Taking the Medicine

Latest shot from upstairs

I woke up with a sore throat this morning, and my head is hurting. Damn and blast! I've been taking aspirin and fresh lemon juice with honey and hot water, anything to stop the bug developing. I don't want to go there again, not in the middle of summer. Please spare me this time and I'll never transgress in any way again, not even if it means resisting the temptations I never resist. And I'll keep the house clean. And the car.

My house from across a golden barley field, camera zoom on

Hugo exploring the newly-mown track

Later, the track now widened

Close-up of barley, so beautiful

The start of our walk

I've got a busy weekend coming up, friends for tea on Saturday and more friends for bridge lunch and tea on Sunday. I'm not going to think about possible disruptions to plans, and instead will tackle the Olympus, no the Everest of ironing that has mounted up as I've spent all my time in the garden. Several loads of bedding are tumbling over the edge of the basket, but I'll dispatch them while I watch The Dressmaker, a DVD on loan from a friend. It's the only way to iron, with visual and aural distractions. And of course there's the tennis. If rain hasn't stopped play. I have to go now. A soulful looking whippet has just appeared beside me and given my arm a mighty shove with his conk. He's hungry and he would like his supper now please. At teatime. No sense of decorum. Just like me.

Coming and Going

Summer came today, and it lingered right through until 6.30pm when it started to rain again. But while it lasted it was hot and sultry, and we took our now customary walk early this morning, along the bottom of the field. The lane is thickly lined with lush greenery now, and from time to time you can see where a hare has crossed the verge into the wood on one side or the field on the other leaving a trail through the long grass and wild flowers. Hugo doesn't need eyesight to notice these tracks: the billions of nerve endings on his long twitching snout send a tattooed message to his brain, and he eagerly turns to stare at each one. He knows where to cross into the field now, and lead me along the newly-mown edge where, a decent distance from the lane, I set him free. Warmth rose from the hay and caused him to sneeze. It's so soft and thick underfoot now, a carpet of dried grass and fresh clippings that make walking a pleasure. Back near the house I called him to wait, and the dear little thing obeyed, standing patiently until I came to hitch him up again. I know I sound soppy about him, but I can't seem to help it.

Val came along mid-morning and together we worked in the heat, her taking on my strenuous job of yesterday, weeding the big bed, while I raked, smoothed, cut edges and generally manicured. It's a luxury I've been promising myself for - well, it feels like years but it can't be as the garden is only 20 months old. But now the big jobs are finally out of the way I can pay attention to the things that don't exhaust me. As she left I was ready to leap into a hot bath again when, wouldn't you know, I had run out of time. Italian conversation took place on the lawn of Lesley's house where we struggled as usual to describe what we had been doing since last we met. Between the three of us, amidst much laughter and with a dictionary each, we cobble together some semblance of sense. It's fun, and it helps us to improve though a listening Italian might not sgree. At 4.30pm Dave brought out tea and a polenta and almond cake he had made, topped with crushed pistachios - they're a posh lot in Yoxford.

It's 7pm and raining hard now. Though I hate to see the end of the sun it's a relief in a way. If it was clear I'd be out there again until late, by which time I'd be really aching. This way I can have a long bath, relax over my supper, and spend the rest of the evening reading In Gratitude by Jenny Diski, dog asleep at my feet. E bene.

Lark Rise to Crandlesford

I decided to leave the boy at home again while I went to yoga today, and told him to stay, be good, I'll be back soon. When I came in the door an hour and a half later it was clear that he had been beside himself with anxiety and loneliness. He threw himself at me, crying and gulping, and continued to wrap himself around me and try to climb up me for several minutes, panting crazily all the time. I calmed him, and eventually he was OK, but he has been suspicious of my every move all day and hasn't left my side. Poor little boy. His terror of being left alone is very extreme. It's ironic because a couple of the women at yoga said they miss having him there. But I think I should persist, though I can see that he has been all around the work surfaces. I made a cup of coffee and sat down, and invited him to come up beside me. He sat as close as he could get and then stretched his paws and his long nose across my lap and lay there contentedly while I stroked him and murmured sweet nothings.

Another productive day in the garden, but by 7pm, already fed though he was, Hugo decided I really had to stop. Walkies, his ears and eyes said as he stared at me. I need to go walkies! I took him down the lane and across the bottom of the field where he startled a couple of dozen ground-roosting wood pigeons and the odd pheasant but no hares. There was so much for him to sniff at that he hardly ran at all, but he enjoyed himself. And so did I. As we walked the length of the field, already golden with ripe barley, I heard the clear, persistent cry of a skylark. I could see it way above us, hovering on the spot and calling, calling with its plaintive song. It hasn't been much of a summer so far, so these moments have to be treasured, stored in the memory to prove that it has been lovely in parts and will be again. Indoors the house smells of sweet william, and the puppy is out for the count, exhausted by the traumas of the day. The combined scent of the flowers and pleasure at watching the little black sleeping seal is making me feel quite blissful.

