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.