Tales from Medlar Cottage: Blinded By the Light

A mad medley of gunfire has been ricocheting around me on and off all afternoon, quite impossible to ignore. I don't think I'd like to be in a war zone. There must be feathered carcasses everywhere. Horrible. Earlier I admired a beautiful, proud pair of pointers being lead down the lane by a strange group of men who I didn't recognise immediately as shooters. Too late I waved gaily. I take it back. I unwave. I was on my way to yoga where my legs did things they were not designed to do, and my inner thighs now feel as if they've been spatchcocked. It was too nice to get straight into a hot bath then, though my limbs and joints might regret that later, and so I got back into normal clothes, ie grdening clothes, and went outside. My first job was to take the tall, heavy leaves off the hellebores to let the flowers come into the light and blossom. It was a slow job but satisfying. I have a lot of hellebores. On ventures like this the trick is to focus on one job, one area, and clear just this space. I worked until well after one when my stomach told me it must be lunchtime, and at that point I could just about stand again. How lovely to sink down onto the sofa with my lunch and the crossword, and to follow that with two champagne truffles which the Co-op have marked down this week from £6-something to £1.25. I was so shocked when I saw the price that I checked with a passing assistant. They are completely delicious, the ultimate chocolate. I toyed with the idea of bulk buying, but I knew where the bulk would end up if I did.

Olivia and I are going to visit the Manor House at Hemingford Abbot in a few weeks, the setting for the Green Knowe stories. I have finished reading the author Lucy Boston's account of buying and restoring this Norman house - 12th century for goodness sake! - , and was amazed to find that during all the long decades when she lived there she would show anyone who wanted to see it around the house. People just strolled up from the river through her gardens and she would drop what she was doing and take them on the tour. After she died her son Peter and his wife Diana moved there, and to this day Diana keeps up this tradition of uber hospitality. I didn't quite believe this when I wrote to ask if we could come, but sure enough I received the most gracious response welcoming us at our convenience, looking forward to meeting us. It's a rare and amazing quality, grace. The dictionary tries to define it, thus: courteousness, politeness, manners, civility, decency, breeding, respectfulness, consideration, thoughtfulness, but I think its essence is much more subtle than any of these. It's a total lack of selfishness, a desire to please without a hint of effusiveness. It's kindness, a touch of noblesse oblige. Perhaps courteousness is the closest synonym, an old-fashioned word and an attitude that has had it day. I'm thrilled to be going, and to meeting Diana. Maybe some of her charm will rub off on me.

I took a few pictures of things in flower in the garden this morning. It's quite a big display. As I uploaded them onto this blog I watched the sky through my huge picture window turn to every shade of tangerine, then pink, then red, then puce, then purple, moving with not undue but some haste from sinister to dexter, south to north. My breath is taken. I am spectacularised.