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Tuesday, 26 July 2016

Burnt Bacon

The bacon was spluttering in the grill as Francey scrolled lazily through his library of pictures of moths, taken earlier in the morning.

Moths. ‘We don’t like moths,’ I stated flatly, thinking of the carpet moths which have denuded a corner of the living room carpet.

Then he zoomed in. ‘This one was on your front door.’

It was breathtakingly beautiful. Lacy. Delicate. Lovely shade of translucent green. (I’m sorry I didn’t get him to email me the picture. Maybe I can capture one myself... a picture, that is!)

The guests, from Dublin, said they’d never seen as many moths as they’ve seen while staying here with us. One was camouflaged well on the stone dyke. Another lay immobile on a leaf. One had the shape of a stealth bomber. The variety was incredible.

How is it that we have been so blind to the beauty all around us, dismissing moths as those voracious white insects laying their larvae in our wools? 

‘I do like butterflies,’ I said lamely. And then was told that the French for butterflies is papillon, while their word for moths is papillon de nuit. Suddenly they sound lovely.

I can see I will become a mothophile. Didn’t God make us a beautiful world in which to live?

(Yes, the bacon would have burnt had Don not been out there to turn it.)

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