One of the figs – white adriatic? white genoa? – has a breba crop. Only a few tiny figgy flower-fruits, mind, clinging on over the winter. Nearly all are growing on branches that brush the white-painted wall – testimony to the power of microclimate, a solar ping-back I can still feel on my retina. The figs have suffered from the dry this year, I think, their roots constrained in barrels. It’s said they thrive on neglect, but I think perhaps not quite this much neglect. Last summer’s tiny crop fell, confetti sized and yellowing, before it really began and the leaves dropped too, at least once. El Nino is coming – I think I’d better get out the hose.