Cogito Ergo Sum

My new oil tank was delivered and fitted today by nice smiley Jamie. It was just as well that he was nice because, while he was here, a gorilla who looked as if he'd never smiled arrived with my new 40kg pedestal base for my parasol. He couldn't find the house and rang from down the lane. I answered in my usual woman's voice, but: "Mr Laing?" he growled down the phone. "Mister Laing?" I queried. "Oh, sorry, Mrs Laing." He wasn't sure where the house was. "I'm outside Church Farm. I think," he said. Obviously he couldn't trust the sign he must have been staring at that said Church Farm. "So you're next to the church?" I asked. A slightly too long pause, then "I think so". "You're very near then, no more than 200 yards," I told him. "Is the church on your left or your right?". Another long pause. "On my left. I think." Blimey, where do they find them? He got the pedestal off the lorry with the aide of a hydraulic lift, then eyed the space between Jamie's truck and the fence. "I'll have to leave it here," he said. "Can't get it through there." I stared at him in perplexed amazement, then asked Jamie to move his vehicle but he did better than that. He helped Godzilla to carry the pallet with the box on right down to the summerhouse where it was left as it was. I quite like pallets, they come in useful for all sorts of things. But how was I going to get all 40kgs off and made ready for the parasol? Jamie again. What a sweet man. And he wouldn't even take the price of a few beers for his trouble.

I now have a new oil tank, double bunded for extra security, with an alarm fitted should oil thieves strike while I'm here, and best of all a gauge in the kitchen that tells me how much oil I have. And it's under a 10-year warranty, though the old one was too and I still ended up paying £1050. The concrete base has been renewed, cleared of moss and grime. You can't pay too highly for some things.

Helen came for lunch yesterday and we nattered on into the evening. She didn't notice that I poured nearly all the wine for her, drinking very little myself, with the result that I had a clear head when she'd gone and it doesn't hurt today. Now I await my next lot of visitors. I shall have company well into August. If only summer would return and I could try out that parasol that I was so desperate to use a few weeks ago. Hard to imagine hopping from bit of shade to bit of shade, too hot to stay in the sun for more than a few minutes. What a fickle thing the weather is.

Life's a Lottery

A black cat ran across the lane in front of my car and disappeared into the hedgerow. "Oh, a lucky black cat," flitted across my mind and I thought no more of it. But no less than 14 hours later it happened again, a different black cat, with a collar this time. It shot across my bows and disappeared into a garden. Both cats were as black as the ace of spades. The second one happened at 5.30pm on Saturday, so I did what you would do - I hightailed it to the nearest newsagent, conveniently only 100 yards out of my way, and bought myself a lucky dip lottery ticket.*

I'm just back from seeing Fellini's 8 1/2. I see that it was released in 1963, so it must have already been a retrospective showing when I first saw it in 1967. I was 18 then, on a weekend trip to London with an older, more sophisticated friend, and I remember being almost overwhelmed by the strangeness, the exotica, of a foreign language film of such epic weirdness. I can't pretend to have enjoyed it very much. But the feelings engendered by it, even the very taste of who I was then, came flooding back, a most unsettling experience. By chance we watched La Dolce Vita in a different cinema a few weeks ago, again several decades after my first viewing, and it was fascinating, compelling in its portrait of a life lived purely superficially. There was the iconic sequence of a statue of the Blessed Virgin being airlifted by helicopter to the Vatican across Rome, hotly pursued by another helicopter full of paparazzi. 8 1/2 showed the same actor, Marcello Mastroianni, as a director struggling to finish his 9th movie in the grip of an exististential crisis. Fellini's films are compelling, thought-provoking, beautiful, crazy, and I think you have to be quite emotionally grounded to watch and enjoy them. It's nearly 50 years since I was 18, and leaving the cinema tonight I was very aware of some of the ways in which the years have changed me. I can still be wide eyed and easily beguiled, but there's a comfortable weightiness there too which is solid and confident. The real test will be if they show Giulietta of the Spirit. I remember coming out of that in the late 60s with my head in a spin, confused and unsettled by the director's fantastical vision, temporarily unsure of what was real in the cinema and outside it. Art, eh? It doesn't half take you out of yourself.

