Musings

Went to a concert of Hugh Masekela at Snape last night. He had the packed house of not terribly young people on their feet shaking their booties when he sang "Bring Home Nelson Mandela". Wonderful stuff, Afro-Jazz. I wouldn't have missed it for the world. All day long a tractor had journeyed up and down the stubbled field behind and beside me, dragging two sharp blades through the ground gouging out runnels about 10 feet apart. I don't remember seeing that before. The guy sat in his cab for around 10 hours, and then he was back this morning for another four. He had a radio in there, and some magazines or papers, and from time to time he parked up and had something to eat, checking texts. Anything to pass the time I suppose. What a lonely job, but how much better it must be now that tractors are covered over, the driver not exposed to all the elements. Better still than trudging through deep mud with a hand-held plough and a horse. I can't help having these thoughts, making comparisons with a time when things were much worse, or much better. Perhaps its living so close to the land, and the rawness of it.

I took a bit of a rest from weeding today, sitting in my reclining chair and looking out over the pond. There was no one to bring me a cup of tea, but I was content just relaxing, and gazing. Along came Master Hugo, and he gently, oh so delicately placed his paws on the seat between my legs, and looked at me lovingly. I stroked him with two hands, the sides of his neck, the sides of his face, his flanks, his legs. All the time I coo-ed at him, beautiful boy, where's my beautiful boy, my lovely boy with his dear, sweet face and his dear sweet nature, who's the loveliest boy in the world, that sort of thing. I used the voice I discovered when I had babies, when I focused intently on them and coaxed smiles out of them long before they would have normally come. Who's a beautiful girl, mummy's most beautiful girl, mummy's clever girl, that sort of thing. I wasn't very imaginative. The next time I used the voice was on a half Siamese cat called Snoopy who captured all our hearts and dominated the household for 19 years. I could turn that critical, demanding feline into a ball of furry jelly. Alas, she is no more. Now Hugo has the voice to himself, and when I stopped stroking but kept murmuring to him he raised his two back legs and proceeded to arrange himself on my lap. All 40lbs of him. He's never done it before, and I have to say I was charmed. So we sat there in the garden, this large black dog curled on my lap trying to pretend he's a small black puppy, me with my arms around him and my face against his neck. And them my legs started to hurt under the weight, and I stuck it as long as I could bear, longer, and then gently lowered his rear end on to the ground. Together we got up and went into the house for refreshments.

There are much nicer things than having someone to make the tea for you.

Disgusted

I'm thinking of wrapping myself and Hugo in cling film with just eye and nose holes, to try and prevent skin and hair falling from our bodies. Apparently that's what dust is made of and I can't stand dust. And cobwebs. And those horrible thready spiders which get into every corner and under every edge. I'm spring cleaning the house ready for Christmas. Already the kitchen cupboard with the bin inside is unrecognisable. By the end of December everything will be gleaming, including the two of us. I'll strip us of our protective covers on Christmas Eve and there we will be, gleaming, spotless. I can't imagine why no one else has thought of this. I'm also toying with the idea of covering everything in dust sheets, once they've been polished and cleaned. I think these exercises will be very labour saving.

We went into Fram this morning to buy a few things and the place was heaving. It could have been Aldeburgh, or Southwold on a summer weekend. In addition to the usual Saturday crowd who come in to the market there were countless visitors wandering around gazing at things, relaxed and pleased with themselves. I suppose it will be like this until September. Not many children around. For some reason their mothers think it will be fun to take them food shopping during the week, and so they throng the aisles nagging for sweets, cakes, ice creams while the mums get frazzled and the Co-Op or Waitrose staff vie with each other for who goes on the next tea break. I just hope I'm around when the first shop assistant lashes out at the shouty-at-the-top-of-their-voicy kids whose parents think they're cute and interesting but who everyone else wants to murder.

Talking of murder, yesterday I sat with a client who wanted to talk to someone at BT to discuss a phone line they had ordered but which was never set up. They ended up cancelling the order but were charged anyway, two direct debits not cleared soon enough incurring an overdraft of £16 - a lot of money to someone on benefits - and £85 cancellation fee which, not having been paid, had been handed over to the bailiffs. I sat for over an hour waiting for the right person at BT to help, being transfered from Billy to Jack and even once to a private number whose owner was mystified. After another long wait I excused myself to take a quick breather in the office, leaving the client holding the phone, only to be told there was a special BT number to ring. Within 2 minutes the matter had been cleared up, the £85 bill cancelled and a cheque for £16 winging its way. I've made a note of the number for my own use, and now plan to tell Twitter and Facebook friends what it is so that they can broadcast it to the nation. Disgusting. Just disgusting.

Fire! Fire!

