Up, Up and Away

There are times when my slumbers on a sunday morn are disturbed by a low woosh, like the air in a whoopee cushion being expelled, followed by the roar of a dragon. This initiates a slide out from under, a scrabble for clothes and a scramble to get downstairs before this mythical aspirant beast disappears into the forest tops and gets swallowed by the trees.

There is no predicting this phenomenon, at least not on my part, sometimes they whisper from afar, meaning a slightly more dignified arising, sometimes they are upon us threatening to take possession of the roof, and sometimes they sough and waft like thistledown.

They are of course the balloons of the Garrotxa, who even in these times of hardship and misery still make forays into the morning sky to share the spreading panoply of the Catalan countryside.

They launch from near Olot, beneath the shadow of Croscat, the extinct volcano, and drift about thirty kilometres, usually landing in a field or forest clearing near our village.

Lovely to see, but I can't stop the vision entering my head of a tearful small boy being scolded by his mum , "I told you to hold tight to the string!"