*I assume there is no need to spell out how this story finished.

Twelfth Night

After 24 hours of heavy rainfall and blustery winds the weather settled down this afternoon, and by evening the sun was shining again in a clear sky. Just as well, because we were going to see a performance of Twelfth Night in a nearby pub garden, and we wanted dry bottoms and heads. The troupe put on a different Shakespeare play every year, conveniently shortened to an hour and a half, and perform it for seven nights in as many local pubs where they attract big crowds. They're very good amateurs, and are backed by another local group of mummers who dress for the period too, and sing and play authentic music. It was really well attended with all ages present, and such a delightful experience, sitting out of doors on a summer evening listening to the familiar lines and watching the tale unfold. Suddenly the blue sky over us was filled with rooks returning home to their nests. There were hundreds of them, and it took a while for them all to pass over. It was a spine-tingling sight, as timeless as Shakespeare's words, or older of course, much older. When the play was over they passed around the hat, and we all gave generously. But what a pity Olivia changed back into the actress and appeared in front of us, a buxom wench in a very short striped dress, killing the magic. "Why is it that fat people insist on wearing horizontal stripes," whispered Ruth, and indeed I know not. For if they saweth themselves as others see-eth them, forsooth they would not.

Earlier in the day I had an unaccustomed urge to do some cleaning, and in the process must have swept, hoovered, dusted and wiped up several million of those tiny little insects that get everywhere, even inside sealed picture frames. There are two of them inside my computer screen, still now where before they moved. The humid weather has brought them out, and they insist on crawling across my face, on my ears, under my clothes, too tiny to shoo away. The midges were out in the pub garden tonight, and my head is covered in lumps where they bit me. At least they disappear quickly, unlike mosquito bites.

It's 9.45pm now and quite dark. That's the trouble with the summer. It lasts but a moment and then it turns, just as the schools break up. Was it always thus?

Get-Up-And-Go

Well I did cycle again today, into Framlingham to get some fruit for my breakfast oats, and to post a parcel. It's maybe two miles by road the back way, so not far, but there is another big hill. From here into town is virtually all downhill so I was able to take it easy, coasting much of the way. But when I came to the sudden plunge I hit the brakes as I did yesterday, slowing my progress to a comfortable speed. I felt sad that I couldn't just set the bike free and experience the exhilaration of acceleration, the wind in my hair, the fields rushing past, but I was too scared. And then I wondered if I had always been timid in this way, afraid to let myself go. I had a sudden memory of a path in Marymead, near where we lived in Stevenage when I was 10, 12. The path, paved and winding through a housing estate, plunged steeply for several hundred yards, and boys, it was always boys, would hover at the top on their roller skates then push themselves off and, crouching low, negotiate the steep run at top speed. How often I wavered at the top on my own skates, longing to take the plunge too but assessing the risks and knowing I wasn't skilled enough to steer a safe course. I never did that ride, but another memory came into my head, of whizzing down a steep hill helter-skelter on my bike, legs stuck out either side, head back, shouting into the rush of air that hit my face. It wasn't a one off: sometimes there would be another child on the back, and sometimes that child would be me. If there wasn't anywhere to perch the cyclist would stand and the passenger take the seat. And it wasn't always the same hill, and I see myself at many different ages.

What a relief! I wasn't timid, but climbed trees higher than anyone else, careless of the dangers, trespassed freely where others feared to go. I scoffed at the cautious then. Well, speed and heights have got the better of me now, though I'm always up for a bit of trespass. When it came to the return journey I was pleased to be able to cycle the whole way without having to dismount, my legs pumping steadily up the sudden sharp incline. There's life in the old dog yet.

Breaking the Pattern

I decided not to throw on my grubby old working clothes as usual this morning, prior to getting stuck into the garden, but instead had my bath early and dressed properly for an afternoon of bridge. But not yet. Before I fell asleep last night I had plotted a bicycle ride around the lanes, to stretch my calves and thighs on the steep hills around my home, and I couldn't wait to get started. Curiously, though I've worked practically every muscle in my slight frame half to death since winter lost its chilly grip and slipped away, I found uphill cycling very challenging. What has my body been doing with all the exercise it's had? I was shocked to realise I had to dismount half way up the two worst hills, and stand panting until my heart had calmed down. I told myself that if I did this circular ride every morning, in a few weeks I would be fit, but I know I won't: the lure of the garden is too great, and I never have the energy for both.