I've been planning it for weeks, months even, ever since I started throwing my garden rubbish over the fence into the edge of the field. Nettles grew over the piles hiding them from view until another huge load gleaned from hedge cuttings and dead giant poppies, weeds and other biodegradable detritus, was hurled over the top. But I had it all under control. I just needed a small window when a) my hand hadn't been injured and put me out of action for 3 weeks; b) I hadn't caught some weird bug and been ill for a week; c) the ground was very, very dry; d) the wind wasn't too strong; and e) my house wasn't full of visitors. The moment came yesterday. The field had been harvested, the weather was warm, the ground was dry and rain wasn't forecast for 24 hours. I collected my signature cardboard box, newspaper and matches - I like to set the fire in a container where any wind won't keep blowing it out - and was all set to go when an unexpected overnight visitor arrived. Well, I wasn't going to stop now, so I enlisted her help. "Don't light the fire until the stubble has been ploughed over," she warned. "Everything is so dry and combustible it'll take off like wildfire. The whole field will go up." Huh, what did she know, the spoilsport? OK, she has lived closer to the land than the wild men of Borneo, cooking off open fires and, Ray Mears-like, never doing any damage to the countryside or its inhabitants. But I had the gleam of the pyromaniac in my eye, and I wasn't going to be stopped. Ignoring the dire warnings, I had a fire going quite quickly, well, er um, very quickly. I heaped a huge pile of tinder dry hedge cuttings on top, and had one tiny moment of utter, boggle-eyed joy at the sudden explosion of flames before I noticed that the ground all around the fire was cut grass-turned-to-hay, and horror, it was burning too. I banged at it with my rake, the most esential tool of bonfires, but too late I could see what was going to happen. "Get the hose," I bellowed, "train it on the fire, NOWWWWWWWWWWWWW!" Luckily the visitor acted quickly, luckily, too, the hose reached, and the fire was doused. Was it deliberate that my feet got wet too? Oh, there were smirks, there were digs, there were outright comments too smug and vile to repeat, but I had to admit I had been very foolish. Heart thumping, I collapsed in a garden chair as I contemplated what might have happened.

I had occasion to do the same thing this morning when I let the little man run free in the field for the first time in a week. Somehow he managed to escape from the careful contraption I set up again last night, designed to stop him licking his wound, and I could see a tiny bit of stitch appearing through a little patch where he had been nibbling. But really it has all healed up remarkably well, and he was desperate for a run. All went well until we were halfway along the third side of the field and he spotted a hare. Off he shot, impervious to my shouts, racing to the same spot as the hare so that he could cut it off. That place is also right beside the lane, but thankfully nothing was coming, so I just panted after him hoping he'd stay close. I spotted him in the next field just as I saw Susan, the quite elderly cleaner who still cycles to all her jobs, hurtling down the hill towards us. "Be careful," I called, "the dog has got free." "What?" she shouted back, and it was then I saw that she has no brakes on her ancient bike. She put her feet down to slow herself as the machine rattled from side to side and, again, my heart pounded in my chest. Was she going to come off her bike as she tried to stop it, or would Hugo knock her off?

He came when I called, outwitted once again by the wily hare thank goodness, and Susan pedalled on her way. All was well. It's raining now, the dust and bits of straw thrown up by the harvesting are being dampened down in the garden. We're staying indoors where we're safe. There's been enough mischief.

Harvest Home

We came across a pair of bright yellow ear defenders on the lane this morning, the sort of thing you wear when you're working with noisy machinery. I started forwards, intending to put them on the side of the road where they wouldn't be flattened by a passing vehicle, but then I stiffened and recoiled. How did I know it wasn't an IED, planted there by a terrorist to catch an innocent dog walker? There have been actual terrorists in Norfolk after all, just last week, and not all that far away. The momentary flash of sheer terror I felt passed quickly, but still I had to brace myself to pick them up. I was quite shaken by the experience, how something so innocent could be, just could be fatal. It's probably just as well I live in the back of beyond and not some busy city. Me nerves would be in shreds.

We've been confined to quarters today after a longish walk up the lane early this morning that has flattened the little boy. For all his desire to go lepping, he is still recovering from his op, and so he's been out for the count most of the day. What's stopping us from going even into the garden is that the field is being harvested, and the air is thick with dust. Foolishly I left an upstairs window open at the rear of the house, and most of the field is now inside the room. The noise has been almighty, especially when the combine is close, and the progress is very slow considering the size of the machine. All day Alyss has been perched in her air-conditioned cabin high above the ground, concentrating closely on her progress, while her husband collected the grains in an empty truck driven alongside. The mind just boggles to think how long this job would have taken 100 years ago. There must be people still living in this village whose fathers and grandfathers harvested by hand, huge heavy scythes swinging backwards and forwards rhythmically under the hot sun. I know, I'm picturing Cider With Rosie, and all those 19th century realist novels. It's a romantic picture, but I'm sure it was hell.

My earnest wish now is that they don't plough too soon. Those brown, freshly-turned fields just shout of autumn, and winter. For pity's sake, it's still July!

