Basil and Trevor

The sun has now bleached the deep green of some of the pasture land around Trelawnyd. South facing lawns , the Churchyard and village green all now resemble amber weetabix and apart from the cottage roses many of the summer flowers have burnt away to nothing.
Cheerful Ann from the old Flower Show committee has been organising a last meal celebration for us all at The Crown for a week on Saturday.
There are twelve of us going with only Trendy Carol unable to attend, which is unfortunate.
Incidentally the fine weather has brought out a whole new wardrobe in Trendy Carol's vast collection.
Yesterday she floated past in something very loose fitting and ethereal .
She looked rather cool in this hot spell.
Anyhow , as usual , I am digressing.
The story today is a typically meandering and gentle one.
Last night Mary and I had walked to the outskirts of the village in order to drop of a menu to matriarch Irene for the aforementioned bunfight.
Her cottage is one of the oldest in the village and is called chwarel a Welsh word which means "quarry"
As I sweated and Mary panted, a familiar figure came into view . It was old Trevor out on his evening constitutional.
Trevor marches on at least two power walks daily. He was born in Trelawnyd in the 1920s and never left, and since he received a new knee he has been powerhousing around like a lobsided puppy.

Trevor, miles from home

We chatted for a while before he marched away down the lane and as he did so Basil , a local farmer drove up behind and stopped to chat too.
This stop / start thing is common in the country.
A half hour walk can often last well over an hour.
Basil marvelled at Trevor's jaunty gait and we joked that he walks faster and longer than I do, a man 35 years his junior .
Basil picked up a 25 kilo bag of sheep feed like he would have done a small handbag and slung it in the back of his truck, it was 8 pm and he was still working hard on farm matters...he remarked on the heat saying the his wheat was ready to cut, weeks before it should be.
We watched as Trevor marched off in the distance  and Basil asked " How old is Trevor now?" as he prepared for another job to do.
" I think he's 94!" I told him
"Yessssi !" Basil exclaimed " He's bloody grand for 94!" 
And Basil flipped up the heavy tailgate of his truck and jumped into the cab with a skip

I picked up Mary so Basil could pass by in the overgrown lane and I smiled to myself as the farm van roared off.
It was evening and Basil was still plugging away
He is in his mid eighties.