The Dry

Not as dry as lots of places. But we are getting there. Tomorrow there was 2mm of rain forecast but that’s now in abeyance (or Aberdeen). The tanks are low, the well just keeps filling up and who knows what’s left in the 70 shared household system. We’ve not had a spluttering outage since early summer and I take my sips for the drip pipes and potted plants. The springs are still running in the field and I need to get my sorry ass in gear to buy a tank to CATCH THAT WATER.

I spent a while reading about horseflies. Europe has 200 varieties. Italy 80. I wondered about buying a dedicated trap - basically a big black football under an inverted funnel with a water catch at the top. Ingenious really.

The ball heats in the sun and attracts the blood-sucking females intent on cutting a neat line in the victim’s skin. They are attracted mainly by heat - although they clearly have a thing for my eyes. They try and bite the ball and in frustration fly upwards into the trap.

The reviews are mixed and for €139 it would be a punt. But, frankly, anything short of a neutron bomb that works has got to be worth a shout. It’s like being attacked by mini-helicopter gun ships.

If got myself on a local pilgrimage road - the Francigena - I could pass as a penitent flagellant beating my chest with little effect and considerable pain.

I don’t suppose St Francis had much to say about the ‘Mosca cullaia’ as he stood on Monte Pena awaiting the stigmata. Unless, of course, the stigmata were simply horse fly bites gone bad.

There’s a Netflix original right there: When horsefly bites go bad: St Frank and his imprimata.

Catch The King’s Choice on the iplayer films if you can. Craggy Crown-like take on Nazi invasion of Norway and the dilemma the royal family faced. I thought it was really well done.