Stuck

When I finished mowing the lawn late yesterday evening I backed the mower into the field next to me as usual and proceeded to offload the cuttings. But when I tried to drive away I was stuck on a rut. Well at least that's a bit different: most people get stuck in a rut. But ruts have edges pushed up around them, and when it's very hot they bake hard. And there I was, perched on top of one, high and dry. The wheels couldn't get a purchase as they weren't touching the ground. Now Sarah's friend Johnnie is looking after her house while she's away, and I knew he'd help. He's a useful chap, notwithstanding the fact that he nearly burnt her house down last winter, his second act of inadvertant arson apparently. I went over and knocked on the door and he came out straight away to see what I wanted. "Piers," he called back into the house, "come! Lady in distress!" They followed me over to the field, Piers immaculately dressed in cream linen and a cravat, and wanted to know what on earth I was doing mowing a meadow. But when I explained Piers understood. "My wife does that all the time," he said, "but I'm divorcing her now." Say no more. They lifted the machine as if it were made of Lego, and watched me safely back into my drive. "Night night" they called cheerfully. "You know where we are."

Talk about history repeating itself. Hugo and I were pottering in the garden this evening when a giant combine harvester tried to get into the field next door, and got stuck on the hard ruts! You couldn't make it up. For ages the farmer's husband and a worker tried to help the driver manoeuvre out of the jam, backwards a bit, forwards, now backwards again, but it wouldn't shift, this monster piece of machinery. I thought of calling for Johnny and Piers, those heroes of last night, or that hapless Grundy chap from the Archers who never quite gets things right but did once pull off a stunning combine repair. But then the driver got down to check the lie of the land, and blow me if it wasn't Alyss herself, tiny farmer Alyss, mother of three babies, driving that brute. I have to say the three of them were models of good humour and patience. There was no shouting, no foul language or blaming, just reasonable conversation, and then they went home and left it. The beautiful barley is reprieved for another day.

Hugo has behaved immaculately all day, sitting quietly at Ruth's birthday party for nearly three hours and not licking his stitches once. He's been bounding around the lawn like a mad puppy since we got home, presumably desperate for a good run and a release of pent-up energy. He'll have to wait until Saturday though, according to the vet. We'll both go mad. He's back in his collar now, compliant and unprotesting as usual. And though the backs of my legs are all bruised from being bashed constantly by his stiff, hard Elizabethan collar, I'm not complaining either.

Spineless

The little boy slept in my room last night. I'm not sure how it happened, but he was still following me around closely at bedtime, unusually. When I said goodnight to him in the kitchen, he immediately tried to open the door, and when I opened it properly to check, he darted out and rushed up the stairs. He was wearing his new Elizabethan collar, an extra 5cms long, and wider too, because his long beak enabled him to reach his wound and lick it - very gently, but nevertheless. We popped into the vet and got it changed. This new one is at least see-through, but it doesn't stop him bumping into everything still, especially me. And so up the stairs he went, trying to lift his head but inevitably snagging the collar on a couple of steps. "What do you think you're doing up here?" I asked him, and he lowered his head and wagged his tail. "You know," he said. "I've come. S'my room too." And so I fetched his bed and we settled down for the night. But the sound of his collar bashing against the wall every time he turned round, plus the nightmares - or vivid dreams he has - meant only one of us slept well. Once when I went to the loo in the night, and put the little light on to check he was OK, he got up and padded over to me. "No," I ordered quickly, "Bed!" and he obeyed. But at 6.30 he was beside my bed, delighted with himself, and so I dragged myself up and we started the day. It's definitely not happening again. Definitely not.

While I worked in the garden today in a desultory sort of way I was treated to a spectacular display of aerobatics. The pilot is a local man with his own runway, and boy can he fly his small plane. For over an hour he made my heart stand still as he soared up in the air, dived straight down, soared again and did a series of spins and loops. I couldn't believe he didn't crash. Gardening has been a gentle exercise in this heat, but still I've got a lot done. Wearing a hat makes all the difference, even if it is a torn straw one that makes me look like Wurzel Gummidge. Earlier in the day I made a lightning trip into Waitrose, and left Hugo behind. I knew he wouldn't be able to get on the work surfaces with his collar on, and he was quite calm when I got back less than an hour later, though excited to see me. I might carry on using the collar when he is better. It could be a useful tool, though it feels a bit like The Handmaid's Tale. But if it works .....

Things That Go Bump

My abiding memory of today will be Hugo banging into the back of my legs with his cone. He's followed me everywhere, but he doesn't know how much the collar sticks out and so he misjudged the distance. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hugo, I said in mock exasperation, stay where you are! I'll be back in a second. But he wasn't taking any chances. Bang. He's made an unbelievably swift recovery, running up the lawn a few times, climbing the stairs, and desperate to have a proper walk. I've had to hold him back because the vets warned about straining and busting the stitches, causing a bleed. He's tolerated the collar too, always standing patiently as I force it over his beak and letting me tug it off past his ears several times a day. He's been even more affectionate than usual, so yesterday's ordeal must have really upset him. When I managed to escape him I cut back the rest of the hedge, the part inside the back garden. Goodness, but there's a lot of greenery to remove now. I reached up as high as I could, between me on tiptoes and the long blade getting to a height of about 7 feet. It makes the garden look much bigger, as if that was a desired aim! Tired after all the day's antics, including fielding several phone callers enquiring after Hugo's health, I finished the evening with a relaxing watch of Long Lost Family. One day I'll make sure I have enough tissues with me. As it is the collar of my shirt is soaked right through again, the corners sitting on my face just above my nose where they can catch the tears before they dribble into my neck. Oh, but it's good. As cathartic as a Greek tragedy and I don't have to leave my sofa.

