Ben had a quick coffee, stretched his aching arms and neck and shimmied back up the tree to the last and highest branches.
I couldn't watch for long so went back in to try to wrestle Gabin away from a dire cartoon which, for once, posed no language problems because it involved a bunch of shapes making incoherent noises.
Lizzie reminded me it was their weeding anniversary (50 years more than my current marriage and 38 more than my previous one.)  
This impressed me as much as Ben's acrobatics so I bought a couple of bottles of Prosecco, a packet of un-woke crisps for the boy, made bagel sandwiches and  bustled the whole lot of them, along with two garden chairs into the car and up to Bastonis.  
Gabin and I walked back home across the hills.  We stopped at the Croix de Terride where he ate chocolate and found happiness in rolling down the steep slope, the broom bushes below breaking his trajectory.  
He did this over and over again until I began to worry that the odds of not getting hurt were beginning to stack up against him.
At his age I was always triggered by my grandmother spoiling our fun by saying it would all end in tears.
Of course she was right and it did when he hit his head on a half hidden stone and his laughing turned into lamentation.
I rubbed and kissed the little bump that was forming under his curls and assured him that everything would be alright, quietly worrying about potential concussion and a night spent in hospital with a child who wasn't my own.
The tree is cropped and stark but you can see it's bone structure which is beautiful. Its now also possible to see straight up into the bathroom window but for the cobwebs I'm cultivating