Out of Control

That heading might suggest that this is a post about Sasha, but no. Ruth and I were at a concert at Snape the other evening, a trio of women in drab dresses and for some reason knee high boots singing Norwegian folk songs a Capella. Free tickets, so we took advantage. The voices were incredible, pitch perfect, no accompaniment, but the songs were a bit folksy, a bit dirgy and samey. During one which seemed to be made up almost entirely of Diddly Diddly Dums, I asked Ruth what she thought this was Norwegian for. "Three Little Maids From School Are We", she came back with immediately, and we dissolved with laughter. A while later she leaned over to whisper something to me, and I could tell straight away that she couldn't speak for laughing. Her shoulders were shaking, and that set me off. I had to move right away, luckily being on an aisle seat, and not look at her. But we were hysterical for at least three songs until we calmed down and she could speak: "Do you think the woman on the right has false arms?" she asked, and we were off again. Oh, it sounds silly now, but it was even sillier then.

I worked hard in the garden yesterday, spurred on by Val who told me we had to remove the weeds before they spread evil seeds everywhere. She put her back into one bed while I tackled the other, and we were triumphant at what we achieved. The vegetable bed will have to be covered with a weed suppressant until next spring, it now being too late to plant anything. The wild garden at the bottom, truly wild but not planned, will be brought under submission by Ash who is coming on Saturday. So that leaves the main bed, partly cleared by Val and then raked over again by me. I'm going to a few garden centres today to see about buying shrubs, and then I can start planning the design. A hot bed, it has to be because of the proximity of the hedge and its hungry roots. That means, as well as the shrubs, crocosmia, day lilies, maybe dahlias. Yellow and red and orange. I can't wait for it to happen now after the long delays. It's so hard to imagine

Silence

There was an eerie silence as we set off on a long walk this morning. It's a bank holiday, and no one was stirring. It felt like the world had ended and we were the only beings left. There was rain coming so I wore wellies and a mac, but though the weather map showed it currently lashing over the village, it stayed dry until we were nearly home. Where to walk? After yesterday's extended car journey I wanted Sasha to have a real run, so we set off down Bannock's Lane and climbed to the very top, her first time. Then we struck off across the upper edge of a shorn wheat field where hundreds, possibly thousands of daffodils flower in the spring along the hedgerow: it's quite a sight then, though I don't think there's a house near enough to enjoy it; a quite extraordinarily generous act on the part of some farmer. I set Sasha free and she leapt in the air again and again like a deer for the joy of it.

Oh, it was good to be out on such a day, in such a place. The peace, the beauty of the golden stubble, the broad sloping fields, the dancing, haring dog, all near overwhelming. At such times it's best not to think, just be. The air was warm enough to need just two thin layers, my cagoul tied around my waist for later. How the landscape can change dramatically with the seasons. The last time I did this walk it was very hard going, the grassy edges overgrown and tangled and difficult to penetrate. Walking under those circumstances is a slog, and often we've had to turn back, exhausted and defeated by the struggle. But pass a giant mower across the wild grasses and the coast is suddenly clear to stride out with confidence. The bare fields make changing course easy too, and we followed our fancies, zigzagging hither and thither. We ended up where the pheasants are bred and fattened for shooting. Last time we trekked along this track we were told by a young man in a tractor that it wasn't a public footpath, so we proceeded along this last bit at speed, Sasha back on the lead. Luckily the coast was clear, the village as silent as when we set out an hour before.

On another note: reading The Times online as I do, I came across an article entitled "My Secret Was I Couldn't Act", an interview with Bill Nighy. I couldn't resist adding a comment. "Oh Bill", I wrote, "It never was a secret!". Dozens of readers found this hilarious. Such fun.

Tail-end Charlie

Went with Tricia yesterday to see two Avro Lancaster bombers do a demonstration flight at the Little Gransden Air Show. I've never watched one fly before, and this was the first time since 1964 that two have flown together. It was one of the most moving things I've ever seen. The show's commentator said it was the first time he'd shed a tear at an air show, and he wasn't the only one. There was an absolute hush as they flew overhead in formation, two majestic giants trailing a history of pride, glory, horror and destruction behind them.

Paddy

My father was a rear gunner on a Lanc, the most dangerous job in the RAF. On sortie after sortie he sat alone at the end of the plane, cut off the the rest of the crew, surrounded by glass, perilously vulnerable to being shot. His capsule would have been very cold and cramped, with only his fur-lined leather flying suit to keep him warm for eight hours at a time. Suspended over the dark abyss until the searchlights below tried to find him and the flak started flying, he must have been frightened, lonely, maybe claustrophobic. He told me with regret some of the major German cities he "dumped a load over". How wonderful it must have felt to land safely after a night of such terror, and tuck into rashers and eggs before hitting the sack. Tail-end Charlies had the shortest life expectancy of any air crew, and he knew it. A hero if ever there was one.