Tomorrow is another empty day, so nothing too stressful for the patient. My next social engagement is a lunch party on Sunday, and I'm sure he'll be more than ready for that. He's handing around the food. I must clip his nails.

Patients

I wasn't sure what I'd come down to this morning, but I needn't have worried. The boy was lying in the same position as I left him last night, head in its sharp cone collar resting on the edge of his bed, the eyes of a martyr staring patiently out. But when he saw me his reaction was rapturous - not the desperate reunion after a week in kennels or the normal morning delight, but a swirl of ecstasy as he wound himself around and up my legs, trying to lick my face as if he knew he would be allowed to now that his teeth have been cleaned of their smelly bacterial plaque. I managed to get the cone off and the rapture increased and didn't stop until I held up the measuring cup for his breakfast and he trotted over to the cupboard where I keep his food, tail wagging furiously. Is it really going to take 10 days until he can run off the lead again, and lick his remaining parts when he likes? It's hard to believe. I've taken him out a few times since for a pee but so far he's not been interested. Each time he looks at the field longingly, and back up at me. But it's not allowed. Stitches might break.

Across the lane the farmer has been burning ancient hay bales on the meadow in front of the big barn. The wind is blowing from the north this morning, and a chilly one it is too, so being upwind of the flames I wasn't getting any whiff of smoke. But the fire seems to be dangerously close of the downwind barn and the bales that are already being stored there. Ah well, I'm sure he knows what he's doing. Although the night was hot and I slept mainly outside the covers, it's not summery yet outside. I've put the cone back on Hugo, intending to leave him while I get on with things, but even now he is following me wherever I go. Climbing the stairs more slowly than usual, he bumped the cone against the odd step, and kept knocking into the wall as he tried to manoeuvre around, still wagging that tail every time he saw me. But a bit of extra discomfort will at least keep his long tongue away from those stitches. He's very long-suffering, big sighs escaping every few minutes as he curls up on the kitchen sofa next to me. He's my little soldier, my Trojan hero. He is.

Auf Wiedersehen Pet

As I waited at the vets this evening for my post-operative little boy to be returned to me, a woman came out of the consulting room, crossed the floor in front of me, and burst into tears. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed into her hands, weeping loudly, long agonised sobs. A few minutes before a man had come from the same room, and as I glanced now over my shoulder I saw him hunched across the steering wheel of his car, clearly grief-stricken. The reason for their pain was the death of their cat by lethal injection, it now being too old and sick to enjoy any quality of life. Proper shook me up, it did. People and pets. What are we like? I helped my emasculated little man into the car and out again, his zombie face staring unseeingly at me as I fastened him into his seat belt and he gently eased his long body down. It looks like a massacre down there, from what I have glimpsed. I'm not going to probe. He is obviously tender and hasn't really been able to pee properly so far, the effort of standing on one leg while cocking the other just too much. He normally squats sometimes too, but even that uses muscles that hurt. It may be a long few days until he is back to normal.

While Hugo was on the operating table I went to lunch at the home of two lovely friends and two of their friends, and somehow got roped into holding a table tennis tournament in my garden. Everyone, it seems, loves to play but doesn't have access to a table. I have a table. These women are all so busy in their retirement, running things, organising things, giving lectures and classes, doing good and useful stuff I'm surprised they have the time. Respect. When the two I hadn't met before asked what sort of things I do I mentioned everything except the one day a week I volunteer for CAB. They must have thought I was a right useless bit of fluff. But they still want to come and play so that's good. Now I'll have to get the garden into the peak of condition again before they all see it, and I must stop saying: "You should have seen it last week. It was all so perfect then!" I'm already a laughing stock.

This evening the sky suddenly turned from a clear blue to black as thunder crashed overhead, lightning crackled and sparked, and then the heavens opened and the rain slammed down. It was quite apocalyptic, but at least it means I won't have to water any plants. Within half an hour it had passed over leaving the air cool and fresh. I'd love a walk but I can't leave Hugo alone in case he licks his wound. I'll put his cone collar on when I go to bed so he can't reach it, the void that was his manhood. I hope he doesn't miss his bits too much. He'll have more time to sleep now. He used to spend ages polishing them.