Coming along

Stiff Upper Lip

In a sickening turn of events the country is in crisis, but we'll pull through. We always do. We just need to show our unparallelled ability to survive under any conditions, however malign. This was very amply demonstrated this afternoon when a road of pretty old houses in Framlingham, some very grand indeed, some more modest, opened their gardens for the first time in 15 years. Walking along the crescent, with the properties fronting straight onto the pavement, you could never imagine what lay behind. In some of the heaviest rain so far this year hundreds upon hundreds of us turned up to find out. We were a motley crew sporting macs and anoraks, umbrellas large and small, and footwear of all shapes, sizes and suitability. Some people came unprotected for some reason, and had to shelter in summerhouses, conservatories and sheds until the heaviest rain had lightened, which it rarely did. We were all ages and all genders, though in fact there are only two in Fram. What we had in common, each and every one of us, was a very bright smile, a determined twinkle in the eyes, and a cheery cry on our lips every time we encountered one another. "Goodness, isn't it wet," we chuckled. "Can this get any heavier?" and we laughed and laughed and ploughed on, shaking water from our umbrellas and hoods, trying not to slip on saturated paving slabs and steps. The gardens were incredible, some of them so beautiful they could happily grace the pages of a classy magazine. They ranged from a third of an acre to a small courtyard, and they were genuine places of seclusion and serenity which town gardens so often are. How kind and generous of them to share their secret spaces with us, and what a shame that they couldn't linger with us to explain how they had turned a tangled scrub into a thing of loveliness, or maintained an inherited slice of joy. We turned their lawns into quagmires though we tried not to, but they'll recover. We will all recover. This is what being British is, regardless of race, creed or colour. We are stalwarts, we make things work, we get on with it, we don't complain. It has probably always been thus, and ever more shall be.

Weekend guests can also be a joy, and these two were no exception. They brought amazing goodies with them, and we sat in the hot sunshine by the summerhouse for at least half of the visit, chatting about this and that, relishing the warmth. The rain didn't stop us either and we were most productive, though the inside of the car began to look a bit like one of those gardens. Hugo enjoyed the company and the fuss, but we both fell asleep when they had gone, him twitching and moaning in his sleep, me dreaming I'd left all the car windows down while the monsoon filled the interior. My best friend this weekend has been the dishwasher. Like the finest servants, it dealt with the mess quietly and efficiently while we did other things. Thanks old pal.

Work and Play

What a fabulous day yesterday was. Spurred on by Val's assault on weeds the day before, I worked my way though three beds, stooping over the fork to pull up anything that shouldn't be there. At one point the sky looked a bit dodgy so I whizzed around on the lawnmower too before going back to weeding. The ground was soft from recent rain and the weeds came up easily, but the soil just shook off too. Perfect cnditions. I love this job when it's not a struggle, but by mid-afternoon I decided to stop and have a bath. Even then I kept spotting a patch at the bottom of the garden and going back for a bit more. I definitely have symptoms of OCD in the garden, but then if Little Sissinghurst is your aim you need to be a tad obsessive.

I went indoors, planned an early supper of fresh pasta, spinach and parmesan, and soaked my aching body. When I judged it was time to emerge I looked at my watch - 4.30, plenty of time to eat and meet Ruth at 6pm as planned for a walk and a drink at Snape before the concert. But no! It was 5.30! So it was a rush to get ready, feed the dog and hurtle off to where we leave one car and continue together in the other. I managed to grab a chick pea, rice and halloumi salad in Waitrose, though the nice northern lady who uses "love" between every word told me nonchalantly "Sorry love, we're out of cutlery love, we have an order in love, but it hasn't come in love", so I ate it with my spare key in the car, thanks for that love. It was a beautiful evening at Snape as we walked along the river, Hugo drawing exuberant praise from the two people we passed. Eventually we sat outside the Maltings in the evening sun with our glasses of wine, and the rush of getting there and seeing to the dog just washed away. We plotted Ruth's 70th birthday party next month - "no, I'm not telling anyone it's my birthday, just a summer party." "But then you won't get any presents!" "Oh yes, that's true!" The concert was challenging but we rose to it. I had got free tickets after all. Chatting to an usher friend whose daughter is on the staff it became clear that the whole of Aldeburgh Music has heard about Sammy's and my escapade of last week, and they all seem to heartily approve of our actions. I bet they've had a good laugh too. I'm still coming out in a cold sweat thinking about how narrowly we escaped public humiliation.

Lucky

I came home after being out from 1.30 to 7.30 only to find my spare set of house and car keys hanging off the garage door for all to see. Luckily no one had taken advantage of this. We spent the afternoon invigilating at an exhibition of photography in Aldeburgh, a large airy space on the first floor overlooking the sea, with a nice parquet floor. All afternoon only nine people came in, so Hugo and I had races up and down the room, me with the advantage for once because he couldn't get much purchase on the slippery floor. And then I picked up a book for sale on the desk, Fenwomen by Mary Chamberlain, and I was gone, Hugo alseep now in his travel bed, quite forgotten. Interviews with elderly village women in a particular corner of Cambridgeshire, east of Thetford, north of Cambridge, recalling their early lives in the Fens. Wonderful stuff. Like Akenfield, Ronald Blyth's masterpiece, these women brought the past in an East Anglian village to life. And there's no one more nostalgic for those memories than an incomer like me. Goodness, though, they had it hard in those days. The mothers of these elderly women come out as the heroines, putting food on the table when there was no money, almost by sheer willpower, but actually by bloody hard work. We don't know we we're born, us lot.

