Flaming June?

This lovely little rose is a refugee - a rescue from my increasingly wild garden this afternoon, when I could see that its soft stem was going to be no match for the wind that was getting up. It is now sitting in a crystal vinegar bottle from a set I inherited from Himself's family, and its scent is amazing.

But that was in the afternoon. Much had happened before then, beginning as usual with my mad dash to get to Pilates in time. A small class today - I think people are off on holidays - made it feel there was more room to stretch ourselves even further, so that by the time the class ended I was tottering down the stairs to the door as if I was about to expire. 

Expiring, however, was not on the menu for this morning, any more than my usual solitary coffee in the comfort of an armchair in my sitting room. Instead I phoned a pal to discover the whereabouts of the churches' prayer walk through the town, and set out to meet them. I caught up with them in the little stretch of woodland between the Co-op and the town centre, which meant I had two more prayer stops with them, praying for the businesses in Argyll Street and the clutch of different churches in the town. After that, we all headed to the Boathouse café on the West Bay, where another small group was waiting for our arrival for coffee, bacon rolls or - in the case of one of us who shall remain nameless but was the one who'd led the walk, a big slice of Victoria Sponge with two generously creamed and jammed layers ...

This was a lovely opportunity to talk - and to meet someone from another church who was relatively new to the town and had brought her toddler with her in a pushchair. By the time I went home for lunch, I was sufficiently energised - perhaps by the two espressos I'd had - to bounce up the hill on the shortest route home, which surprised me.

Partly it was because the wind had started by then, pounding the sea onto the shore below the café and battering me as I reached the top of the Castle Gardens. It was even worse when, much later in the day, I walked along to the Co-op, and now it's making it hard to open the front door. Worst of all, however, is the terrifying whistling noise being made by our ornamental silver birch in the front garden as it thrashes about alarmingly - a gale when all the trees are in full leaf is a terrifying thing. I'm actually glad it became properly dark rather earlier than it has recently, so that I can't see it any more.

I'd hate to be out driving in this: I'm thinking of all who were attending a diocesan event in Fort William this evening and hoping they're all now safely where they need to be. 

Did you see Mount Etna?