Chop Chop

After talking to doggie friends about the pros and cons of adult neutering I've decided it has to happen. The jury has considered, the verdict has been given, and the execution will take place tomorrow. I hope it doesn't change his personality, but I do hope it will alter his bad habit. I can't have him being a threat to all females. On Sunday we braved the heat, my weekend guest and me, to walk along the river from Snape, and there Hugo encountered Pablo, a whippet of identical size to him whose coat was a beautiful chestnut brown. They frolicked together as we settled ourselves, very carefully, on a small jetty and watched a couple of canoes drift past. So different from when the Owl and I hired one last year, thinking we could pither about gently but being told we had only a very narrow channel to negotiate, and could just go to the Maltings and back. And so we puffed and panted, heaved and weaved, and finally disembarked tired, aching and frazzled. This lot seemed to have the entire river at their disposal, and in the hot sunshine they weren't making much effort to get anywhere. But the peace was shattered when Hugo followed Pablo up the steep steps to his home perched high on the cliff, and was firmly chased off with lots of barking from his attacker. We decided it was time to leave and tried to get up, but it was only after a frantic, ungainly struggle and helpless, near hysterical laughter that we made it. Once upon a time we'd have leapt to our feet but alas no more. Life can be cruel.

The heat is lovely but crushing. I've been removing dozens of poppies that have finished flowering, poppies that self-seeded and created a glorious addition to the garden. I've tried to mark one of each kind with a bamboo cane - pale pink, dark pink, mauve, lilac, small, frothy so that I can collect the seeds and plain - and spread them across the back where the nettles are growing with such fecundity. You always have to think ahead. My weekend guest bonzai-ed my front garden, or at least pruned the wildly overgrown shrubs that I tend to leave. It all looks much better out there now, and you can both see and walk. Same time next year, OK?

Roger

It's amazing how much you can get done in a short space of time when you have to. Despite getting up at 7.30 we were done and dusted and in Leiston by 9.30. That might sound like a lot of time, but I take a while to come to in the morning, and need a cup of tea and a read of the paper online before I can even consider Hugo's and my breakfast. All that done, we had to have a decent walk before we left, and then stop at Waitrose for a lunchtime sandwich and a free latte. Sammy was having the boy for the day while I did my volunteering shift, and when we entered her house it became like bedlam. Stella, the chunky lab cross staffy went berserk with joy at seeing her old friend again, and Hugo, firmly held on the lead, barked his head off trying to get at her. "Is that Hugo or Stella?" I kept asking in disbelief. Sammy assured me she had it all under control and I could leave, so I bade a hasty retreat for the best part of five and a half hours. When I returned she had news for me. "You know you said Hugo doesn't have a sex drive?" she asked mischievously. "Well he has been rogering Stella on and off all day!" So that would appear to be that. The balls have to go. I can't have him behaving sexually when we're out walking. The little so-and-so has discovered his virility and is delighting in it, as hinted at yesterday by his overt attention towards little Darcey.

He's still my baby though, and when we got home, both tired after the day's antics, we stretched out on the sofa together where he pressed up close and allowed me to stroke his dear head while he patted my leg with his paw. I think he enjoyed his day, but he was so pleased to be home again. I'll make an appointment for the chop as soon as the vet opens tomorrow, and he can have his teeth cleaned at the same time. Topping and tailing. He won't know which end to worry about. I hope he doesn't miss his manhood. Poor little boy.

All Sorts

A baby field mouse, maybe a harvest mouse, was uprooted this morning from its golden nest by Hugo, who must have seen the mother moving about and shoved his nose into the hay to see what was going on. It was no more than an inch long, maybe newborn, pink and minute but perfectly formed even to the tiny toothpick tail. I shooed him away, though he had lost interest anyway, and picked the miniscule creature up by its paw to replace it in the safety of its home. Hopefully the mother would have come back and done what she needed to. Poor little thing. Hugo has got his bounce back and he raced ahead of me, turning to check that I was still there as always but charging off again when he saw I was following. It's a relief to see him back to normal, On our evening walk I decided to cross into the next field over the 'bridge', forcing him to fly back when he saw what I had done. As I went across the gap I muttered to myself about making sure the path was secure and I wasn't going to fall into the ditch, and lo! I tripped over a sneaky low-growing bramble and crashed to the ground. Wet knees, slightly sore wrists, but otherwise unharmed. Hopefully not brittle bones then.

We had friends to tea this afternoon, with their little dog. Hugo has met her before a few times, but he made a bit of a pest of himself today, even trying to mount her at one point. He couldn't get enough of sniffing her. Her owners were quite unfazed, but I wasn't. The red lipstick didn't make an appearance luckily, but still. What was he thinking of? She found a corner in the summerhouse to settle down, her hind quarters safely anchored to the ground, and the boy eventually left her alone. As we sat out there, enjoying the sunshine, the heavens suddenly opened and another downpour of biblical proportions occurred. I'm getting used to them now. They come, they go, and then the sky is benign, the wind a wisp of a memory and everything dry and gloriously scented. I can't quite remember a summer like it. When they'd gone we went for a walk, and there ahead of us, just sitting sideways on the path, was a hare. Hugo was already unleashed, but he stared for a while and then looked at me. Let's go back, I said, and to my amazement he came. We saw it further down the track, but he was back on the lead by then. He pranced and danced a bit, crouched as if he wanted to play, but obediently turned and followed me home. Could he be a whippet with a fear of hares? Is this even possible?

