A strong wind blows from the south but it is too hot to bring much relief.
Vita lies on the tiles in the dining room catching what little breeze there is through the open doors of the lounge french windows and the kitchen.
I slip out to turn off the hose that's watering the roses by the pool but she's too hot and sleepy to get up and follow me. I've been pruning the clusters of dying rose heads, brown and dried, the hips already fattening below the few remaining petals. Pruned now, they will reward us with a second flush but the new growth is touched with mildew and white fly and I think the bushes are stressed from the lack of rain.
We're leaving the cover off the pool at night in the hope that it will cool down. Tod grumbles that at thirty degrees the water no longer refreshes when he dives in.
A pale sun occasionally pushes between the thunder clouds that drop no rain. The distant ongoing rumbling sounds like people moving the furniture upstairs.
Monsieur F has the water canon going constantly on his maize and sugar beet. The water splashes over our chemin rural and runs milky white down onto our drive where it sits in puddles. The ground is too baked to absorb it.
We ought to be cleaning and tidying down at the cottage for our soon-to-be-arriving guests but it is easier to stay in the relative cool of the house with its thick old walls.
The météo forecasts rain for the first day our guests are here. Tough for them, but we (humans, plants, dog) will welcome the change.
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