After such an exacting and exhausting afternoon - not - I treated myself (and Hugo) to that Aldeburgh speciality the fish and the chip. Plural. I parked up at Thorpeness and gazed out over the sea while I ate, and then we drove to Snape and had the usual wild walk off the lead. Back home, shock of key display over, one of us turned in for the night while the other donned old clothes and went out to work in the garden. It's been another lovely day, and a still,warm evening. At 8 he came looking for me, face perplexed and worried. OK, I told him, I'm aching now anyway. I'll come in so that you can go to sleep again. So I poured myself a glass of wine, and sat down in the garden room with the crossword, occasionally looking up and scanning the ripe barley, the nearly tamed garden. Really, really and truly, no bullshit, I couldn't think of a better way to end the day.

Mooning

The first solstice full moon since 1967, in Sagittarius to boot, my star sign. Must be portentous. The longest day and the sky flooded with moonlight as well as the residue of sunlight. Who could stay indoors? Not me, and not Hugo either. The heavens were splashed with red, purple and pink, a change from the day which saw some of the heaviest rain in ages, grey/black clouds gathering overhead explosively until late afternoon. There was neither a breath of air nor a sound outside, but the rich smell of ripe elderflowers wafted around us, mixed with other intoxicating scents brought out by early rain and late sun. A thousand times a day I give thanks for this wonderful place I have ended up living in, almost an accident but surely as pre-determined and inevitable as light after dark.

I've struck lucky on the gardening help front. It's like waiting for a bus: nothing for ages then two come along at once. And so I have Val tomorrow for three hours or so, and Nick on Saturday for the same. In that time, with my interim labour, surely we'll get on top of all the weeds, front and back? I hope so. I have various visitors planned for the next several weeks, and I want the place to look its best. Last summer when Caroline came for lunch she looked around the garden and said, "Oh Denise, I'm so sorry for you, you have so much still to do!" And her face was a picture of kind anxiety. I'm hoping she'll have a different impression this year. I feel as if much has been achieved, but other people's expectations are not necessarily the same as mine.

I texted my wonderful sports physio today asking for an appointment. He literally unstuck my neck, shoulders and back when first I moved to Suffolk eight years ago, the result of decades of tense hunching over a keyboard. It took years to undo, twice a week, but he got there eventually, triumphantly crying out one day, "I've got a whole hand under each of your scapulas! They came up straight away!" And so they have remained, eliminating backache, neckache and general shoulder stiffness. I owe him so much. Imagine my horror, then, when he texted back to say he had stopped doing physio because the bicycle business he has set up has taken off. "Nooooooooooooooooo!" I texted back. I feel as if I've lost a leg. How will I cope?

Walking Hugo yesterday we passed a group of teenagers. "Where's Marseilles then anyway?" asked one. "Is it the capital of France?" "Dunno," replied another. "What is the capital of France?" "Is it Switzerland?" asked a third. "No," said the first one scornfully. "That's the capital of Germany." It's good, isn't it, being part of the EU. If we stay, perhaps we can bring our education system up to the standard of other Europeans'. With ignorance like this, we should be ashamed of ourselves.

The Birds

From 3am to midnight, today at Snape (and Minsmere) has been about the various versions of Oliver Messiaen's Les Oiseaux. Several people got up that early, it seems, for the dawn chorus and survived to tell the tale. Not me. Anyway, Pierre-Laurent Aimard is apparently the best interpreter of Messiaen's music, and so I was intrigued, but not excited, to be at a concert given by him at lunchtime today. The music is not easy, but the hall was packed and there were actually people standing at the back. It only lasted 40 minutes, but it was very impressive, and when he finished with some unbelievably crashing chords right at the lower end of the piano and kept the sound going for more than a minute afterwards I felt the goosebumps on the neck alright. The place erupted, feet stamping, hoops of approval. It was going out live on BBC Radio 3, so I may listen again. But I was anxious to get back to my boy who I'd left in the car. Would he be crying, unhappy at being left alobe? No, he was fine, relaxed and sleepy on the back seat. I gave him a biscuit, and told him how wonderful he is.

Earlier we had walked along the Alde as has been usual this past fortnight, Hugo off the lead and behaving very well. We met Ralph, an 11-month-old whippet whose owners asked me in despair if he'd ever be like Hugo. He was crazy on the lead, and crazy off it too they said. They stroked Hugo, they patted him, they asked all about him and praised him to the hilt. I thought they were going to ask if I'd swap him for Ralph. Eventually they sighed, said good bye and how much they'd enjoyed meeting Hugo, and left rather wistfully, dragging an ebullient, boisterous Ralph behind them. Who'd have a puppy when you could have a well-trained adult with a perfect personality? Lucky me eh?

