plotting

I hatch plans for some guerilla planting of oak saplings. The wind roars like a steam train.

trees for the future

Everything sort of brown except the sky, which someone has painted. Going down the hill, we meet the trawlerman/tree surgeon who helped push my wheelchair up it in the spring. He admires my walking and talks of how the council should be planting oak and beech, like the Victorians, not cherry and rowan.

doggy yoyo

A photo from last week of a dog swinging by its teeth. Is this wise?