I didn't really mind that I had to go slowly because at this time of the year, when the harvesters have begun their work and even fields not yet ready for cutting have had lovely swathes cut all around their perimeters, everywhere looks beguiling. Hares are disorientated, wandering around trying to get their bearings. Do they not remember this from last year? They can't all be yearlings. I made a mental note of the most enticing walks for when my visitors come next week, and only the shortage of time prevented me exploring some of them right away. I passed a field of cows, an oddity in this part of the world, and even if I hadn't seen them I could smell them. The odours have a particular resonance for me, bringing back powerful happy childhood memories of playing Nelson's Bad Eye with cousins in Ireland, and there was serendipity too because these and other cousins have been very much on my mind lately.

One family member has set up a Facebook page devoted to our huge clan, and for the past few weeks we cousins have been posting old family photos which the rest have pored over. Here are the grandparents as we've never seen them before, her tenderly fixing his tie, or leaning towards him to rest her head on his shoulder. This is the old family homestead, covered in ivy and fronted by a rough dry stone wall swathed in greenery, the iconic backdrop for an ever changing selection of sisters home for the holidays from London, Dublin or Belfast, wherever they worked, and young people posing with the new love they've brought home to meet the parents, and later their spouses and children. There's the pony and trap filled with laughing aunts - some of the ten beautiful sisters who were close as children despite the age range and remained so all their lives. There are village school photos, every small grouping containing two or three or more of my aunts and uncles, and there's haymaking, tobacco growing, weddings and birthdays, and new babies, and always the sisters are there, supporting each other, celebrating each other and their shared lives, laughing, lovely. For the thirty plus cousins and our own offspring it's a chance to peer into a lost, magical world, a wonderful time when poverty mattered less than the strength of family, and everyone grew up and prospered. We older ones especially have strong memories from these times, and we treasure them and the chance to share them with the younger generations. Every one of us is fascinated by this world that would have disappeared but for the photographic evidence left behind. We all feel privileged to have descended from such strong, loving stock, and grateful that our shared provenance is so special.

Four sisters haymaking, Evelyn, Vera, Irene and Mai

Paddy and Kathleen Moran, Lulu and Granny

Four Finlay sisters Irish dancing

Lulu on Bob, Vera and Grandfather

Five sisters, one husband, grandparents and baby Bruce

Kathleen with baby Margaret, Ann and Vera

Grandparents with Vera and Mai. Granny always wore big coats

All of them together, plus Michael's wife Jo (left) and baby Michael

The old house

Fixing his teetotaller's badge

More sisters, back home on holiday

Three beauties, Mai the bride, Elsie left and my mother

Glamorous couple, Alec and Mai

Irene on Bob

Six Finlay girls and Bessie Redmond

The ould ones

Eight Finlay sisters at Lulu's wedding

Rural idyll

Sensory Overload

I ate my supper late,and so it was 9.20 by the time I set off for my evening walk. Gosh, it was balmy, still and settled after the day's winds, warm, light and quiet, apart from the unusual sounds of machinery. I walked until I came to the fields being harvested, one completely bereft of its barley and instead sprinkled with golden rectangles of straw, the other being gradually swept clear by a massive combine harvester, lights blazing, support vehicle at the ready to take the ripe ears. It really is an amazing sight in the growing dusk, and you can't help thinking of all those harvests, through time immemorial, which may have taken an awful lot longer but were essentially the same. An identical prayer for good weather and good yield, a race to get everything safely in and stowed away. The fields may be much bigger now too, ten times as large as the ones our ancestors worked, but the scents of dust and earth and the rich malty smells of the crop must have been the same. I breathed it all in and felt light-headed as I strode down a bridle path and back home on a circular route. A tiny sliver of moon gleamed in the sky, and as it grew darker there were suddenly stars, millions of them above me. It's hard not to feel something when you are under such a sky, the endless spaces above you filled with pricks of light that must have some significance. I felt it anyway, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks for being alive on such a day, witnessing the scenes unfolding around me.

