Walking the Land

God, my senses are jammed, rammed, filled to bursting. This countryside, this Suffolk, is quite simply intoxicating at this time of year. All around me as far as the eye can see, and I live on a hill, the land is golden, the wheat and barley already cut but the stubble gleaming in the evening sunshine. There is no wind - look at my neighbour Mark trying to light his fire and failing, for proof. I stand still and stare, breathing deeply, and the dog watches me, puzzling over my stillness. I feel my eyes absorbing the sights, my brain drinking them in. I'm in heaven. On the way back from Yoxford the other day I spotted a large expanse of water near the Suffolk pink farmhouse that is the only building I can see from my garden. It is all of a mile away as the crow flies, though it seems closer. Yesterday evening I parked the car to see if I could get to the water. And I found myself in one of those fields, on one of those farm tracks, that makes your heart jerk in your ribcage for its sheer beauty, its essentialness. its absolute timelessness. I didn't find the water, and luckily I kept Hugo on a lead because, at the top of a rise overlooking sheets and sheets of pure gold, he spotted a large hare and tried to get away. Earlier in the day, out walking with Ruth and Val and Maisie the dog while I was working, Hugo disgraced himself by catching a rabbit right under their noses. Well, what's he for if not that? But they are squeamish, and he didn't drop it immediately which meant they had to intervene. I must admit my reaction was "That's m'boy!"

I'll be taking my weekend visitors to the magical place when they arrive later today. When the fields are ploughed ready for their planting they are special too, but I don't think there's anything to beat these bright stubbled spaces where as yet unripe blackberry bushes cascade on top of each other promising fruitfulness in a week or so, where the dust rises slightly as you tread the worn track aound the edges of the ancient land, where the heat forces you to slow your pace, the better to soak it all up. There's no noise save birdsong, and when the sky is Prussian blue as it was yesterday and is again today, it really is a feast for the senses.

Lazy Days

What a busy few days. The good news is that Hugo is much better, and I've been able to stop giving him the allegy pills which have made him sleepy and forced his visiting human siblings to rouse him again and again from his dozy state to interact with them. In typically obedient style he has managed to be all things to all people despite being drugged. We've crammed in a lot this weekend - swimming and beach sunbathing, long walks and lots of lovely food. On Saturday evening I was working at Snape, so how inconvenient then that a tree blew down in the gales and knocked off the electricity for 24 hours. With no possibility of cooking anything, and no transport once I had gone, the girls managed by ordering an Indian takeaway and getting a taxi to deliver it to them. I can home, hungry, to find lots of delicious leftovers. The house was lit by dozens of tiny nightlights, the bright pools and furtive shadows reflecting how it must have looked for many decades before I bought it. But why did I not think to turn off the iron having tried unsuccessfully to prepare a shirt for my evening duty? Of course it came on again with the power. I'll find out what that has cost me in due course.

And now my car has sprung another problem, this time the control box within the steering column that manages the seat belts and air bags. A nice fat bill that has landed me. Oh well, it's only money, as the rich say. But there were some great bonuses too. I now have an organised woodshed, the differently-aged logs arranged on wooden pallets, stacked neatly and securely. There are more to come, but that supply needs splitting first and I'm no mad axewoman. After the first daughter had gone back to Edinburgh to immerse herself in the festival, the remaining one set to in the heat with me, and together we moved mountains to get the job done. Very satisfying for us both it was. A real thrill.

There's lovely

The farmers have been charging around getting their end-of-summer jobs done which include spreading the shorn fields with some seriously foul-smelling muck. The harvests all seem to be in, the straw baled and gathered, the still golden ground waiting to be turned over. It's hot, and there's very little wind to disturb the air. The views out over the hills are stunning, peaceful and beautiful as a Constable painting. But it's too baking to work outside, and so I'll catch up on some homework while I can.

