Jug Band

We have ancient olive oil jars dotted around the garden which my mother swaps ideas for where they'd look best.

I lug and roll and tote and tug best I can.

There's this one barrel I need to roll up and round and over the gate and fence and then down to somewhere I'm sure it'll get away from me and end up in 1,000 shards.

For the moment, it's on its side and waiting for muscle and a good sidewind.

Speaking of wind, as of a few weeks back, a weird spooky sound has come to the neighbourhood that spooks the dogs and has the locals talking of devilry afoot and midnight shenanigans.

"At least," as maman observed, "it doesn't seem to have worried Sam."

Well, to cut an unlikely story some slack, I finally found out (by walking round the house one moonlit night) that it is none other than the angled barrel catching the wind and returning a basso profundissimo moan that'd honour any jug band.

To boot, it has different tones and nuances depending which part of Upper Gouvia you happen to be - rather like police sirens sound different depending on how far a lead you have on them, or if you've given them the slip.

I tested it by handing a T-shirt over the mouth which silenced it. Next, I must experiment with 'mutes' until I can play some sort of tune ...

Actually, I have just received a total killer Bob Dylan link, so I'm seriously thinking of easing one of the Bose speakers inside and easing it up to 11, just to see.