Tragedy

A week of no rain is very unusual in these parts. For it to be sunny all that time too is unheard of. The rushing stream at the back of the house is down to a quiet trickle that makes me constantly feel like I need a pee; the garden is wilting before my eyes, only the grass continuing its remorseless upwards climb; the private water supply that feeds into the office has taken on a sinister metallic taste - best stick to the bottled stuff. Pretty soon I expect the tarmac to start melting, and the trees to spontaneously burst into flames. Wales was never meant to be dry.

And worse still, up in what used to be the woods, but is rapidly being turned into a battlefield by the forestry commission loggers, a tragedy has befallen those plucky little tadpoles that were the result of this March's herpetological orgy.

Tasty morsels

The pool in which they were slowly metamorphosing has dried out completely. Yesterday, at the centre, there was a small wriggling mass of black bodies trying desperately to escape the sun's withering glare. Today there was only tadpole jerky.

This happens with this pool pretty much every year. Sometimes when the rain comes back there are two or three left, wandering around the water looking for their siblings. I guess some must survive, over the years, or they wouldn't keep coming back to spawn more wasted lives.

It's still a tragedy, every time.