Bliss

Sublime is not the only word to describe Bach's St Matthew Passion, but when you add John Eliot Gardiner and his magnificent Monteverdi Chorus and Orchestra playing on period instruments, it's a hard one to beat. Last night Snape was crammed to the gunwhales, and though people had been asking for returns for weeks there weren't any. Most of the tickets had gone to the Friends, so I was lucky to be ushering. I showed Joan Bakewell to her seat, and gave her my penultimate libretto before running out to general dismay. She is luminous, still lovely though I believe she is 80. I wish my hairdresser could get my hair the colour of hers. Lord Deben, John Gummer as was, complained that there were holes in his seat, the wicker having worn though in places, but there was really nowhere else for him to go. The biggest surprise, and the person who got the loudest roar of approval at the end, was a Paul Robson lookalike, barrel chested and tall, who was surely a bass singer too but stood up to deliver a gorgeous counter-tenor voice. There were many glorious solos, instrumental as well as vocal, and JEG made sure that every one of them was individually rewarded. But above all was the music, two and a half hours of magic that you never wanted to end. It's a perennial favourite, and maybe it's even a bit of a cliche now on the concert stage, but you never get tired of hearing it.

Another late night for Hugo who I collected from Ruth's at nearly 11. He had evidently had his legs crossed all evening and didn't ask to go out. I trotted him down her road before we drove home, and he made up for it. He's not one to create a fuss or demand anything, bless his little white back paws. He just endures silently. What a treasure.

Interference

To Judy and David's we went last night, to join her daughter Sophie and his son Chris for supper and make up a four for bridge (no, I don't know why either). Hugo is welcome in this house, and since the back door is usually open he can come and go as he pleases indoors and out. But he wasn't expecting two demons in the form of a long-haired and a wire-haired dachshund respectively called Toby and Otto. Otto pounced on him, chased him, barked at him, growled at him, tried to hump him, and poor Hugo was bewildered. It wasn't like this before, his eyes said pitifully. Yap, yap, yap they went as they tormented him, or at least one of them did, and no amount of hiding behind chairs, and once during bridge, trying to get onto my lap, got him away from them. When Otto wasn't persecuting Hugo he was humping his brother, or lying across him, pinning him silently to the ground. Toby just looked helpless, as indeed he was. "It's a domination issue," Sophie explained. Yup. Eventually they were locked in the kitchen and we continued in peace. Supper was dynamic, jolly, greedy, boozy and relaxed. Judy had managed to knock up a delicious chicken and tamarind casserole between dialysis sessions, and the wine flowed. I think David and I came last but then we barely had an opening hand between us. It's all in the cards, but they weren't with us last night. Hugo cried a bit on the way home, very gently. It's way past my bedtime again, he whimpered. Why do you keep doing this to me? I MUST be in bed by 7pm. Please don't let it happen again Mummy. Something has to give and it's going to have to be your social life. What social life Hugo?

Showing his teeth when asleep - a first

Full size version

New travelling bed. A bit small but easy to carry

The Sound of Music

The skies and fields are filled with birdsong, the sound one continuous soaring of little voices rejoicing in the day. There are skylarks aplenty though I can't see them, the morning being muggy and the air filled with millions of miniscule droplets of moisture. It rained again overnight, so there was a powerful scent of midsummer as we walked out this morning. The verges are blowsy with perfumed growth, tall purple-fronded grasses pushing upwards through a backdrop of, oh I can't pretend to know their names though I've been told. If they were in the garden they would be weeds but out there they are perfect in their natural habitat, yellows and whites, cream and pinks, all beautiful. We walked the lanes, the fields and meadows being too soggy, and I kept Hugo firmly on the lead.

It was a different story yesterday evening. We had stewarded an art exhibition at Snape from midday to 2.30, me on a chair on the grass outside the Dovecote, doing the crossword and enjoying the view over the river, Hugo lying patiently by my side in the sun. Virtually nobody was around, there being a football match on television apparently. To reward the dog for his excellent behaviour I let him loose once we were free and off he raced full of exhilaration to have his head again. So why did I think he needed another gallop when we went out again later? We have many choices of walks around us, and one of them is up the forbidden track and off on a maze of paths around fields, or through them if they are empty. The first field on this route has been ploughed and harrowed ready for planting, and it looks very inviting. I glanced around it, spotting a few crows that I knew Hugo would chase and never catch, and so I let him off the lead. Immediately I spotted a hare just up the track, and so did he. And he was off, no starter's orders. They disappeared over the hill, and I hurried after them, heart thumping. Terrible scenarios shot through my head: he catches the hare or, much worse, they both race across the lane 500 yards or so away and into the churchyard, to be hit by a passing vehicle.