Mr Greedy

What a great weekend! The weather was mostly kind to us, and we made the most of it, even having a huge seafood spread in the courtyard of the Southwold Smokehouse under clement skies. Hugo settled peacefully beside my chair, curling up on my jacket on the hard concrete flooor, and only once getting up to pounce on a fallen chip from our neighbours' table. We gorged on crab, home-smoked crevettes, fresh anchovies brazenly dripping pieces of garlic, shell-on prawns, smoked sprats, and lovely freshly baked baguettes to mop up the juices. Afterwards, a walk along the perilous cliffs at Cove Hythe was more scary than usual owing to fresh falls right across the old path, but we stuck as close to the barley as we could (just think, we told each other encouragingly, with shaking voices, a huge combine will be along here in a few weeks to cut this lot. Must be safe!!!). The tide was a bit too high to walk back along the beach, so we set off inland avoiding the treacherously crumbling track and instead taking in the old abbey ruins and the Blythburgh pigs. On Sunday I was awoken at 6am by Hugo bursting into my bedroom and leaping onto my bed. God, what the ....? I insisted that he went to sleep, and so did I for another hour or so. At 7am I came down to find that he had pinched a large half moon of ripe Reblochon from the work surface and scoffed the lot. Horrified, we all watched to see what effect it would have, but he seems to have guts made from cast iron. Later we walked from Snape to Iken along the river, a round trip of 5 or 6 miles, and he was full of beans the whole way there and back. We stopped occasionally to eat the lovely salty, crunchy samphire growing along the edge of the estuary, but by the time we'd got to Iken Church, a complete dead-end miles from an inn or a shop, we were hot, tired, hungry and thirsty. What a miracle, then, to find a stall outside an old house selling cans of coke and punnets of fresh raspberries! We lolled in the grass behind the church having our fill, replenishing our energy stores for the journey back, congratulating ourselves on our good luck. Memo for the next walk: pack a picnic!

Hugo didn't stop at the Reblochon, oh no. This morning I found that he'd been in the cupboard where I keep an uncovered tupperware of his dried food, and it was empty. But this time he didn't get off so lightly. He's been feeling ill, very ill. Evidence of his greed has been visible throughout the field where we've walked him every half hour or so, and after a quick trip in the car he was a bit sick, some of the undigested pellets that must be packing his stomach finding their way out. He's rallied from time to time, but he's not very comfortable. Will he learn his lesson from these escapades? I doubt it. It's in his DNA. Don't try to take food from people's plates when they are eating, and don't beg, his whippet genes tell him. But once they're out of the room, grab what you can before they can stop you. Well done Hugo. You're an exemplary whippet.

Sweet Nothings

It was all go today, and too hot to be so active. First a trip to the hairdressers, then a call in to see Judy and David to collect a recipe, and lastly a pop-in on James, our old next-door neighbour as I passed his house. How fantastic that Roland was home too. They are so tall, and they do such great hugs, you have to get on tiptoes and stretch up, but it's worth it. We were very close to these two lovely men when we lived beside them for four years, and spent many happy evenings, lunchtimes, mornings and afternoons over very French coffee or wine or wonderful meals, ours and theirs. They adored Hugo, and seemed very pleased to see me, looking well and happy they said. I'd made the right decision, they were sure. Life's too short. I dallied there with them for a long time, but I had to get back. More weekend visitors due tomorrow, and if the garden doesn't look as good as I can make it I shall want answers. In the event mowing the lawn and clipping the edges was all I could be bothered with. Nobody notices the details anyway apart from me; it's the general impression that counts, and it is very pretty and colourful at the moment. The afternoon grew more humid and I retired to my reclining chair every ten minutes or so with my book, dog in close tow. It's funny how that old work ethic still pricks me seven years after retirement. But if can't do bugger-all now, when will I be able to?

Back-breaking

I was alerted by the sound of vehicles parking in the field next to me, and voices, foreign voices. Definitely not French or Italian or German. It was the summer workers from Eastern Europe, here to clear the field of offending weeds and wheat blow-ins before the barley could be harvested. It was baking hot, just after midday, and I watched as the eight of them fanned out and quartered the field, first taking one strip, and then moving as a team to sweep the next one. They kept going without a break, stooping to pull up the weeds by hand, and were still only halfway through when I set off at 1.30. Hard work is what they do, and what they are so highly prized for. Hats off. But I hope this doesn't mean the harvest is going to happen too soon. The disappearance of that huge golden stretch, especially if they plough straight away, will be very hard to take so early in the year.

