Distractions

As I sat on the loo this morning two fat, cocky jackdaws strutted not four feet away across the low roof beside me. They were flicking off the clumps of moss that grow among the tiles, searching underneath each one for insects or grubs. An untidy mess had appeared on the path beneath. So that's how it happens. But I've never seen jackdaws here before, and never so close up anywhere, and I had to admire their chutzpah. Other birds were whizzing to and fro with pieces of grass, twigs, straw in their beaks, but surely they are not nest building on the last day of September? These are mainly blackbirds, though I saw a robin engaged in the same activity. Blow me down, I said to Hugo lying patiently on the landing behind the half-opened door. You learn something new every day. But all he really wants to know is when we're going to have a proper, thrilling walk again where he can follow delicious scents and fly after wood pigeons and maybe a rabbit, and I can't tell him that. I walked along the top of the field with him again this morning wondering if I might be feeling better, but when I got home again I lay down in the summerhouse and fell asleep.

These days are wonderful, such an unexpected gift. The trees have barely started turning brown yet, and the ground remains clear of leaves. Even in my denuded state I can appreciate the continuing warmth, the clear skies, though the dark evenings still take me by surprise. Last night I watched the first episode of series three of The Fall, and though the evil Paul Spector was bullet-ridden and unconscious in hospital under an oxygen mask he managed to evoke a feeling of muted terror, crawling unease. Why were there no guards watching over him, slippery customer that he is, just a grim Gillian Anderson pacing the corridors in blood-stained clothes? When Hugo suddenly sat up and stared at the uncurtained window I felt myself freeze. "Women tend not to do fight or flight, they are too frightened," the Anderson character told the surviving victim's husband. Quite so. I watched in growing horror as Spector was placed in intensive care just yards away from his last victim, attended only by a nurse, and my heart raced as I waited to see what would happen. The tension was nearly unbearable. When the phone rang on the dot of ten as the credits rolled I nearly jumped out of my skin, and and had to wait several minutes to get my breath back under control before returning the call. Phew, I kept saying to my bemused friend when we finally spoke, gosh.

Back to earth, I'm now taking vitamins C and D, Manuka honey, regular hot lemon drinks, paracetamol, Metatone, Pro Em San, live yogurt, and the three daily almonds a friend swears by. These are all intended to boost my immune system and get me up and running again. But as of today, a week after it began, the score is still Bug 1, Denise 0.

Easy Does It

The garden was thrumming with birdlife yesterday morning, the activity hectic, and the singing .... ! What can be going on? Everyone seems to have an urgent purpose, except me, though getting better is my main focus. Ruth came over and we had lunch under the parasol - we simply could not tolerate the heat from the sun. She brought a bottle, but she drank alone, though in the evening I fortified myself with half a pint of Adnam's Broadside with my meagre supper. This consisted of slightly warmed, ready-cooked puy lentils, some leftover pasta, steamed spinach, a few walnuts, some pesto and a bit of parmesan. I was scraping the bottom of the fridge, and frankly it was a bit depressing, a collage of bits and pieces. I've refused offers of a serious shop, but today I see that Waitrose delivery is fully booked until Monday! There's nothing for it but a hasty visit to Fram Co-op to stock up. At least they have better chocolate cake.

I've sorted through my paperwork and made neat files of different categories, again. How does it get out of order when I never go near it, just top up the pile with the latest document through the post? I discovered that the car breakdown contact details which I only last week finally got around to putting in the car are out of date - I changed providers in January! How lucky that I haven't needed them. I've just blown my nose vigorously and I see that I've alarmed Hugo. The other evening I nearly choked on a huge glucosamine pill surely designed for a horse, and as I coughed and spluttered, trying to get some breath into my lungs, I saw that he had come over to me and was leaning his head against my leg, looking up at me with concern. I was very touched, but it also brought home to me how quickly life can be snuffed out if you get it wrong, make a little mistake.

Things not to do when you live alone:
Gallop up and down the stairs, especially carrying heavy things. Blessed are all bungalow dwellers
Eat anything hastily, especially pills or nuts
Leap out of the bath when your hands are wet and the bathmat is on a slippery floor
Dive for the phone when you have papers strewn on a tiled floor
Try to fix a wall light without first turning off the electricity
Do any work around a pond, especially when you're tired
Play mad chasing games around the house with a boistrous dog because sooner or later a limb is going to be broken, and it won't be his
Try to be too clever. This covers everything

These warnings are not confined to singletons, but at least you stand a chance of being saved if someone else is around. Outside the wind is howling, and it reminds me that I must cut the stray spurs of wisteria that hammered against my window last night. The persistant tapping didn't keep me awake but it entered my dreams, and I was at Snape and someone pushed me on stage to play the drums because they were a player short. I was torn between the thrill of showing off and the terror of the exposed wallflower, but before I could make my mind up I jerked awake. I'll never know how good I might have been.