The turret where the rear gunner sat

Sasha had quite a day of it, from the long car ride to the thronging crowds at the show. I made frequent breaks for a run and a drink for her, but even so. Tricia and I took flowers to the parents' grave and then had lunch in what used to be the Rose and Crown, now The Old Courtyard. Potton has changed dramatically, for the better. God knows it was a backwater in the 60s. It's always funny going back: not unpleasant or pleasant even, just interesting.

Chewing on her favourite piece of rawhide

It was also Sasha's half-year birthday, so when we got home we had organised a party for her. Some of her friends came - Lisl the whippet puppy, Griff the West Highland terrier, Molly the teacup chiahuahua, Charlie the black labrador puppy, Malcolm the giant boxer puppy, and Alfie the pale gold half lab and cocker spaniel. We laid out coloured bowls of different food around the kitchen floor for them, and I had baked a cake of banana, peanut butter and ground winalot with six candles, one for each month. Alfie preferred the candles to the cake, and luckily they hadn't been lit. Afterwards there were games in the garden: someone had given us a tunnel which they all had a go in, and there were throwing games and hiding games, and just tearing madly around the garden games which they never seemed to tire of. And then they all went home to bed. And when they woke next day they realised it had all been a happy dream.

The Furies Cometh

Greek tragedy is full of injustices, vengence being exacted for crimes committed by association. It's always, or nearly always, the innocent who get visited by the Furies. Hubris is not always a factor. Sometimes a friendly god can be persuaded to intervene and change the inevitable. My nemesis has found me and is beginning to wreak havoc in many guises. Who is this all-powerful one? It's the Lawn Devil. First of all my wildly expensive turf was colonised by rough meadow grass that flowered and spread its seeds everywhere. Next came a plague of mushrooms, small brown yokes that proliferated across the lawn's surface. Now it's that enemy of gardeners everywhere, the mole. Early this morning I dreamed that I peeled back the corner of the grass to find a network of tunnels but no sign of the little black pest. When I came down at 6am there was a third pile of earth but no evidence of immediate activity. The lawn is already looking dreadful because the turf company have come and sprayed it to kill the meadow grass. They've agreed to refund the entire cost, £750, and I can see that all going to the mole catcher.

The new fence, and the new path

Half of the fencing is now complete, and in a surge of optimistic generosity I let the dog out in the garden, thinking she would stay put as her usual escape route had been closed. Not a bit of it. In the middle of a game of throw-the-ball, which I admit I was thoroughly enjoying, she disappeared into the field again. None of my entreaties would make her even look up from the immediate job of eating the field, and it was more than an hour before I got her back. I didn't try to catch her all that time, trusting that she was unlikely to leave the field. Instead I worked on the massively weedy vegetable bed, beginning to clear it for a planting of leeks. It was satisfying work, and when I finished, dog now safely indoors, I wallowed in the deepest Radox bath I've had in years and soaked all the aches away. The Radox was a Mother's Day present a few years ago, and it's such a luxury to indulge in its relaxing properties.

First vegetable bed, nearly ready

So I was up at 6am. It's not an hour that I am generally acquainted with, or have any desire to see again. And it's not as if I had an early night last night. Donna Tartt's Goldfinch is my bedtime companion, so I blame it and her for delaying my sleep. Bridge today is bound to suffer, just as lunch with Helen on Wednesday, including a bottle of Prosecco consumed just before our bridge afternoon, helped us come second from bottom. Luckily Helen doesn't use the internet to check the results. "Did we come last?" she always asks, and I can honestly usually reply with feigned astonishment "No!"

Drive from the lane

 

 

 

 

Newly-painted garage, nearly finished

And the side, all done

Jungle

While my back garden continues to languish, bare still apart from a lot of lawn, the front area expresses its exuberance in the only way it knows how: fecundity. Val and I laboured for a couple of hours yesterday morning, her exclaiming in delight as yet another smothered plant sees the light of day, me snorting in disgust as the things I dislike - grasses! euphorbia! bergenia! are the most prolific and the hardest things to remove. Val groans over the masses of violets that spring up everywhere - "weeds" she says, while I try to hang on to them and direct her attention elsewhere. Good-naturedly we comment on everything we find, everything we trim and hack and remove, almost never agreeing. In the end, screened by tall shrubs, I dug out two huge, enormous grasses that had spread their tedious feathery fronds over a wide area. Exotic and expensive, they were: I saw the labels. But hateful and untidy to me. "Val", I called. "You're going to be appalled!" She feigned shock, but when the two unexpected gifts were safely tucked away in the back of her car she was grinning like a kid.

She had no sooner gone than a big lorry bearing the new fencing poles and wires arrived in the drive, with Tim the fencing man who is going to erect them on Thursday. And Ollie. Yes, Ollie. A cute little thing of about 6 or 7, he was cocky and confident, too much testosterone already. How can one small boy create so much havoc?  "Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay!" he shouted at Sasha. "I'll be back in a minute!". He then proceeded to charge around the garden, poking sticks into the lawn, banging sticks against the newly-painted garage. Maybe I was anxious because I had people coming to tea in a short time, but he nearly drove me mad. I was truly shocked at how stressed I felt. "I'll see you bright and early on Thursday", Tim called as he set off. "And will Ollie be helping again?" I asked nervously. "Oh God no, he'll be at home." Did he notice my huge sigh of relief? If he did, I think he understood.

