The cat sits in the trellis, in amongst my vine, patiently waiting for any wildlife daft enough to approach within range.
My vine is, I’m told by the people who supplied it, a cutting from the Great Vine at Kew Gardens. I live in Worcestershire – clearly not your traditional vine country – and the crop varies with the amount of sunshine in any one year. This year has been poor, but I’ve had the odd good year. The grapes are small, but very sweet.