Just Imagine

So, I was working at Snape on Wednesday night, sitting at the very back of the hall watching to see if anyone fainted in the heat, or had a heart attack so that I could rush forwards and save their lives. The doors closed, the lights went down, the National Youth Choir launched into their first song. And when they finished the latecomers were let in, a couple who came and sat near me, and a man on his own carrying a very large briefcase who moved down towards the front. A man on his own carrying a very large briefcase! What? My imagination went into overdrive. Of course he was a terrorist, and any minute the whole hall was going to be blown to smithereens. I braced myself, and planned that as soon as the bomb went off I was going to leg it, no heroics for me, I'd be out like a shot, down the secret staircase which luckily was right beside me, the way staff nip in and out of concerts without disturbing the punters. I tensed, my wits tight about me, my mind alert, every nerve alive to the possibilities. And then it was the interval, and nothing had happened. I spoke to my colleagues, six of them, and asked what they had thought. And not one of them had been suspicious. Roger Wright, the head of Snape, stopped beside me for a chat on the way back to his seat after the interval, and I told him of my fears and asked him if he had shared them. And he was very jolly, and said he'd noticed the man and thought nothing of it, nothing at all. But how wonderful that you were super alert he said. Another little anecdote to add to his store.

Are they all mad? Or is it just me. Well, I know what I think.

Poorly boy with bandage

On the Hugo front, we're still battling. I now have an antiseptic cream to wash his feet in after his walks, visions of Jesus there, and some steroid cream to rub into the poor raw one. There are also pills to reduce the irritation. He's had a little bandage on the wounded paw to try to stop him licking it. He's such a long-suffering, patient little patient. If these don't work it'll be a visit to the pet dermotologist, Dermot O'Logist as a waggish friend remarked. Sore feet and mouth notwithstanding, we had one wonderful walk in the wild woods last night where he raced like a mad thing, chasing rabbits and birds, and then charging back to find us again, me and my weekend visitor. He went out like a light when we got home. I'll be so relieved when it's all sorted out. He definitely doesn't have his usual bounce.

Flowers from the garden

The lanes all around me are filled with aged cyclists staying in the grounds of Framlingham College in camper vans, caravans and tents. I think they come every year, from cycling clubs all over the country. They are so jolly, so fit and impressive. They wear brightly-coloured cycling clothes, and bend low over their racing bikes. They'll probably live for ever. But we've had our moments too. Olivia has been reading the five Ripley books by Patricia Highsmith, and has recommended them highly to me. "Oh, I've just remembered, I ordered a couple to be delivered here this weekend so you can start on them," she said, and at that very moment, that identical second, the postwoman walked up the path and knocked on the door with the parcel. Now that's impressive.

Chocoholic

Hugo is allergic to the countryside! We're moving to a city ASAP. He has been attacked by the harvest mite, and it seems to have started with his feet which he then licked, making his mouth sore too. A steroid shot from the vet, and a thing I had to spray all over him when we got home, should put paid to his troubles. Until the next time. It's very depressing, as I've been keeping him out of the fields since Friday, and we both love these walks just a step away from the house. But the air is full of harvest dust at the moment, and it doesn't agree with him. Thank goodness for the Woodland Trust land where we can go and have a run, though it is a short drive away. But harvest mites haven't caused the only emergency, oh no. Yesterday we went to Woodbridge with Ruth and had a walk and a picnic along the river. It was a glorious day, and we were out for hours, though I hadn't forgotten to bring Hugo's dinner. After we dropped Ruth back at her car I popped into Waitrose for a minute, and when I came back his lordship was just polishing off his second chocolate-covered biscuit which I thought had been placed way out of his reach. That long snout again. Now I was seriously worried - terrified more like it. I raced home and looked up "my dog ate chocolate" on Google, to be told that it is absolutely toxic and can be fatal thanks to a component called theobromine. I found a chart that compared a dog's weight to how much chocolate would kill him, and with huge relief realised that he was nowhere near danger levels. Still, he could be very sick etc etc. I kept him by me until midnight when I had to admit that he was looking very healthy, sore feet notwithstanding, and just wanted to sleep. All night I dreamed of horrible outcomes to my carelessness, but in the morning there he was as usual, curled up on the sofa. Gawd, what next?

