Tragically, I was on my last bite and Jonathan was halfway through his piece of the creme torta we bought at our new bakery when we discovered that the bottom of it was completely covered in mottled green mold. Being the Mensa brain trust that we are, we decided to sterilize our gastro-intestinal tracts (and our memories of the event) by drinking way too much alcohol. We both felt like crap the next day, but whether it was the mold or the hangover is anybody's guess. We have decided that since the weather is getting cooler anyway, we will start baking our own bread.

And two days ago, while Jonathan's sons were visiting, Rafe found an actual scorpion lurking underneath the edge of a door. Jonathan trapped it in some tupperware and released it far out in the woods. I helped by screaming a lot. There is also the corpse of what was, in its heyday, a monstrously large and vicious-looking wasp laid out on the front porch.

Our friend Almo gave us all a little tour of his studio while the boys were here. I find the whole workspace, coated as it is in a very fine layer of marble dust, beautiful. 

Hunting season opened last weekend and we hear shots in the woods behind the house in the mornings. Soon wild boar will appear on the menu of the pub, instead of merely in the olive grove. I find them much more congenial slow-roasted in red-wine sauce. And our pomegranate tree now has seven fast-ripening pomegranates on it now.

There is a price to pay for paradise. But it is still paradise.