This is a dry and yellow country where rain does not repeat itself. The light lies shattered on the rocks and night betrays no glow of cities. I am betrayed by bees: the hives that old hobby, stand guard behind the house. Some sentinels – my old habit will bring the soldiers yet. On different days the buzzing is neither peaceful nor disturbed. The children are here and now go running through the many rooms. The garden just a garden for them they join me on my many walks hunting thyme, rosemary, coriander. Here the bees travel far for flowers return to dance for a single bush. We are kept busy tending the combs while honey is a glut the bees ignore. At midnight I am writing to friends not knowing whether you will be among them. News is infrequent and confused. The peasants hear nothing beyond the next field smile at the children, say the house of bees, eh? and pinch their cheeks. The spirals of the queen continue. The wind is the only giant on the plain, and winter is expected. We flavour honey with herbs and the bees die on days suddenly cold and very clear.