I was panting when I reached the top of the rise, and to my amazement there he was, standing stock still, no sign of blood or fur. I called him, and eventually he trotted over to me and allowed me to put his lead on. If I was panting he was heaving. All the way back he hauled on the lead trying to get away, urgently looking to right and left. And there were two more hares! I don't know what had happened in those short minutes when he chased the hare but he was very weird all evening. Jumpy, literally, and frisky, jittery and unpredictable. At one point he looked at me with a hunter's eye and I quaked. Had my whippet turned into a killer? It took ages to cool him off, helped by a few ice cubes. He couldn't find the right spot to lie, moving from cool tiles to the sofa beside me to his bed, nothing allowing him to rest. Eventually he fell asleep, so deeply I had to shake him awake to take him out for a last pee. Did the hare turn on him when he caught up? Or did he take fright? I'll never know. What I do know is that he won't be coming off the lead around here again. My heart won't stand the worry.

The garden is looking pretty. I'm managing to do some weeding with one and a half hands. Every little helps.

So Nearly ....

Ruth was due to look after Hugo today as I worked at the festival, but I gave her the day off. I think she was disappointed, but she took it bravely. I figured he would be alright in the car for a few hours, if I could find a shady spot and leave all the windows open. All went according to plan. We had a quick romp across the grass, leg cocked as usual up Sarah Lucas's horse, and the few people sitting around enjoying the sunshine turned their heads in admiration to watch him race around at top speed. Youthful high spirits. Just wait until your knees go Hugo. You'll wish you hadn't been quite so sporty when you were young. I checked in with the other ushers, and was allocated the main door with Sammy. All went well until the singers and players from the renowned period instrument group Les Siecles, began their performance. It all looked very casual, three girls in black dresses who would begin with a piece from The Magic Flute, lounging on a sofa.

This is the Aldeburgh Festival, lots of cutting edge stuff goes on, merging of genres etc. But who knew that the young tenor who took the part of Tamino was acting when he came on stage late looking very ill? It was a classical concert for goodness sake. The four of them sat down on their chairs, him holding his stomach discreetly, ashen faced and evidently in distress, the girl next to him casting him careful anxious sidelong glances. Now, Sammy and I were in charge of first aid, we had the bag full of resuscitating goodies beside us, and our remit was to attend to anyone suddenly taken ill. We whispered together, "What should we do?" Sammy got the sick bowl (kidney-shaped papier mâché) out of the bag in anticipation, I poured a glass of water. I remembered Sir Thomas Allen collapsing on stage during a performance of Carmina Burana at the Proms, decades ago. Surely it wasn't about to happen again right in front of us.

We were undecided: should we take one or other, or both, to him or not? Would drawing attention to his plight make him worse? Eventually I spotted a man in check shirt fiddling with wires on my side of the stage - on the same level as us - and walked up to him. "Your tenor appears to be sick," I said, sotto voce, "would you take him this water?" He looked at me and smiled and said no, he was fine. "But he's not," I insisted, "look at him", and he smiled again, more broadly, and assured me was was OK. I went back to my seat, reported to Sammy. The young man then stood up, sang his piece magnificently - what a pro! I thought - and then shouted out that his girlfriend had left him, and he could not sing. He stormed off. Sammy and I looked at each other. Was this all part of the performance then? Of course it was.

There were repurcussions. The general manager was in, along with the director Roger Wright. Harry was furious. He spoke to lovely Jeremy who manages the ushers and was outside in the office at the time. "The two blonde ladies (I wonder if he actually said ladies? Still, blonde ...) at the front of the auditorium attempted to interfere with the performance," he told Jeremy. "Please deal with it." Outside the hall, once the audience had dispersed, Sammy and I were regaling the other ushers with the story, and we were all laughing. Jeremy asked us what had happened, and when we told him he completely agreed we had done the right thing. He would back us to the hilt he said. There would be nothing further said.He gave us each a big hug.

Every time I started to fall asleep last night I had a horrifying, nightmarish image of Sammy walking onto centre stage in a crowded auditorium carrying a papier mâché sick bowl. Or me with the water. We would never have lived it down. We'd have ruined the performance. Oh thank you God of Caution for stopping us from making total and complete fools of ourselves.

Rain

Gosh, it's difficult doing the simplest things with a sore hand. Washing and blow-drying my hair, changing a hose from one rain butt to another to let the water drain into the pond, emptying the dishwasher for goodness sake. And pain makes you tired too. I had to miss yoga this morning because, as someone pointed out, there's not a lot you can do that doesn't involve hands, so Hugo and I have had a few extra walks. Not the long one as I'm sure the country park will be sodden and muddy, and you definitely can't bathe a heavy whippet with one hand. Instead we walked to the end of the village to get some eggs, when the heavens opened and we got drowned. One of us was wearing a mac, but the other dripped water all the way home. When I got him in and rubbed him dry with a voluminous towel he looked bigger, fatter, and his coat was soft and fluffy. With good grace he licked his paws clean too, and then he did what he does best and slept.

Everything is looking very green, and that includes the weeds, but I'm trying to ignore them. I bought a ladybird poppy at the plant sale in April, and it's come out a very dark, very beautiful red with black markings on it. Why did I expect it to be orange? It makes all the other red things look almost insipid. The pond is now full again, and I'm glad I resisted the temptation to top it up from the tap which only causes blanketweed. Not that there isn't any, but not much. Finally I spent around half an hour trying to find a way of taking GCSE Italian, because nothing spurs me on like a test. Competitive? Moi? I didn't see anything that didn't cost hundreds of ££££ and involve attending tutorials in Cambridge. I'm not that desperate. We're not having our usual conversation group this week as I'm at the Aldeburgh Festival a lot and Ruth is minding the dog. C'e sempre la prossima settimana. C'e sempre domani.

