It's nearly dusk. It's been a very still day, and it's very quiet now. The turbines stand idle. The hens have gone to bed. I'm up the ladder painting the barge boards. Dozens of ladybirds land on the wet white gloss and get stuck. Red with small black spots, red with medium black spots, red with black spots so big the red is almost completely obscured, black with red spots. They struggle, lifting their feet one at a time. Some of them unfurl their wings in a brief, doomed attempt to escape. A few somehow roll onto their backs, where they lay, frantically waggling their legs. Immediately overhead a Belfast to Amsterdam flight leaves a contrail. The fluffy bright red line goes all the way across the sky, from horizon to horizon. My ankles are hurting. It's time for a G & T and a ham sandwich, I think.
Bill