Ash to Ashes

Ashton, the young man who helps me in the garden, came yesterday to deal with the detritus left after Did chopped down the hazel tree. It was a job I was looking forward to doing myself, but common sense, my new and not at all welcome guiding spirit, told me not to be such a daft mare (she's a bit vulgar) and leave it to someone who isn't permanently breathless and exhausted. So up he came from Fram on his scooter, went into the tool shed which we call his dressing room in full biker gear and emerged from behind the closed door looking like a gardener. He's a terrific young man, hard working, sensible, clever, strong and well organised. As can be seen from his picture, he's also charming.

He took one look at the mess, seized pruning shears, saw and rake and set to work. Two hours later he'd created a pile of wood that can be sawn up for the woodburner at a later stage by him, and bonfire fodder which I can easily move and reduce to ash myself. Ruth has been staying with me, and the two of us sat in the summerhouse in the sunshine, gossiping, drinking tea, and occasionally turning to watch him work. In the end what he produced was so methodical, so tidy and fit for purpose that we were both impressed.

Suddenly the rain came down by the bucketload, and we fled into the house as Ash shot off to the shed. A few minutes later when it was obvious we were in for the long haul, I called him to come indoors. I thought he'd be a bit shy in the company of two women old enough to be his grannies (ouch!) but not a bit of it. He asked to see what I'd done to the house, admired everything especially my wall of books, and then told us of his plans to be an engineer which he's currently studying to become. He's been an absolute boon to me, and I thank the lucky accident that brought him to my garden when his mum bought my stable and he helped to dismantle it. What a kid. He'll go far.

Earlier I drove along the road to Saxmundham and spotted a path newly mown through the centre of a wheat field. It looked so beautiful and inviting, a straw-lined slash in a sea of sharply carved green leading to a wood and beyond. Normally I'd have abandoned the car and set off at once to stride it, but I knew I wouldn't get far so instead I got out to photograph it. Oh dear. I have never seen more than one car at a time on that road, but suddenly it was a motorway. Two vehicles flashed around the bend towards me, shock registering at first me and then my car and then the oncoming traffic. Yes, two more cars had shot forward in the other direction and were immediately upon us. I closed my eyes and waited for the screech of tyres, the scrunch of metal, the sudden pain, but they didn't come. When I looked again the vehicles were disappearing into the distance. Heart thumping, chastened, I wobbled back to the car. Was that the vulgar one tittering as I drove shakily away? Perhaps I should take her advice more often, damn it.