After Hours

Driving to our woodland walk yesterday we came across a mother duck shepherding half a dozen babies across the lane outside the Old Rectory. I halted to let them through, and Hugo stuck his head out of the open window, licking his lips as he watched them waddle past. We had to get our walk in early as he was spending another few hours at Ruth's. It felt strange dropping him off and going to work - took me back 30 years and some, that sudden lightness combined with a lurching wrench of concern. But he was fine according to his minder, and only whimpered a little as he stared wistfully at the spot where he had last seen me. The reunion is the most gratifying part, as it always was, though he didn't fall over himself to give me an account of his day. Later, with Kitty now on board, we took ourselves off to The Pumphouse to see the wonderful, hilarious Keiran Hodgson preview his new show as part of the Aldeburgh Festival. We met his partner Stuart, and afterwards had drinks with the pair of them while Hugo joined us from the car. But why was he crying gently on the way home, mildly agitated and disgruntled? The penny didn't drop until I woke the next morning with a sudden surge of guilt. This dog is a professional sleeper, whose day ends before I put my dinner on the table. He has to drag himself awake to join me wherever I convene after I've eaten - the summerhouse with the crossword maybe, or the garden room with a book, perhaps the sitting room for some TV. I was expecting him to enjoy socialising until midnight when we finally said goodnight to the men. Poor little boy. Good dog. Sit!

A Dirty Trick

Another scorcher, and too hot to do much. We met Sammy and dog for a walk on the beach, and it felt like being on holiday, the sun beating down but a stiffish breeze coming off the sea and causing small rollers to lap the shore. Really a perfect day. We did our usual walk - half an hour to the concrete slabs, sit down for half an hour and gaze at the sea, then back, and we had lunch at the little beach cafe. The sun had got to me by then though, hatless as I had been all day, and by the time we got home via the council tip and Waitrose I was feeling a bit strange. I decided a snooze was the answer, but when I opened the summerhouse doors a blast of boiling air hit me. I had to open all the windows before I could settle down on the sofa, lengthwise, and though it remained very warm we both slept. Later, an embarrassingly long time later, I woke and decided to clear the nettles in the field which slightly block my view of the barley. I stomped down the track outside my garden to the place, and spent the next half hour happily raking, hauling out nettles and battering down anything that would be battered. I was enjoying myself hugely until disaster struck: I made a particularly hearty yank with the rake, not realising that my little finger was caught in the wire fence. Hand went one way, with great force, and litle finger stayed behind. The pain was awful, and I knew I had to get back indoors before I fainted. I didn't pass out, but I was sick, and then I gathered myself and held an ice pack to the poor hand while I lay on the cool floor moaning. Hugo helpfully came and lay beside me, which was comforting. I think the ice helped though it hurt cruelly, and then I applied Voltarol. The hand is swollen and stiff but doesn't hurt at the moment. I also took some Ibu, and had a medicinal glass of wine, or shum more'n that, dunno. I am furious with myself. I must have two working hands! Did Vita Sackville-West have a dicky paw? Does Monty Don? No! I think it will be sore for a while but I hope it won't be completely out of action. I have a plan (I was going to say action plan but you can't use the same word twice, especially so close together) and I cannot be thwarted. The show must go on!

This appeared in the sky before my accident

Divine (or other) Intervention

I do wonder sometimes whether things happen by accident or designation. Even when the chips are down I have a happy-go-lucky kind of nature. In fact the closer things get to the edge the more positive and optimistic I sometimes feel. So it was amazing and yet not altogether surprising that this afternoon I worked at Snape with a new man, one I hadn't met before who, hearing my dog woes, immediately said he'd love to look after Hugo while I'm working. He's always had dogs, he told me, but his changed circumstances now mean he and his wife cannot own one. He'd like nothing better than to take mine for a walk and look after him at home while I'm otherwise engaged. My jaw must have dropped open because he said, "But why not? It makes perfect sense. It suits both of us." We're going to arrange to walk the dog together, see how it goes. Hugo spent the afternoon with Ruth while I worked, and I couldn't wait to get back to him. Gratifyingly, he was thrilled to see me, a gleaming black ball of love and happiness hurling itself at me. Back home he raced around the garden like a demented thing, a grin on his face from ear to ear. The potential dog sitter, Mike he's called, hearing about Hugo's anxiety issues suggested that we might not be a good match. What? Mate, it would take powerful explosives to separate us now.

At the masterclass earlier, this time with the magnificent Bernarda Fink, I was chatting to one of the Snape team who selects the young singers for these events. I mentioned my favourite, Veronique Rapin, and immediately her face lit up. This woman had been in New York three years ago, auditioning for the 2014 masterclasses which I attended. "It was a horrible day," she told me, "wet and miserable, and all day we listened to singers who were mediocre, dull, ordinary. At the end of the day the last singer came on when we were all jaded and fed up, and it was Veronique. Everyone came to life. She was amazing, the real deal." She's a Snape favourite now and will return. I can't wait.