Big Plans

I've spent much of today making a scale drawing of my garden, the better to help me decide where to go from here. I stuck 6 sheets of A4 paper together, and then laboriously measured the distance between everything and everything else outside. I scaled down all of the figures by a factor of 10, and then multiplied by 2 to create a big enough shape to fit my paper nicely. I may have been influenced by Jessie Burton's The Miniaturist which I am currently reading. But the idea came from a friend who said it would help me see how to evolve the garden. She's artistic and it might have helped her. But as I proudly finished my plan and stared at it it was as clear as mud. Lines and shapes and hatching and crossed paving, all completely meaningless to me!!! I enjoyed the job but I might as well not have bothered.

I've not exactly been invaded but certainly visited by flies every time I open the back door, and have already broken two fly swats. Dead bodies litter every surface. Then I remembered the fly screen we had in Wilby, a brilliant device that attached to three small hinges and had a magnetic lock, and allowed you to leave the door open in summer, and then be put away for the winter. As in that house, I have masses of storage space here. So I rang the company that makes them, conveniently located in Fram, and they're coming to measure up. How wonderful it will be to have air in the kitchen which is currently stifling. The door can stay open all day and the flies can peer through the screen but not have access. There's always a solution if you just try to think laterally.

A magical light

The barley field is still intact. Last night the light shining on it was so extraordinary that I took a photo, but even with my new camera I haven't captured the sheer brilliance. Every day it remains uncut is a bonus for me but it can't be long now. Should I start fretting about the dust that will settle on my gleaming pond when they begin the harvest, or just let it happen? D'you know what? I think the latter.

Deferred

I planned to walk across the fields to the Framlingham Horse Show this afternoon, held in the castle grounds every year, but you know how it is: I got carried away titivating the garden. I was so close to being able to sit back and regard it admiringly that I decided to press on, and am I glad I did! It's not yet a year since the team came in to level the ground and lay the lawn, though I'd been clearing the space before that. I collected and moved a million stones, a thousand dried up old donkey poos lurking in the hedgerow, yards and yards of brambles. And now this. I'm very proud of my efforts. Not there yet but well on the way. Here's a picture taken after I mowed the lawn. Thanks to the ministrations of Green Thumb it has recovered from Did's massacre.

I finished creating the path down the side, taking the bark from the shrub bed where it never really looked very good and moving it here. It may be a bugger to keep clear once the leaves start to fall, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. And there have been casualties. The lawn mower somehow managed to sweep a dahlia in its path, sheering it right off at the base. It was a big one too, well developed and flowersome. Such a shame.

Once the sun had set over the yard arm, 5.27pm I noticed with alarm, I opened a bottle of Provencale rose (I can't find the acute accent) and settled in my sun lounger to appraise my work. My but it feels good to have created this. Just the area at the bottom of the garden and around the pond to do now. Cheers!

Not too bad looking lawn

Newly dressed path

The bed minus the bark again

 

 

 

 

Bit By Bit

My sweet peas are doing well

I ate a raw carrot for my lunch today. It's supposed to help with anti-aging, eating raw food. I hope I haven't left it too late. I can't remember the last time I chewed so hard, if you discount the Thorntons toffee that Waitrose now ill-advisedly stocks. My jaw is aching, and I may not repeat the process for fear of dislocating it. There's quite a lot in a carrot. Perhaps I could start with something small, like an After Eight mint.

Pond with slate surround and new planting

View from upstairs as requested

Two goldfinches drinking from my pond again this morning, flashing reds and yellows reflected in the water as they hovered and dived. I went out early with all good intentions to shift the bark from the shrub bed to the path beside it, after covering it with a long sheet of weed-suppressing material. But I found I couldn't move any faster than slow crawl, and had to admit that I'm more tired than I had realised. I've been doing it in stages, dragging the bark across the bed in a couple of sweeps of the rake and then sitting down. The weather isn't helping. It's very breezy but warm, and when the sun breaks out I have to put my hat on, but that makes me feel even more sleepy. If only the occasional cyclists passing by had an inkling of the drama that happens in this garden on a daily basis.

