Philippe has put up a scarecrow in a vain attempt to keep the birds away from his cherry trees. I’m not sure it’s worth it this year. I picked half a dozen from our tree this morning together with four raspberries and a handful of strawberries from the garden. Slim pickings.
Usually we have bucketfuls to gorge ourselves on, or turn into chutney or brandied cherries. I remember the first spring we were here. Paul came into the kitchen with a puzzled look on his face.
“Philippe’s just asked me to go and get some mice.”
“Very strange. You don’t suppose he meant cerises?”
Half an hour later Paul returned home with a basketful of cherries. Not a mouse in sight.