But our front door in Kent gets baked by the morning sun, and the paint cracks within months of re-painting. We can see that there are fittings for a curtain rail just above the front door (on the outside  of the house). I believe these were probably common in Victorian times, but I’ve never seen a photo of an English door protected by a curtain.

The curtain hung over this front door protects the paint on the door from hot sun and wind. It also insulates the house – a good idea for Northern climates?

It’s a great idea, but I’m not quite sure….it would probably get quite muddy in winter.

Effective garden ideas: a screen with large holes in it….

Hugo and Anna’s house has one next-door neighbour, and they share a continuous terrace.

Thick walls and climbing plants – but this privacy screen has large ‘windows’. But you can’t see the washing line on the other side, can you? I promise you – there was washing hanging up just on the other side when I took this.

The garden screen is a thick white wall with large window holes cut in it. Once again, this seems quite counter-intuitive as garden ideas go – isn’t the point of a screen to prevent you from seeing anything?

But holes mean that wind is broken up, and it also lets light in. Somehow this terrace feels completely private – it must be something about the thickness of the wall and the lavish planting.

Paint fencing and gates in contrasting colours…

Paint gates and railings in contrasting colours. This leads to ‘casitas’ (flats or apartments) to rent overlooking the pool at Bar El Canuelo.

I think the Spanish are much bolder about exterior paint colours. We’d be much more likely to paint gates and fencing like this all one colour, often either black or white.

I think I probably wouldn’t choose to tile my house orange, but I like the way the gate, the stone steps and the orange tiling harmonise, and with the roof tiles too.

Eating outside – secure the tablecloth with weights

Clip on weights to secure the tablecloth. The tablecloth is on Hugo and Anna’s terrace, which is quite sheltered. But there is an occasional gust of wind, which can whip your supper away. with a smile and a flourish…

Do everything with a smile and a flourish…

This delightful Spaniard was on her way to work, but found the time to exchange a few words, a smile and suggest a pose for the camera.

On her way to work at the Bar El Canuelo…

Hugo and Anna’s house Los Alamos , at Le Canuelo, is available to rent from Sawdays.

The view from Hugo and Anna’s terrace just as dawn is breaking.

And the El Canuelo shared pool, taken early in the day, before the sun got too hot.

Next week’s garden ideas come from the amazing Jardin Agapanthe in Normandy, France. It’s one of the most exceptional gardens I’ve ever visited, and is a mix of French classicism and exotic fantasy.

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