Before lunch I took Hugo to the vet to check that he was OK, and to monitor his weight. He was 19.1 kilos, an increase of over 4lbs on last time! His skinny ribs and protruding backbone have all but vanished, and he looks healthy and well fed. Such a relief. His lunchtime snack of a heel of bread toasted with butter cut into small pieces and hand fed has now stopped. What he is eating twice a day is perfectly balanced for him. I don't want him turning into a Rottweiler. While we were in Fram I knocked on the door of one of the open gardens that I viewed a few weekends ago. Of all 15 this one appealed to me most, but given the appallingly wet conditions I only had a brief word with the elderly owner then. This time I asked her if I could have a better look and take some photos. She was delighted in my interest, as you are when you've made a garden, and showed me around while I snapped away. It's walled and mature, quite beautiful, but I wanted to see how she had filled her various beds to give me ideas for my own. She told me that sometimes she walks the 100 or so yards to the shops only to find a cold wind blowing. In her enclosed space she's sheltered from that.Lucky her.

Then it was off to Italian where my new-found state of wellness put me in a very good mood and accordingly my speaking skills were remarkably improved despite no homework. It's always a jolly afternoon, and when tea was clered away and Lesley had gone, Ruth and I took Hugo for a walk on Westleton Common and then had a drink in the Crown hotel garden. As usual around this coast the hotel was full of well-heeled couples enjoying a break, but who'd have guessed that most of them would have dogs? The bar was bedlam, with one Yorkie emitting a constant sharp brain-piercing bark. The barman winced discreetly, but others were staring directly at the impervious elderly owner. In the garden Hugo decided that the two red setters, the the beareded collie, the black labrador, the black cocker spaniel and the dachshund were trespassing on his territory, and set up his own aggressive tirade. I had only just finished telling two chatty people from Milton Keynes, Roger (I wish I'd been called Hugo) and Marian (we have a grandson called Stanley, ugh, and he's not even a very nice boy) that the dog never barked. Oh Hugo. Make a liar of me would you?

Ticking Over

I slept most of the morning in the summerhouse, inexplicably tired after a good 8 hours in bed. The dog though, I could have throttled him! He lay on the wooden floor beside me, or on the rug, trying to sleep too but presumably too hot. And he fidgeted and stretched, and made so much noise that he constantly woke me up. I counted that he changed position sometimes three times a minute. Why was he in there anyway? There was shade on the terrace outside. Really, I could have murdered him. But when we retraced our walk of yesterday up past the wood pigeon he showed no interest in the carcase which the vultures had stripped, and I was proud of him again, no ghoulish tendencies there at all. He did what his nature told him to do yesterday, pounced on a hidden creature and wiped it out.

It's been glorious today, and between naps I've read a lot, either in the summerhouse or under the umbrella. The Darkling by Laura Beatty has finally caught my imagination despite having hung around untouched for months, and so I've been transported back to the Civil War, via the modern researcher's dilemma of how to bring a three-dimensional fullness to historical material that is of necessity bare and arbitrary. It reminded me of Possession by AS Byatt which I still regard as a classic, and a life-changing book for me. Alas there was cake left over from yesterday, a delicious Victoria sponge filled with butter cream and strawberry jam, so tea was nicer than usual at 4pm. And it's not the only cake I have: there's a chocolate one too. Whatever was I thinking of?

I'm still basking in yesterday's praise for the garden, and the view. I was asked if I ever just sat and admired both, and the answer was a too emphatic yessss. I do. Oh I do.

Assassin

Hugo had his first kill today! We were meandering along the top of the field when, kerching, he darted into the barley and stayed there motionless for a moment. Then he emerged bearing a large wood pigeon in his beak. Calmly as you like he put the bird down but kept hold of it, and very gently he killed it just by the pressure and position of his mouth. There was no violence apart from the initial grab, no bloodlust, no high-fiving. I walked away feeling slightly sick, and he followed me, a few pieces of down stuck to his nose as the only indication of what had occurred. We went back to the summerhouse where Caroline had been dozing with her feet up on the sofa, and when I told her what had happened she said "Well done Hugo!", countrywoman that she is. She offered to go and get the breasts but I thought enough was enough. I'm not walking that way again until the body has been eaten. Hurry up scavengers, it's my favourite walk at the moment.

Caroline, Judy and David had come for lunch and bridge, and as usual we had a grand time. That most blissful thing happened when all three of them raved about the garden. Caroline, whose concern for the size of my task last summer filled me with doubt and anxiety, couldn't believe her eyes. "It really is lovely," she kept saying, and that led to her admitting one big regret, that she had never created a garden. She said she couldn't believe what I had achieved. The other two were rapturous as well. But of course, if they had only come the week before when the lupins were at their best and before the crazy rains had come it would have been far nicer.

We lingered for ages over tea in the summerhouse, the talk as usual returning to Suffolk and our different connections to it. Caroline leaves at the end of next month for a new life in Nottingham after over 60 years here. Judy came a year earlier, and she's staying. Their backgrounds and lives as farmer's wives were very similar yet they never met. Both lived in massive old near-derelict Elizabethan houses, neither had running water, electricity or heating. Wells had to be renewed, candles and lamps must have been a treacherous presence under thatch, and heating extended a few feet from whatever fire was lit. They were tough then and they're tough now, bringing up their families and working alongside their husbands cheerfully and uncomplainingly. They laugh a lot and shrug off adversity (oh dear, just chopped off my leg; go to the doctor? load of stuff and bloody nonsense!). That's them to the core.