I've taken it easy today, relatively. The shed is now clean and tidy (I wish I could say the same for the house), and I've cleared a big patch of nettles that was obscuring my exit from the drive. The lawn has been mown, shorter than usual and I'm not sure if I like it. But at least it looks neat. We're meeting Sammy and Stella tomorrow for a walk and lunch and a trial stay at their house for Hugo, just a short while. If that works out I'll be able to leave him there while I do my voluntary job, able to relax for a change while I help people sort out their problems. He is a bloody pest. But if anything has to give it won't be him.

Out and About

Really, this is not a good place for a whippet to live. Hares everywhere. Everywhere! A chap goes for a walk and first he spots one just a few feet away on the track, cleaning its whiskers if you please and ignoring the imminent threat. Well, it would be a threat if Mummy would only leave me alone. No sooner had I been dragged away from that one than another appeared in front of me, right in front of me! I pulled, I really did, but I got shouted at and yanked back, and before I knew it we were home again. If whippets could talk. So I took him back to his favourite place, twice yesterday, and twice today to compensate. The heat really got to him, and he didn't do much running until the cool of the evening when he got his bounce back and made up for the sluggish mornings. Pity I lost the lead this morning. It must have fallen out of my pocket as I took photo after photo, and I thought someone might have found it and left it in the car park for me, but no. Thieving load of buggers there be around Cransford. Anyway, I've recorded our favourite walk, all 40 minutes of it, on one of the hottest days of the year when everything was looking wonderful.

Empty car park as usual

The first path

View to the left

View to the right

This way? Not today

The path continues

Hugo waits to see if I'm coming

And on ...

Through the woods

Up the hill ...

Into a clearing ...

More woods

Enticing path

Hugo miles ahead now

Sniffing for rabbits

Or anything really

We had a very enjoyable lunch and afternoon of bridge at Judy and David's yesterday, Hugo blissfully at home as Judy loves him and lets him have the run of the house and garden. I carefully dispatched his doings on the lawn with a stout stick into a coppice in the bsence of a handy bag. Nobody saw. The morning and evening, and most of today, were spent in the garden, trying to catch up on all the jobs I have to do before I can do the jobs I want to do. I had a slight panic when I thought I'd never be able to get it done by myself. Like the pond which I had to finish, building the path has taken its toll and I was very tired by the time I collapsed in front of the TV at 9.30 after a very later supper, whippet by my side on the sofa and nearly pushing me off. There's a lot of garden to do. But today I have finished all of the power hosing, including the summerhouse area, and I've dug the holes for the dahlias and planted two of the big pink ones. I've taken the tulip bulbs out of the pots to replant in the autumn, and tomorrow will put bright red, brick red geraniums in their place. Really, that's it now. I'll mow and clip edges and weed and plant and tweak and pither, but that's the end of the major structural things. Yippee!

Well, the path still needs a bit of attention. Let me make this clear: I am no Isambard. No engineering or mathematics or even basic calculations went into the making of the thing. I dug and raked and removed an awful lot of roots from the two elders that still occupy the spot but only in the form of bench props. They are still alive though. Their roots are many. It was a much bigger job than I anticipated, and it is not the levellest, the most level path ever. I guessed the depths and heights needed and forged ahead. It's not a good tactic, but alas it has always been mine. Two bricks will have to come up and be settled a bit deeper before somebody trips up on their edges. But I'm pretty chuffed. Once there are lovely things growing around it you'll never notice the faults.

My black friend, my boy, is fast asleep in his bed. He's so beautiful I keep being distracted by him. Friday's potential disaster has been averted thanks to Ruth, who will also have him for several of the Aldeburgh Festival gigs I have to be at. Sammy will take over once her builders have finished work on the house. All will be well, and all will be well. Thanks Julian of Norwich and all my friends. Night John Boy.

Making The Most

The world became exquisite again today. Light filtered through the well-covered oak trees that line the lane where we took our morning walk, and for once I was glad of my photochromic lenses. The mist had been slow to lift, but by 8.30 it had gone and the day was clear, bright and glorious. How strange that I passed my neighbour on this very spot the day before, me in winter jacket and care-in-the-community hat, her jogging in cosy track suit and bobble hat. We exchanged comments about the weather as you do, bemoaning the fact that it was June and here we were swaddled to the ears. But now it was summer, and we walked in a leisurely way until, suddenly, there was a hare on the lane ahead of us. A big sally I reckon, and she wasn't in a hurry to go away. Hugo stiffened, ears erect, body taut against the lead as we watched her walked ahead a bit, stop, and walk a bit more. It was almost more than he could stand. After a bit we swerved off the lane and cut across the bottom of the field. He couldn't believe we weren't going after her. All the way along the track, the grass beaten down by early riders taking their horses for a walk, he kept looking back, bouncing up and down trying to see where she was. He's so cute when he's in professional mode, his body swinging into readiness for the chase. How disappointing for him that it is never going to happen, not with hares anyway.

