Granny will put up her mum later. Meantime just to say she slightly maligned this landscape - hills have turned brown again; but there are still flowers - mainly yellow and white on Granny's land. And the arrival of succulents turn it red in patches. All the fig trees have the best crop of leaves ever - and vines have their leaves and the rural landscape has crops flourishing across it - stripes dots swathes of different greens, picked out by the black picon - volcanic granules - laid on all fields where they grow things (it holds moisture very well. The dews can be heavy here, even without rain.) The wind has dropped a bit. Good. The sun continues to prefer the tourist parts of the island. Bad.
A hints of parents. With what scent, smell do you associate yours?
Granny's mother's was definitely her face powder - not quite scented, nor chemical but female in an almost animal way - at the same time intriguingly ersatz, in a thirties way. Her father's was to be found most plainly in his handkerchief drawer - she used to bury her face in the silk ones especially. They provided her with her first experience of full on male. Something she still encounters round Beloved sometimes, and is filled with nostalgia. The powder, though, belongs to another country. Granny prefers a shiny nose herself.