Young hypericum, aka St John's Wort

I've now got a temporary oil tank beside the summerhouse, filled from the old one but leaving enough oil below the crack for me to continue using it.It probably sounds a bit perverse, but I like the look of it there. It gives substance to the summerhouse. I might have to replace it with something solid when it has gone, though the last of the summer evening sun comes in there and I don't want to block it. 

Oil tank next to summerhouse

 

Geraniums

Dahlias

I've managed to get my new camera working now, though I can't see how to use the x20 zoom. So I'm putting the latest pix in this entry and hoping they're not miniaturised or anything. Looking through the viewfinder is most strange. And the camera weighs three ounces more than the last one, which may not sound a lot but actually is. I'm not sure if I'll get on with it. I'll keep persevering. If all else fails I'll read the instructions.

New path with bark laid

Disaster (ish)

What a bleedin' day! I got up this morning planning to finish off the pond, but instead I discovered that my oil tank was leaking. So much for feeling smug when I filled the tank with 1000 litres in January at a rock bottom price. I felt like a headless chicken. What do I do, what do I do? So I did what everyone does in the 21st century and googled it, and was advised to buy some epoxy resin which would stop the leak. So I did, and it didn't. I rang my insurance company to see if perchance I was covered, but only for damage, not wear and tear. I haven't worked out what I might be able to claim for yet. A new lawn ha ha ha? So I tried the company that made it, and to my delight was told that it was under warranty for another 4 months! But there is no fairy godmother in this house, and I was never going to be that lucky.

I realised that I had to get the tank emptied to stop it causing an environmental catastrophe, especially with a field full of barley not 50 yards away. Who empties tanks? How do you find out? Google again, of course. After a dozen or so phone calls I found a man in Norwich who would send his lad out at lunchtime to empty the fuel and take it away, cost £150 plus VAT. And it would be the same to return it, almost as much as the 1000 litres cost in the first place. But by this time the engineer appointed by the warranty company to come and look at the problem had rung and told me that emptying the tank, and putting it in a holding reservoir in my garden until the tank could be replaced, was all part of the service. He would be around later to do that. So I quickly rang the man who was coming, and got dog's abuse. He was just a few miles away, and he'd have to invoice me for diesel and lost time. I said I'd be happy to pay for a couple of gallons of diesel, but it was a genuine mistake and I was terribly sorry for any inconvenience. He didn't like that and got a bit threatening, so I put the car in the garage, locked myself in, and waited to see if he'd come and beat me up. A while later, enjoying my lunch, I saw a man walk down the drive and fled upstairs, shaking like a twit. He knocked, knocked again, and then went to look at the tank. "Hello?", I called from an upstairs window with an Australian uplift to my voice. And it was the good man, not the bad man. God, what a relief.

I'm not sure how it happened, but I seem to have agreed to pay £1075 for an upgraded replacement. So much for the warranty. Like I said, there are no fairy godmothers here.

Once all of that had been straightened out to my dissatisfaction I returned to the pond. It's looking great, really fabulous, but in the course of placing all the stones around the edge I've dislodged a lot of soil into the water. I'm a bit obsessive about ponds. In an earlier house my favourite job was cleaning the pond, pumping all the water out, scrubbing the lining and refilling. I used to find dead frogs tucked into the folds of the lining, transparent in death but never smelly for some reason. The first time I did it I took out all the fish, 13 in total, unlucky for them, and placed them in a large empty bin full of water while I completed the job. To keep them oxygenised and happy in the fresh water I hung an electric mixer over the edge of the bin to create some bubbles by churning it up a bit, only it was the fish that got churned up. I never had fish again. I'm not a fit person. Anyway, in this new fishless pond I pumped out all the water, removed all the mud, and filled it up again with lovely clear water.

I'm really tired now. Not just physically but mentally too. It's been a long, trying day. What will tomorrow bring?

