The colour of grapes

At dawn this morning in the mist the grapes were not purple, nor lilac, not grey nor black, not red nor pink, not blue nor crimson, not brown nor indigo, but a certain soft dark seductive colour I have never seen before and as I tried to photograph them the sun came up and it was gone. So I picked some and we drank the colour for breakfast.

Miracles of Le Marche: 5. Fenice

Night was falling this time last September when I found Fenice on the road, her back legs weak, her fur coat sodden. A bedraggled scrap of a thing. A dark storm was approaching. We did not think she would last the night. However once home she ate some sardines, buried herself into Sam's sweater and clung on with her tiny claws. On the third day she emerged, wobbly but bright eyed and determined to live. That was then and despite kind offers from friends to take her we cannot part with her. She is from this place and knows all there is to know about how to flourish in a wild and wonderful landscape.