Lenin and Rosa are covered in mud but blinking dark eyes again at their garden. Rosa has managed a stroll through the acanthus, taking a bite here and a bite there, so is looking cleaner but, as usual, meaner. Lenin ate a fresh dandelion and leaf bouquet I offered then edged out from under the stone bench in the grotto formed by the church apse and the garden wall.
The garden in Monculi is tortoise paradise: stone-walled, protected from winds, sunny but with trees to shade, paths of beaten earth and gravel where dandelions are allowed to grow - the tortoises keep them neatly trimmed, obstacle courses of trimmed hedges for them to play through for no tortoise ever deviates from a straight line, that I have ever seen, as they munch down herbs, salad, and Mr HG looks on indulgently while they eat our rocket.
At the end of the garden is a pretty little sort of wilderness with violets and cyclamens under the trees (there are bluebells and daffodils and all the other plants harmful to tortoises, but they're not stupid, they don't touch those); they eat the wild strawberries until they are dizzy and Lenin has been seen trampling down the raspberry canes from the base to reach his favourite of all; and then the falling fruit, greengages, apricots, giuggiole, peaches, cherries, persimmons.
Imagine no rushing, no enemies, great intelligence, a long rest in the cold and dark months every year, the perfect diet,long life, and being so beautiful in their fashion.
In my next incarnation I am aiming for tortoisehood.
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2 comments:
Lenin ? Trampling down raspberry canes ?
I find that hard to believe
Lenin has a very direct approach to taking what he wants. There isn't quite the clenched fist, the extended arm, the clutched lapel, but the spirit is identical - onwards and upwards, raspberries for the people!
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