Mint

Dogwalking at this time of year is almost enjoyable. I say 'almost' because there's one thing that ruins it. Or dozens rather. And what's my annoying bugbear? I'll tell you: flies. For some strange reason the bastards find me really attractive. Not Georgie though. She reckons it's because I stink and she doesn't. As a typical attack by flies, take our meanderings up at Sprocket Hill for example. Within minutes of leaving the car and unclipping Hamish from his lead, I'll slowly but surely become aware of numerous black dots hovering and swooping above my head. So I start swatting with flailing arms. Does no good. Probably increases my sweating which causes even more of the flying filth to inspect my balding bonce. Georgie has suggested wearing a hat. Tried that. Didn't work. My solution is to dogwalk in a covered area, such as the forest up at the Walkers' Barn. Or somewhere devoid of cattle, which is almost impossible to find locally, here in the centre of Limousin cattle country.

Couple of days ago I was sitting outside, wine glass in hand, admiring the evening view after yet another fly splattered dogwalk, when I spotted a few of the dreaded dots dancing above my head. Swatted with my left hand, spilt vino with my right. Was just about to waddle indoors to escape the bastardo nasties when Georgie suggested I put a sprig of mint on my head. Being a gardening expert she reckoned this was a sure fire deterrent to even the most determined fly. She cut me a small bush of the stuff and placed it on my head. Couple of vinos later I was feeling quite mellow as the distant hillside across the valley turned orange in the low evening sun. Quite beautiful. Then the farming mayor drove past in his pick-up truck and, as usual, we exchanged cheery waves. He probably thought why is that strange Britisher sitting there with a bush on his head?