Todat we went over to Wilby for Caroline's last appearance at our bridge lunches before she moves away to live with her daughter in Nottingham. She's nominated a replacement who we already know and like, but it won't be the same. We've had such jolly times, the four of us, and I shall miss her. Back home, stuffed to the gunwales with Judy's pudding and cake, and not a little of David's finest Sauvignon, I decided to continue working in the garden. But Hugo had other ideas, and for two hours he gently hinted that I should stop working, coming and standing right beside me over and over again, just looking. He's so unobtrusive, but you get his meaning. Each time I told him to go to his bed, that I'd be in later, and off he trotted for 10 minutes only to return and repeat the performance. At last I surrendered, and he herded me over to the sofa, pointedly stared at the fat Italian dictionary beside me, and when I removed it he curled up half on top of me and fell asleep. Which is where he is now. Funny little chap. He knows what he wants though he is delicate in the getting of it.

He's irresistible.

Scare

The other day I went to see a showing of Akenfield, the film of Ronald Blythe's seminal book of interviews with the people of two Suffolk villages in the late 1960s. It was directed by Sir Peter Hall, his favourite of all the films he's worked on. I've read the book a few times, no, pored over it, soaking up, sucking up every little detail. It's like manna from heaven for me, learning about the lives of these people who were tied to the farms they worked on, and exploited until they died of exhaustion. Obviously it's not all doom and gloom. The humanity of these people, their sense of decency, is remarkable under the circumstances. If Lark Rise to Candleford is one of the best fictionalised accounts of life in the early part of the 20th century, then this is its factual equivalent. The screening was in a small packed studio holding no more than 50 people, all of them my age or older, and at the end when the lights went out we sat in silence for several seconds, and then broke into spontaneous applause. There wasn't much talking on the way out. I for one couldn't have spoken if I tried. Moving? Powerful? Phew.

I came down the next morning to find Hugo collapsed on the kitchen sofa. No greeting for me, and when I sat down beside him he didn't look at me or lift his head. "What's the matter?" I asked him, but of course answer came there none. For several minutes I stroked his face and his back, panic rising in me. There was little life in him, no response. I rang the emergency vet, and related Hugo's condition in a shaking voice. Bring him right in, I was told, and we'll have a look at him. I wasn't convinced I could lift him into the car, but I raced upstairs anyway to throw some clothes on, feeling sick with dread. And lo! what happened next? He raced upstairs after me! He does have a problem though. He has been scratching at his mouth and nose, and excessively licking his paws. According to the internet this could be an allergic reaction to something. His gums look sore, and he's obviously in some discomfort. So it's the vet for real this afternoon.

Yesterday I cut down the massive solanum crispum which has so prolifically covered the one bit of fencing in the garden. I wanted something to screen the wood, but this thing behaved as if it was a triffid, and grew wildly in a mass of leaves and a few flowers in every direction, but especially outwards into the garden. I got sick of reining it in and decided it had to go. As usual I forgot to take a before picture, but the space is now cleared, the huge roots dug out, and it will be replaced by a climbing rose that I bought along with two others for a snip in a garden centre sale. That's gardening for you. Some things work, some don't. Some flourish and some get eaten or ravaged by disease. It keeps you on your toes.

Talking of toes, Hugo sped off on his after a hare this morning and did the one thing I have dreaded: he chased it right out of the field and straight across the lane. As usual I couldn't get there very quickly, but before I reached the gap he'd raced through there he was, nonchalant as ever. He stopped to relieve himself before coming back to me. Chasing hares does that to him, all that adrenalin. Yup, that's what happens alright.