After tea it was off to puppy classes, a new series with only Lisl the adorable little whippet and Sasha from the last class. We had to demonstrate the various tricks we'd learned for the benefit of the newcomers, and with what pride did I watch Sasha obey instructions to "Wait", "Sit", "Down", "Off" and "Come" while for some reason Lisl who usually stars was off-colour. And wonder of wonders, there's a tiny, TEENY teacup chihuahua, owned by a big gruff farm labourer, who had taken Alpha Dog to new heights. His fingers were literally bleeding as he tried to put a new collar on her, the better to control her. She was having none of it, and bit him every time he tried. He was told to put her on the ground so that she didn't feel so important, and ignore her as she tried to climb up his leg. Oh, shadenfraude, old friend, it did me good to watch. Quite reminded me of the old days.

The last of the wheat harvest, from my study window

Piccadilly Circus

Really, it's been like a busy metropolis out there for the past few days. For the second night running combines and balers and tractors have been thundering up and down the fields and lanes getting in the wheat, bundling up the hay and piling it all away while the weather is still fine. The giant storage barns behind Sarah's house are the focus of all the activity: grain is being offloaded from the trucks into the storage areas, to be sealed off from rats and other vermin until they are taken away for grinding into flour. Dust has risen all day from the fields to merge with the sunlight as the race against the oncoming rain has been in full pelt. It's been so dry. What a summer. It must be one of the best harvests on record.

Today I had two lunch invitations, from Ruth and Helen. I'll be seeing Helen on Wednesday, so Ruth and I met up at Snape for a pannini and a walk. It was heaving, full of summer visitors. I think Benjamin Britten might have turned in his grave to see the crowds, there for every attraction apart from his music. We went into the big shop and hunted for birds, as R is making a birdcage and wants some lifelike inhabitants. The cage is a disused lampshade. She never runs out of ideas.

Sasha has been walked on the lead all day since she's returned to her evil ways. No charging around the fields unchecked for her for a few days. It's back to the draconian measures, ignoring her when I come down in the mornings, pretending to eat her food before giving it to her, the old alpha routine. Such a bore. I don't know why she has this horrible streak. Hopefully once the fence is in place she'll be happier. Meantime we're getting ready to entertain Nigel and Sue to tea tomorrow. The chocolate cake I bought for them on Saturday has all gone, and I've replaced it with a carrot one. I didn't eat it all, really I didn't. But once you start something you might as well finish it, get rid of temptation. That's my philosophy anyway. And why I'm so fat.

Back Again

I've been there and back, but I'm up and running again and once more in the groove. August may have been a wicked month for Edna O'Brien, but for me it's a tricky month, a sticky month. Too many anniversaries that can't be celebrated. I've been busy, but it's not been to Sasha's liking. The main problem has been that she discovered how to get out of the garden, lured by the, to her, intoxicating small of the silage that was spread on the field after the peas were removed. She would eat it until she burst, given half a chance, so I've had to stop letting her out in the garden to play and run around. I'm having the whole place fenced on Thursday, both to keep her in and the deer out, but until then she's had to be kept indoors while I work out there, or be tied up. It doesn't matter how many toys and chews I give here, she wants to be free and I know just how she feels. So we've walked more to compensate, across the acres of pale, bright stubble left behind by the giant combines. It's still beautiful out there, though the farmers are quick to plough once they've harvested, and it's too soon for brown earth as far as I'm concerned.

While I walked the barren miles of Orford Ness on Thursday with Ruth and Chloe, and Nigel and Sue, Sasha spent the day at Happidays, the doggie adventure play centre. She had a ball, and there were photos of her on their Facebook page afterwards, running with other dogs, triumphant at the top of a slide, staring smugly into the camera. My little baby! It was a great success, and she'll go back again, often if she gets her way. Lisl, the delicate blue whippet from puppy training wants to meet her there so they can play together. Oh Lisl, I'm afraid she might eat you!

Look how long I am

Ruth has spent the weekend here, and we painted two sides of the garage a lovely Suffolk black. It's much smarter now, and I'll finish the other two (hidden) sides as and when. We chatted to Old John, he whose garden one of our favourite footpaths runs through. He's lived around here for all of his 85 years, and he and Joan his wife are the smiliest, happiest people you could meet. He's full of reminiscences which I could listen to all day, but she tells him to stop rabbitting. Instead she makes us laugh with her self-deprecating anecdotes, the self-confessed "mad woman of the village". And I thought that was me. They are letting me have a load of white phlox when they clear a bed, and as we discussed the plants in their garden we couldn't remember the name of one. As  we walked off down the lane, back home for a late supper, she ran after us at top speed. "Cosmos", she shouted. "It's called cosmos!". And she threw up her hands in comic despair.

Ruth and Sasha vying for length

It's been quite autumnal these last few days. The temperature is much lower, and there's that unmistakeable quality to the air, a slight chill and scent of blackberries. It can't be the end of summer yet though. I haven't even started my garden!