Stoned

I wish my new camera would come. I feel like a Monty Python lumberjack without an axe, or a pianist without my Steinbeck. I have things to record, progress to monitor, changes to display, and I'm being held up. It's been On Golden Pond here for a few weeks now, but the tale is nearly told. There will be a sequel, but it won't be as thrilling and eventful as the main story. Katharine Hepburn won't be in it for a start, but then nor will there be gnomes with fishing rods. I went on a hunt for stones to edge the pond, with my visitor who is good as snuffling these sorts of things out. We went to the big commercial garden centre whose telephone operator assured me they had what I was looking for. We hunted through the predictable stone collections and were just giving up when she spotted them in a storage area. They were perfect, lumps and slices of slate with rusty marks on them, and I bought six, three for the price of two. They were meant to add interest to the edging, but back home I decided I needed another 10, so off we went again and bought more. But when they'd been roughly laid in place, magnificently setting off the pond, I realised I needed more, so off we went again and got another nine. Twenty six would have been perfect, but I made do with 25, spacing them out a little, the interstices to be filled with small stones wedged in place when the area dries out. It's been pretty wet for several days and I've felt like a child making mud pies. But it really looks great now, and worth all the money and effort.

I'm alone again after a few days of company, and doing what I always do on these occasions: throwing myself into some diversionary activity. It usually works, and it's working now. If only the weather would perk up again and the sun shine. Hard to believe it's going to be 100 degrees by the end of July. Maybe my heavy parasol base will have arrived by then, but that's another story, and since it's already bored me rigid I'm not about to repeat it. I'll certainly have it for next summer.

Another World

Three lovely friends for lunch and bridge yesterday, and though they're all a decade and a half older than me, they don't feel it. We laughed like drains at all sorts of silly things, and ganged up on each other during the bridge. Two of the women had been educated by governesses, one before going away to school at 13 where she was a sort of scholarship girl - she had to do chores in lieu of part of her fees which included bringing the headmistress her tea at 6am, and the other until her father took over the jobof teaching in her teens. What larks they had, teasing and playing tricks on their respective 'poor mice', and pretending to be ill when it was mental arithmatic. One came from a bohemiam family, her father, born in 1882, a modern man well before his time who thought freely and expected his girls to do the same. She fenced for England, as did her mother, and rejected her MENSA membership because the other members were so geeky. They're terrific women, interesting, unshockable, open to everything. I love their company.

Today I bought some very smart stones to go around the pond, but the six I chose which looked huge in the garden centre were small when I put them in situ. But they were half price today, so I shall go back tomorrow and get some more, and hope I can still get a good deal. I can see the pond in my mind's eye now, and it will look lovely. On to Italian then for the last class of the year. I've been learning for 12 months, give or take! I'd love to say I'm fluent now but I can read and write very well, and understand quite a bit when it's spoken. It's just when I try to express myself that I hit a brick wall. Oh well. We've all signed up again for next year, so I can try and keep it going during the summer. Such a beautiful language. Bellissimo! Molto bellissimo!!! Sempre vivra!

Fresh Hell

Two men and a woman commentating on the Women's Final at Wimbledon for the BBC. Will it be two women and a man for the Men's Finals tomorrow? No, of course it won't. How can the BBC justify this blatant sexism? What possible reason can they give for choosing men when there are brilliant women available to do the job? It makes me sick, and angry. I'd love to grab Tony Hall - Lord Bloody Hall of Birkenhead - by his dangly bits and give them a good twist.

At least Serena won. And I went over the match in my mind as a distraction as I ushered at what must have been the most tedious event of the year. A local dancing school had hired the hall to show off their students, allegedly aged from 2 to 82. Well, there were plenty of tiny girls in a variety of costumes, muddling by on stage, bumping into each other, out of synch with the music, usually good for a laugh but not tonight, and a few fat middle aged women going through their paces, midriffs rolling to the beat, and occasionally there was something good. But mostly it was awful, mind-shatteringly dreadful. The Dorothy Parker quote "What fresh hell is this?" kept coming into my mind as yet another troupe of dancers took to the stage in a seamless flow. Dick sitting next to me was in agony, literally writhing in his seat with horror and occasionally whispering rude or funny comments in my ear as the mood took him. But we survived, and the Snape evening when we finally emerged into the dusk was calm, warm and clear. Beautiful.

Today the barley field has been full of Polish workers pulling up the last few pieces of rogue wheat. It's been hot, but they haven't paused in their work. Among them was my Icelandic friend, pale amongst the dark skins. I can't believe they are about to harvest. There is rain forecast for tonight and much of next week. Surely they'll wait until it's over?