The Sunday Drama

The Londoner came for the day yesterday, and it was lovely to catch up on all her exploits and travels. It was scorching, and while Hugo struggled to stay cool by lying in the full glare of the sun we lounged in the shade of the umbrella. She loves being up here, the contrast with London so great, and we both wished she could have stayed. When I collected her from the station in the morning it meant driving along a few miles of newly made road, and I went slowly to avoid the richocheting stones. But on the way to the house I realised something was badly wrong with the car. An hour or so before she was due to leave I took it down the lane again to try it out, and it was still very ropey but usable, so I ignored it. But going back to the station it handled very badly and made a horrible noise, so I resolved to take it to the garage the next day. "It'll be a stone caught somewhere," said my visitor. "Hopefully it will just fall out by itself." Sitting at the closed level crossing a man approached us and asked if we knew we had a completely flat tyre. What? I couldn't believe it. Why had this not occurred to me? Did I have someone who could come and change it for me, he wanted to know. But no, I laughed ruefully. And what did he do next? He changed it for me, and the thing he took off was not so much flat as shredded, ripped to pieces. Luckily the wheel itself was undamaged. My saviour was called Steve, such a nice man. Within 15 minutes he had finished the job, his hands covered in oil and grease. I offered him the water bottle and a wad of tissues, all the time thanking him profusely for his generosity. I think he was pleased with himself, glad he had been of such help. What an unselfish act.

And Hugo? He lay in the back of the car completely unconcerned that a man was dismantling our car. Good to know he takes such good care of me. Hope he never needs to.

Burning Bright

I had my fire at last then. After a long, thoroughly satisfaying day working in the garden, and by 6pm not even feeling particularly tired, I decided to get on with it. The day had been very hot, and all the material for burning was baked dry. I took a few precautions first though. The hose was switched on and ready to use if things went wrong, and for once I dragged all the garden rubbish to a series of handy piles instead of getting at them as the fire blazed. This wasn't exactly a pleasant job: the old debris including the hedge cuttings and especially dead plants, weeds and vast numbers of tall oriental poppies was covered in mildew, and a zillion spores flew off them as I raked and hauled. Much of it had been lying piled on the ground for months. As I expected it went up with a roar, and within half an hour it had all burnt. I've had big fires before, huge fires. I've had stubborn fires and mercurial fires, but this was the biggest and the best, a continuous mass of flames until every last bit of rubbish had been devoured.

I had a long email from my friend Mike who I met on a plane to New York five years ago and have been corresponding with ever since. We have books in common, and music, plus a similar take on life. He stunned me all those years ago by knowing that the little River Ouse in Suffolk was where Virginia Woolf had drowned herself. An American! That was the moment when a connection was made. As I struggled with the last clue in the Times crossword he came up with the answer - an obscure Greek mythological reference. Respect. So a few weeks ago I recommended an American author, Ron Rash, to him and he bought and loved a book of short stories. He asked if he could send it to me, and so I gifted him the novel I had just finished. Some giddiness took hold of me, and I warned him that I was sending it by courier rather than mail. Mike ran with the fun, and so began a complicated story, with my man Scarface rowing the Atlantic with the "merchandise" where he would be met by his man Gimpy - Gimpy? Where the heck did that name come from Mike? We've got more and more outlandish and imaginative with each installment, and I guess it won't end until my book arrives in Detroit - his came last week. Each contribution from him has made me laugh out loud, and it just goes to show that you never really stop being a child, and willing to play. Thank goodness for that.

The Day of the Hunter

It started out as an ordinary walk around the fields after lunch. We were nearly three quarters of the way around when I decided to cut across the stubble and make straight for the house. But suddenly Hugo took off. He had unearthed another bleedin hare, and he wasn't going to stop until he got it. Backwards and forwards they hurtled across the field, the hare spinning back 180 degrees every dozen or so yards, Hugo right on its tail. He was so close I think he could have grabbed it a few times, but wonder if he was reluctant to do so. It's the sport he likes maybe, not the kill. As I watched the hare shot across the small lane and Hugo followed. Now I was seriously worried. Stuck in the middle of the field, I couldn't exactly run after them for fear of turning an ankle on the rough ground, so I hastened as fast as I could. When I got to the lane there was no sight of either of them, so I guessed they must have charged straight across into the woods and the next field. I walked up and down the lane calling, calling. Nothing. Might they have made their way up to the lane we live on, a quiet road but it does get traffic? I just didn't know. I thought of calling Sarah, asking her to head him off at the top while I went around the bottom, but I had no signal. I felt sick with dread, wondering where he would end up, when after about 20 minutes he appeared at the bottom of the hill. I called Hugo, come! and he turned and spotted me and started running. But halfway up the hill it was clear he was right out of energy. When he got to me he was more out of breath than I've ever seen him, sides lurching in and out as he desperately fought for oxygen. We limped home where he collapsed, his heart thumping so fast he couldn't find a way to relax. It took ages to get him back to normal.

