Now that I've lured you here with a blatantly misleading title I have to 'fess-up' that I am taking this opportunity to ostracize this fixation on trees!

There must be a multitude of aberrations that are much healthier to obsess about, and I shall make it my crusade to go away and focus on a few, after this post.

Since the phone-cam was apparently doing a good job I decided to continue making an effort to capture things I had already vaguely planned to use for a post. And it is an effort. Phone-cam in one hand trying to manipulate buttons that are microscopic, electric boxer on lead tugging me 'every-which-way-but-loose' in the other!

David, here's the gauntlet thrown down; come collect my boxer and then see how well you can compose 'raw' shots without resorting to Photoshop! Rant over.

I mused about the microcosm of life I can always find within the small patch of green that I visit daily. A line of trees along the cemetary wall gives sustenance to a variety of feathered friends. Pigeons are by far the most numerous, but there are colonies of 'escaped' parrots, the ubiquitous sparrows and even a few doves. The birds feed happily off the fruits, berries and insects that the trees serve up. And a right royal feast it is, too.

At ground level, in the underbrush, the killing fields, live the killers, the feral cats! They sit and wait patiently for unwary pigeons to wander into their kill zone (the other bird species are far too intelligent), and then it is a matter of 'pounce' and 'off with its head'. I've observed feathered remains almost daily, but have only ever witnessed one kill. And I have to tell you that, unlike domestic cats that appear to 'play' with their prey, feral's don't waste too much energy. Their kills are swift and deadly, and even though I cannot say it is nice to observe, I can understand how their need to do it is rooted deeply in their instinct for survival. More so when they have a family of cute little kittens to raise.

I thort I thaw a puddy-tat!

So, it is a matter of keeping one's eyes peeled. The dog knows they're there because he can scent them, but I have to spot them earlier than he does so that I can issue my "Straight On!" command. Or I end up being dragged unceremoniously into the bushes!

As I mentioned earlier, this is a microcosym of life being played out daily on a very tiny stage. The trees feed the birds, the birds feed the cats, and the dog and I, at the top of food chain, conspire to make life difficult for all of them. I guess that is the way of the world.

On a different tack. This is a little extra for 'townies'; the 'country-cousins' are already familiar with this phenomenon.

During my 'fieldcraft' training in the military, one of the lessons taught was how to navigate terrain without the aid of a compass. Not as easy as you'd think. Unless you are American! It has never ceased to amaze me how my American colleagues in the military were always able to locate NORTH without even breaking sweat. Conversely, they found it difficult to get from point 'A' to point 'B' driving a car on European roads because of the hairpins, switchbacks and roundabouts they encountered. A symptom of familiarity with how their towns and cities are built on a grid pattern.

But they could always tell you which way was North!

Well, here is a bit of information that will always help you, even in the deepest, darkest forests of your mind. And even in town if you are unfamiliar with the locale. Look for the moss on the trees, and the side that displays the thickest layer is the side that is pointing NORTH.

North to Alaska!

For the sceptical amongst my readers, I regret I didn't have a compass with me when I took that shot so that I could have shown the compass needle pointing to the big red 'N'. You will simply have to take my word for it.

Helpful information, or what ... ?

The word describing the fear of Friday the 13th, the title of this post, is a word derived from the concatenation of the Greek words Paraskeví (meaning Friday), and dekatreís (meaning thirteen), attached to phobía (meaning fear). This is a specialized form of "Triskaidekaphobia", a simple phobia of the number thirteen. There endeth the Wiki-reference, for what it's worth. Now let's get on with the reason for the post.

Since my perceptive readership will not have missed the fact that this is/was posted on Friday the 13th, I expect you want to know the reason. That's an easy one; I should have stayed in bed, like all discerning Paraskavedekatriaphobes probably did today!

Flashback. I remember the mild apprehension that Wyndham's Triffids induced in my youthful psyche, and even if I can say without fear of contradiction that that particular sci-fi hasn't troubled me as an adult, it appears there are lingering vestiges buried deep in my subconscious.

I am no 'tree-hugger', but I do enjoy their beauty and grace and will go to great lengths not to harm or destroy one. Nevertheless, on days when a high wind animates them more than their gentle rustling I can't help feeling that there is a malevolence about a tree when I am in close proximity to one on a windy day. Almost as if they want, like their sci-fi cousins the Triffids, to take a step in my direction and crush the life out of me. A bit fanciful? Perhaps!

The weather here in Portugal has taken a turn for the better. Bright sunlight and the temps into the high teens. But on the night of the 12th the departing wind decided to give us enough of a blow to remind us that it will return later in the year. The dog and I took our usual walk and were surprised by the amount of debris on the green and in the park. A couple of trees down and the remnants of the winter clothing of the eucalyptus trees strewn over just about every square metre of pathway.

Off with the old, on with the new.
Old shredded bark stripped away. New layers ready for the spring!

Walking the green, quite unconcerned, I gave silent thanks that all this happened during the night when we were safely tucked up in bed, and not now. Here is a poor resolution shot (phonecam, low-res) of one casualty ...

Right across my path.

When I looked at this tree lying right across the path I and the dog normally traverse, I had this feeling that had the tree been a bit smarter, and a bit quicker in its movement, it might well have made short work of decapitating me. Darn, but a seed of doubt was sown in my mind as to whether the trees were out to get me!

The dog and I strolled on to the end of our walk, the place where the tramp usually pitched his tent, when there was an almighty crack behind us followed by a subdued thump where the branch of another tree hit the ground. Right on the spot where the dog and I had been only moments ago!

Jeez, these critters were getting smarter - and quicker!

The dog can speak volumes.
I think he is telling me I am a 'dumbass' to stay any longer!

There was no wind, the sun was shining, and all was right with the world. So you have to ask why that particular tree saved up that branch to hurl at me and the dog just then.

Paranoid? Perhaps! But here's fair warning; don't speak, or even think evil about the trees around you.

They know, you know ...