In the heat of the day I started work on my new path, but had underestimated how much work was going to be involved. Lots of digging, for a start, right next to where I've sown seeds of escholzia, and several small bulbs. I should have remembered that the hard landscaping has to come before the soft, but how was I to know that my brilliant idea for a path would only occur to me now? I tried to be careful, but by 4pm I was quite tired and hot, and in need of a treat. We dashed into Framlingham for a Co-op chocolate cake to have with my tea, and there bumped into a friend who followed us back and shared the repast. She was full of praise for how the garden is developing, which is always nice to hear. When she'd gone I took my hot little sausage off to Pound Farm for a run, but I think he overdid it this time. The panting in the car was violent, and even drinking lots of water back home didn't cool him down. He lay on the cool kitchen floor, ribs rising convulsively until I feared he had heat stroke. I took him outside and splashed handfuls of rainwater over him, water that had collected in a bucket. He didn't flinch as I soaked his head, but shook himself calmly and lay down again. But the panting had stopped, mercifully. Whippets: who'd have 'em? Their resting heartbeat is violently erratic, they are sensitive and nervous, and they don't know that the shade is where you go when it's hot, not the open sunshine. But they are adorable in almost every way, and once they get into your heart they're there for good.

The Best Laid Plans

Hugo is not an office dog: official. We've tried but he just won't settle down and relax when he can't see me. His crying probably makes the other advisers, already under loads of pressure, irritable and stressed, and that makes me twitchy and uncomfortable. So I made a decision today. No more. Which leaves the decision I can't make, that of what to do with him instead. I expect I'll know the answer by this time next week but I don't know it now. Today was very hard, what with acute language difficulties on the one hand and me just not being familiar with all the ins and outs of the benefits system on the other. The first two clients brought tricky problems but I worked through all the stages with them and got there in the end. The third one kept asking me to read letters from HMRC on her phone, expanding and contracting the tiny screen before my boggled eyes until I was dizzy. I can barely manage reading text messages (not true really). Oh, how my head ached. That was sorted out too, but it took nealy an hour longer than it needed to. Get to the point, I wanted to shout. Just tell me what the problem is! But patience prevailed and we got there. The thing is I really enjoy this work, and find it very satisfying being able to help people with their stuff. But it does take a toll.

What we needed when we finally finished for the day was a good walk, so we headed for the beach where the waves crashing onto the shingle and sand were not huge exactly but not fiddling and small either. It's a real tonic to walk by the sea when it's like this. It's a force of nature than carries on regardless of petty problems and irritations. Hugo galloped off as usual, chasing rabbits in the now very thick undergrowth leading up to the barriers around Sizewell A and B. I can't see him at all any more, but I know now that he will always find me so I strode on regardless and enjoyed letting my body relax and swing along easily. On the way home I stopped at Waitrose to check on the status of the Tanzanian chocolate ice cream with orange sorbet which they advertised on television but which hasn't been in stock for a couple of weeks now. I bought a plain chocolate one instead to tide me over, but my mouth waters for the other one. I staked up the fallen delphiniums when I got back, but it's too early to tell if they are OK or not. Tomorrow the dahlias should be ready to plant out, their positions nearly chosen. I noticed that Mr Mole seems to have returned. That serves me right for being smug only last week. His movements are subtle, and if they stay like that we can share the territory. But if he attacks the lawn it's curtains. Watch it moley!

Business Matters

No one is sure why dogs eat grass: they feel sick, they are bored, they are hungry, or they like the taste. I'm sure it's the last reason that causes Hugo to have a bit of a chew when we are out walking. He always goes for long juicy strands, and at first I thought he was sucking the moisture off them. I know differently now. Twice his calls of nature have been hampered by a long strand that gets stuck and has to be yanked out, with attachments. By me. Yes. The second time was today when he had backed into a thick clump of grass as usual and performed. As I moved towards him with my handy poo bag a van approached us just as I noticed that complete clearance had not occurred, and matter was still hanging off a long blade. I stooped to deal with it, but the van stopped beside me to ask directions to the Baptist minister's house. The dog was still hunched over trying to remove the offending object which was hanging there for all to see. Oh, go away, I muttered to the man, but he wasn't sure where I meant - "Down the lane on the left, the house this side of the Baptist Chapel", um, duh? - and I had to explain again. Eventually he moved off followed by a car that had had to wait behind him. Oh Hugo, I think the grass eating has to stop.

The wind is still blowing hard but the end may be in sight. I've capitalised on being stuck indoors by doing a little cleaning, specifically bathrooms. It's the job I loathe most, especially as the very hard water here means that limescale gathers in the loos and has to be coaxed off by soaking the porcelain in white vinegar. This involves laying layers of loo paper under the rim and pressing them into place before pouring over the vinegar. Gravity may scupper your plans but you have to persevere. It's the only non-chemical thing that gets it off.

I can see that this post is getting rather scatological so I'll stop now before it gets too weird. I'm feeling quite flushed.