A Near Miss

I nearly made a total ass of myself yesterday, and messed up an event too. Ushering in the smaller hall at Snape, where a group of young stars in the making - musicians and composers - were giving an end of course concert, I noticed an empty can of coke on a music stand and thought about removing it. If I'd read the programme, item 6: Coke Bins and Other Things, I'd have realised the can and its fellow on the other side of the stage were part of the percussion for this experimental piece. I went hot and cold when they played it. Lesson learned.

Earlier I had a run in with two essential pieces of equipment, and have had to give up on one of them. My camera has died and has to be replaced. I've probably had it for over 10 years, but even so. And my hedge-cutter sputtered and wouldn't work properly for ages but eventually got a grip, I hope for good. I need both to work, so must now replace the camera. I've decided to go for a reconditioned one which came out tops in the Which report. It's for sale on Amazon, and I liked the blurb that went with it: IMPORTANT NOTICE TO PURCHASER: WE MAKE THE BEST POSSIBLE TO PROVIDE RELIABLE PRODUCTS. BUT IT IS DELICATE AND ELECTRONIC PRODUCTS AND CAN RARELY HAPPEN THAT SOMEONE GIVE THE PROBLEM. BEFORE YOU GIVE HURRY ANSWERS PLEASE CONTACT US AND WE WILL DO EVERYTHING TO SOLVE. WE APOLOGIZE IF OUR WRITTEN ENGLISH IS NOT PERFECT, BUT WE ARE A YOUNG COMPANY COMING IN ENGLAND WITH INTENT OF DOING WELL.Good for you, I thought. I promise not to post a negative report on Amazon if the thing is a bit dicky, not before giving you a chance to put it right. Respect.

In the garden I continue the seemingly endless job of making Sissinghurst out of a donkey paddock, or a silk purse from a sow's ear if you like. There's still so much to do! By now my hands are aching, especially the joint around the thumb which I suppose must mean arthritis. But still I plough on. Yesterday Sarah came over and told me she'd been in every day to check on things while I was away, and thinks it's already perfect, especially the view which she does not share but envies. I've got three old friends coming for lunch on Sunday, and they haven't seen the garden this year. They will be the litmus test, their reactions the most telling. They are a well-mannered bunch, so I shall be watching the whites of their eyes for the truth. The last time one of them came she said: "Oh Denise, I'm so daunted by what you have to do", and then I wondered if I should be too. But I haven't been, not so far, though my energy if not my enthusiasm is definitely lacking a bit. 

It's not long now until the barley field will be harvested, one of the saddest days of the farming calendar, at least for me. I love the rich colours stretching down the hill, though the swaying in the breeze has stopped as the seeds have ripened and thickened and there's little space for the stalks to move. I know the stubble is pretty too, and beyond this is a field of wheat, gradually lightening and brightening as it too heads towards fulfilment. The sky is clear again and it looks like being another hot one. I wonder when I'll be able to look at a day like this and think: lounger! book! shade! drink!

Pond Life

The hated pond, too shallow, too beachy

  
I haven't posted much recently. I've had a lot on my mind: a few tonnes of earth and several hundred gallons of water to be precise. Plus three bags full of stones sir. Yup, it's the new pond. Disappointed isn't the word to use; gutted is nearer the mark. I'm not sure quite why it all went so badly wrong, but I knew as soon as the hole was dug that it wasn't what I wanted. Did I say anything? Not really. And so the liner was laid, the beach was created across about one third of the surface, and the shelves - far too shallow - were stocked with plants. I tried to like it, I really did. And then I knew that I never would, and I'd have to take action. Belatedly, I know. But was it too late? I told Sarah from Native Gardens that I wasn't happy with it, that there wasn't enough water and that the shelves were not deep enough. I told here it was my own fault for not being more specific before it was created, for not showing her pictures of what I wanted. She was very sympathetic, but not prepared to risk tearing the expensive liner by taking it up. And so I tried my old mate Julian Barclay who had wanted the contract in the first place. Yes, he'd send two men around, at the daily rate of £500 including VAT, but I'd have to take responsibility for any unpreventable damage. It probably wouldn't take them a day, but he couldn't let them out for just a few hours, could he? What would he do with them for the rest of the day? I'd like to have told him, but instead I took stock, thought hard, and knew I could do it myself. Or die in the trying.

