A baleful sun

...presiding over a parched landscape. Fires are raging on the hills, near us and in many other places. Everything is crackling dry and there’s no immediate prospect of rain. We haven’t seen the flames, only the yellowish fog that obscures the sky. Scorched fragments of ferns have floated in all day, turning to sooty dust to the touch. The Trogon has been calling insistently since dawn and the gardener says it’s because of the fire. The death and destruction it must be causing don’t bear thinking about – and the fire service is totally unequipped to cope with the situation. No water, no access and no planes (and, no investment, in this country of high taxes and zero returns).

We were on our way down to Rio when I had to stop to take this shot. We stopped again at the top of the hill, where the red sun hung low over the mountains, but his leering expression here is better suited to the day.