The evening ended peacefully, the sun so hot I had to give up dead-heading the roses and seek some shade. Great sense of humour weather, thanks. There's something very restful about gazing at a view, the eyes relaxed into the long stare, the imagination stimulated and calmed at the same time. There isn't a mouse moving.

Never a Dull Moment

What a long day it has been, in a nice way. I started and finished a book, Ron Rash's Above the Waterfall, did the crossword apart from one clue that I can't figure out, even mowed the lawn with the ride-on, which requires no effort. I'm not feeling too bad, just the weird tiredness and a sick headache from time to time. I added to the sore head this afternoon as, bending down suddenly to fasten Hugo's collar, I forgot the wall jutted out sharply and cracked the side of my head on it. I haven't looked, but there may be a lump, or a bruise.

We had adventures too, the dog and me. Out strolling along the bottom of the field, Hugo suddenly galloped ahead and disappeared. He reappeared in the next field which is the other side of a wide, deep ditch. How on earth had he got there? I watched him chase something through the wheat, vanishing and then leaping up into the air, only to vanish again. The hare was more than a match for him, with its wily, ancient ways, twisting and turning as it raced off, first in one direction and then another, spinning on a sixpence. This I could only guess at as I could see nothing through the dense unripe wheat. The poor dog was bemused in its wake, not knowing where to run, and eventually he gave up and came back towards me. But he was still on the wrong side of a ditch full of water after the wettest June on record. I watched aghast as he ran towards me, picturing those long, elegant limbs cracking from the unexpected fall. I think I screamed Noooo, but suddenly there he was beside me, panting but completely dry. Had he jumped over the ditch? Since its banks are covered in high growth, how did he even know it was there? He was very pleased with himself, and I patted his hot little body, telling he was surely the cleverest whippet who had ever lived. He already knew it, and so did I.

As the day wore on we found ourselves suddenly trapped in the summerhouse by, of all things on July 2nd, a hailstorm. Tiny frozen balls rolled in through the open door as we watched the lightning flash overhead followed almost immediately by a hideous crack of thunder, the skies black and sodden. After a while I risked putting my arm out to unhook and close the door, and my sleeve was instantly soaked. We couldn't leave, but it was rather nice being out there in the storm, dry and safe enough. Hugo was unperturbed by the bangs, and mostly slept through them. Is there no end blah blah blah? We went in at last, when the evening had settled down to a calm, sunny blue, as if butter wouldn't melt in its mouth. I found my saturated leather gardening gloves on the lawn later, but they'll dry out. We ended the evening together in harmony, Hugo twitching and yipping as he relived the day's fun, and me wondering why four days of seeing nobody hasn't driven me crazy. Have I had a lobotomy? Or could the answer be curled in his basket?

Losing Interest

I know I'm ill because I got bored almost immediately with Eustace and Hilda and had to put it down. Bored with LP Hartley! Unheard of. Nor can I get particularly interested in the crossword, or even Killer which usually keeps me enthralled to the bitter end. The news is tedious and childish, and there's nothing on television tonight as any night this week, now that The Good Wife is over for good and Alicia didn't end up with Jason. The weather is awful, and I barely saw the sun all day. I've cancelled my friends who were coming for tea tomorrow, though not yet the Sunday lot. I'm thinking of going into Fram for a takeaway korai chicken and pilau rice, because frankly the alternatives in fridge and freezer are leaving me as cold as Eustace and Hilda. I have a big Waitrose shop being delivered in the morning, though I've forgotten what I ordered. Hopefully my mind was clearish when I compiled my list. I can't be bothered to check now it's too late to change it. Let the contents come as a surprise.

The only bright thing in my life at the moment is Hugo who is rising to the challenge of having an unenabled mother. I can't take him for a walk, so we go into the field next door and I let him off the lead. He runs ahead as usual, checking to see that I'm following, and when he gets far enough ahead I turn around and walk away, and so he thunders past me at top speed. I turn again, and he races to catch me up and then charges off again. It's the only way I can exercise him without exhausting myself, and bless him, he never seems to get tired of it. I do this for as long as I can, and when I'm ready to go back he comes to my side and walks very close to me without being told. In the garden I throw his squeaky toy for him, and he gambols around like a puppy until I grow too tired for this too. His manners are impeccable. He never gets cross when I abruptly end something he has been enjoying. He sits close to me until he decides he wants to go somewhere more comfortable, and then off he trots, calmly and peacefully. I can't wait to take him off for a proper run, but who knows how long that will be? Reading Jenny Diski's In Gratitude, I'm made keenly aware of more important things people want a timescale for, like when am I going to die? The harsh rawness of this book with its uncompromising glare at things normally too awful to contemplate is the the only thing engaging my concentration at the moment. I don't like it, and I don't recommend it. But I admire it, and her. She met her death head on.