Starting again, beach removed, pump in position

Removing the grassy edging

Lining peeled carefully back

Starting to lower the shelves by 6 inches

 

Liner back in place again

Starting to refill the newly spacious pond

Pond full again

Earth edging nearly back in place

Exactly a month to the day after the hole was dug I completed the job. Was I triumphaant? You bet your life I was. God, but I enjoyed it too, hard, tricky work though it was. I was careful, I was systematic, I was bloody determined. I never felt overwhelmed though it was a massive job, just confident and happy and relieved. David loaned me his powerful pump, and he and Judy delivered it to the Indian restaurant in Fram where they treated me to a meal. Wouldn't take a penny. Lovely, lovely people. That same evening I had the water emptied in a jiffy, pouring away effortlessly down the hill through the barley field. Then I removed the wretched stones that made up the stupid beach, bagging them up and cursing all the while. Next I shifted the earth that secured the liner in place around the edges, carefully removing it with a plastic spade and depositing it all around me. Lastly I peeled back the liner and soft under-fleece, gently as you like for this was the scariest bit, and I could see what needed to be done, and I knew I could do it. It took me three days, getting filthy and using every muscle I still have left, then sinking into a hot bath at the end of each day to soak away the aches and pains. I don't think I've ever got more satisfaction from a garden job.

It's not completely finished, because I'm going to put a few interesting stones around the edge to break up the wild flower seed I shall plant. But it's as near as damn it done. Now, instead of looking at it with a heavy heart and trying to work out how to make it OK, I'm feasting on it and pondering ways to make it beautiful as it matures. At the moment it's just a round hole full of water, but to me it's a rare sight to behold.

A Losing Battle

Did came round today to do some work, and his visit coincided with that of the Green Thumb woman who came to give me a quote for reviving the lawn. As she stood there with her hands on her hips kindly berating me for cutting the grass much too close in this hot weather, I saw him slink away behind his Landrover, for he was the perpetrator of the lawn murder when I was away on holiday. What possessed him to scrape it practically to the very roots? After she'd gone he told me he'd sat in my garden and had his lunch, and put the sprinkler on for a while, though he didn't mention the close shave. I couldn't be cross with him. He's not exactly Monty Don. As he stood scratching and rearranging his genitals as usual while telling me how much he hated the heat, clothes so filthy I don't know why he doesn't smell, he mentioned his little ride-on mower which easily fits through my gate and which he's getting rid of when he finds a replacement. Well, we made a deal there and then. A ride-on mower again! The hours I'll save cutting that bloody lawn, heaving myself up and down the slope. As these things happen, the man who takes aerial photos of houses turned up with a new one of mine, and I had to buy it. Pity both myself and the neighbours had the washing hanging out at the time it was snapped. And who is that old bag stooping ungracefully behind the summerhouse?

I went mad with the power hose today, cleaning the front door area and both rear terraces. Tomorrow I'll do the summerhouse stand as well. It's one of my favourite jobs, transforming the paving stones by removing the winter grime. Everything is gleaming again, and the baking sun dried it off quickly, including my sodden jeans. Yesterday in a fit of rage I removed the branches of the dead arbutus, and hacked great chunks off shrubs that had got too big for their boots and were overshadowing their less thuggish neighbours.This inappropriate pruning will probably come back to bite me, but it had to be done. I took huge piles of it to the council tip, and my rage subsided. Did's job today was to strim the nettles in the field and spray the life out of everything else that shouldn't be there. Then he removed the trunk of the dead arbutus and that of a rowan I cut down last year.

Living in the middle of the countryside does have its down side, though it's a mere blip compared to the bonuses. The wilderness continually tries to encroach and engulf, and you have to work hard to keep it at bay. It sneaks in when you turn away, and there it is, curling and weaving around your precious shrubs, briars, bindweed, nettles, that sticky creeper and all manner of evil growth. Its fecundity is almost appalling to witness, but catch it early and you're in with a chance.