The lavender bushes on my terrace are not doing terribly well. Out of fifteen planted several years ago, six are dead already. They need watering, but I am not at home a good portion of the year. Today I harvested the remaining plants, though. Five bundles of fragrant stalks now rest in champagne glasses on the dining table in my livingroom. A few purple flowers still embellish them. When they dry a bit, I will collect the pods in a large earthenware bowl, which is always on the dining table. Whenever I wish to enjoy the fabulous fragrance, I squeeze the pods in the bowl with both hands. What a delight this is, too. But the last lavender harvest is the poorest in years. It is only a question of time before the nine bushes still on the terrace wilt and dry up for lack of water. I feel a bit guilty about their plight, but not enough to do anything about it. Weeds will take their place in due time. And weeds will be perfectly happy without water during my ever-longer absences from Motovun.