Fighting lizards

The spring heat is making the lizards aggressive.  The sun is turning the normally placid little creatures into frantic little fighters. Once the Charentes’ rays start beaming down, they cautiously crawl from under their cool hiding places; gingerly pop their nervous heads between the cracks in the stone walls.

The sound of a lizard in retreat is now a familiar one - an agitated, dry-leaf scattering rush. They miss my feet by a split second; I’m happy to say there have been no fatalities.

They like to bask, solitary; languishing on a tumbled pile of golden moss-furred stones next to the grass, their own Devil’s Island. But should they cross, smooth-skinned elegance turns to aggression; whirring, wound-up, they lock themselves into a split-second tumble before darting away - the victor back to the stones, the vanquished skulking beneath.

The male blackbird who spends all day searching through the long glass for worms, often appears puzzled by their behaviour. The robin who follows him is non-plussed.

The lizards provide the garden with some flash-gun excitement.

One must have fallen asleep on the charpente. I don’t know who was more shocked when it tumbled off the terracotta tiles and onto my partner’s head.

The lizard survived.