Talking of honey (as I was last post), the mirabelle tree is humming - extraordinarily loudly - with bees. There are hives a few fields away, and Monsieur L'Apiculteur in his white van is one of the regulars along the almost-forgotten track that passes the hamlet.
In high summer, the fruit is a small orange plum, very tart to the palate. It grows in abundance, like clusters of party lights in the tree:
At a time when so many bees have been dying, probably due to industrial use of pesticides, it's good to know that our land is doing its bit to help. A judicious neglect has resulted in swathes of wild spring flowers, including banks of grape hyacinth, violets, forget-me-nots and lamia, all of which are busy with bees.
