The Saga - Epilogue

The Pyrenean Saga (as recorded in the last few blogs) may have ended, but then... it may not have. Like Brexit, who the fuck knows?

Whilst most people are wondering what the hell is going on, we took one more look to see if we could find our nemesis, now known to be the Dark Lord Farrage. There is more chance here, I thought, than in the British Parliament. Sod all happening there...

Things were looking bleak, the snow almost gone, the lifts shut, the bars closed. Now we're talking serious stuff...

One of the little people came with us on this dangerous mission. (Spoiler alert, no children were damaged in the making of this blog. A couple of adults, however, were a little worse for wear...)

We set off up to the lofty, grassy, heights hoping to spot one of the architects of the demotion of Great Britain to Little Britain; a 'Lesser-Spotted Boris', a 'Endlessly-Spotted Mogg' or, hopefully, an 'Excessively-Spotted Farrage'.

With what little snow remained, a likeness of our nemesis was made. 

However, we were alone. We resorted to fighting amongst ourselves, with yours truly getting the worst of the barrage.

The mountainside was scoured for evidence of life, or failing that, a politician.

But to no avail. Our nemesis had escaped again...

We retired almost gracefully to a local drinking establishment where Lyzëa hit the beer.

 Then sunk her teeth into raw flesh.

On returning home, she hit the rock 'n roll scene....

There is no stopping this kid...

War

Somewhere, everywhere, there is a war going on. Always. All the time. Every minute of every hour.
And it is somewhere near you right now.

We humans consider ourselves to be war-like, aggressive and dangerous (except for me). But the nature all around you is far worse. Every tree is fighting upwards for a greater share of precious light, every blade of grass is fighting for an unfair share of the land around it. Nature is a fight. Nature is war.

And my job is peace-keeper.

My job is to control the aggression and weed out the...erm... weeds.

And yet, despite my best efforts, despite acres of plastic liner, despite hours of herbal specism and manual removal, despite the occasional chemical and even biological warfare, I cannot rest.

The weapons of war are scattered around...

For now I am winning. For now my favoured plants are prospering.

Many have been quiescent overwinter, but with a little protection against the cold, some are already recovering with gusto.
The bananas, for instance, are going bananas.

Roses bloom despite constant regiments of aphid infantry controlled by their supreme leaders, the ants.
The ponds are surrounded by colour, each flowering beauty fighting to attract the most bees.

And in the murky depths, the lotus has obscenely burst forth, pushing aside all comers, like an alien porn show.

And in the duck pond, the winter of Cold War has now been blown apart, with each egg-layer believing itself to be the most important in the pecking order. The black swans have laid twenty eggs so far this spring. For some reason they do not appreciate these being turned into omelettes.

Approaching the nest can be a little fraught...

The peacocks are some of the few who are not at war.
Love.
Not war.

Although she may be more interested in food...