That evening we went over to Sarah's for a drink when I discovered that Hugo likes cats! The oldest of the three, Neville, came boldly up to the boy for a look and Hugo wagged his tail madly, trying to get nearer. We decided that his idea of play might not be suitable for an elderly moggie so I kept him firmly on the lead. But I was pleasantly surprised. We exchanged gossip, and Sarah's main news was that Alyss and her family no longer live in the farmhouse across the field from me. That meant that Ollie, the heavy, thickset Staffie who plays with Hugo but then won't go away, is no longer there. I'd stopped walking that way because I feared he'd crash into me and break something. This was very good news, and first thing this morning we set off down the track and headed off up through the wheat field, a path helpfully carved right through the middle. It was blissful walking on such a lovely morning, the golden wheat all around us and then, further on, grassy tracks and everywhere the scent of sweet, sweet hay and straw. Coming back down, we saw that a tractor was making good progress ploughing our field. So that's that then. But nothing could spoil my intense pleasure, and the knowledge that we can do this walk as often as we want now that the impediment has been removed.

I'm very pleased with how the pond is looking

No Sweat

I was busy painting the door that Hugo trashed on his first night here, over 4 months ago, when I heard voices, and went to investigate. There, at the open door of the garden room, was a man talking to him. What the ...? He was looking for my neighbours David and Sue, and so I directed him across and down the lane a bit, wondering all the while what the dog would do if someone went for me. Lick them? Go for a stroke? But it was time for his midday comfort break so off we set for a shortish walk. When we got as far as we were going, several hundred yards from the house, the rain came down in sudden heavy sheets and quite quickly we were soaked. Him dried off, me in fresh clothes, we tried again a few hours later, and this time we got all the way to the bottom of Bannocks Lane before a soft mizzle began. But we weren't daunted, and especially Hugo. As we turned into the lane I had let him off the lead, but before he tore off as usual I asked him to stay reasonably close. And he did! He was clearly very proud of the new-found trust placed in him on the public highway, and danced off down the lane not too far ahead, tale at an angle and the tip pointing upwards. Everything about his body said: I'm the Man. Look at me! When we got to the bottom I stopped and scanned across the field with its cut-down rape plants, and suddenly Hugo was off like a streak of lightning. I looked to see what he was chasing and there was a hare, quite a large one disappearing over the horizon. Pretty soon Hugo had vanished too, and I held my breath and waited. I spotted him at the top of the rise heading back towards the lane, and though I shouted he turned back into the field and tore off again. Eventually, baffled by the disappearing antics of the hare, he raced back across the field to my side. He was soaked, froth flecking his mouth and mud clinging to his undercarriage. I'm never cross with him when he runs away like this. Rather I see it as him expressing his nature and I'm just glad when he returns safely without having caught anything. We trudged back up the hill, but in spite of him having run faster and farther than I've ever seen him, he wasn't panting. Quite extraordinary given that his sides heave after any arduous activity. I wonder if he's getting fitter?

The day stayed muggy and damp. Green Thumb came for their quarterly treatment and diagnosed red thread, a destructive fungus in the lawn that spreads in humid conditions. If it's not one bleedin' thing ... But then  Hugo sauntered by, and I realised that he has finally filled out very nicely and looks really bonny. Not only has he replaced the fat he lost when I went on holiday but he is much better covered now than when I got him, no ribs or vertebrae showing through his skin. So I took some photos. And dear little thing that he is he sat patiently while I snapped away. I think he likes being a model.

Is this OK?

Nearly finished?