Tortured

Night after night I have the same contorted dream about houses. I'm not talking about the pretty estate agents details on Rightmove but a horrible assortment of nightmarishly mish-mash places that I have bought, or rented, or been forced to move into by circumstances. I'm always being positive - "No, the nine of us strangers can easily fit in this tiny space", while I look around the cluttered interiors of tiny rooms and wonder how on earth I came to be here. Sometimes the neighbours have right of way through my living room, or there are no walls between me and next door. Often I'm one of a group occupying only communal spaces, nothing private. They are always dark and poky, the last place on earth I would buy, or bright and noisy and busy. But worst of all, far worse than the distorted insides are the gardens which are never attached to the house even though they were when I first went to see them. "Your garden, the one with the view of the river/sea/beautiful countryside is now further along the road, and what was your garden is now owned by the people next door who have built a 3-storey house on it." When I go and find my new space there is no view there either. My brain boils with dismay and horror and disbelief. Even in the dreams I know I've been here before but I can never stop the farce. Jungian theory tells you that the house represents your self, but what kind of tortured world exists in my unconscious mind that its mode of expression is this ghastly, tormented nightly melodrama? In the daytime I feel calm and peaceful, but once I'm asleep this bleak, confusing underworld fills my thoughts and I'm forced to act out in Groundhog repetition the distressing palaver all over again. I'll probably never know why.

Usually I manage to shake off the residue of unease once I'm awake, but with a head that's been scraped out with a serrated penknife I'm not exactly brimming with alternative ideas. The farmer is fertilising the field behind us, so I took Hugo across the lane and behind Sarah's house for his morning ablutions. I let him off the lead for a bit, but hastily put him back on when I remembered her precious cats, and how awful if they had the same fate as his hare and rabbits. He performed quickly, and together we ambled back along the lane to the house, huge weights attached to my legs making it difficult to get any pace. It's lovely out there again, perfect gardening weather. I reckon if I'd had this week as expected I could have cut back all the dead and dying things in the front and restored it to its former glory. Instead I have to look at it, and bide my time. It's not all doom and gloom. I'm going to imagine I'm a whippet, so already I've been awake for far too long. I'll curl up with my book and let sleep take me as it chooses, though no more dreams please. I've had enough for one day.

This For That

Enforced idleness does not suit me, not at all. I rage at my smitten body which won't let me walk more than a few steps without having to sit down. My legs are filled with builders' rubble, my head is a hive of angry bees, and my energy levels sit in a crack in the floor. I go hot and cold, take wrappings off and then put them on again, but I have neither a sore throat nor a chesty cough, so it could be worse. There, I've got that over and done with. Kind Sue from the prettily named Sweetbriar Barn down the lane took Hugo for a walk in the field after she had read the lesson in church yesterday. He went with her reluctantly, turning to look back every two steps, but she encouraged him and before long he was enjoying himself. Later Ruth came over with some shopping for me, and before she left in the evening she too took him for a walk, letting him off the lead when they were a good way from the house. I watched him start back, but she galloped ahead calling to him and again he got the message and raced after her. Watching from an upstairs window I suddenly saw him streak across the field beyond the one they were walking in, heading towards Bannock Lane. I imagined her consternation, and rushed to the car to drive down and head him off, or at least safely catch him. But my car was blocked by hers, so I had to rummage around in her bag to find her keys before setting off. When I got down the lane all was quiet, and to my amazement I spotted the two of them, him now on the lead, heading towards me along the edge of the field. How the hell had she got him back so quickly? She was quite unperturbed and he was gleeful, so I returned home and lay down to recover. Two wonderful walks, and he was happy to crash out too.

Sammy phoned today with incredulity to ask if I'd seen the email from Jeremy who organises the ushers at Snape. He has invited the two of us to train as "Front of House", the super-ushers who run the whole show in pairs when there's a performance on. In his email he told us how senior Snape people had been "impressed by our competence and commitment", and despite our relative newness in the job he felt we were eminently suitable for promotion. Well! This despite nearly ruining the evening a few months ago with our over-diligence. It's very flattering, and we're going to think about it. But I fear it will be too much for me now that I have Hugo. Leaving him for five or six hours at a time would be asking too much of the little chap I think. Still, it's nice to be asked.

I'm finally engrossed in The Essex Serpent which I struggled to get into at first. It's Sarah Perry's second book, and she's a natural. The story has undertones of the French Lieutenant's Woman, and Possession too, and it's thrilling, engaging and beguiling. Her imagination is rich and far-sighted, as is mine, but to match that with the ability to tell a story and write it well is a gift I envy above all others. Well, all others apart from having a wonderful voice. And a talent for a musical instrument like a cello. And maybe a brilliant facility with languages. And I wouldn't mind a mathematical brain too which could easily cope with the laws of physics - astro, quantum, particle, I wouldn't mind. Thank goodness for writers like her who allow you to lose yourself in a world of make-believe, especially when you're confined to quarters.

Tha day started chill but it's warm and still now. Hugo and I are curled up as usual on the sofa in the garden room with an open door letting in the fresh air, and the sun just disappearing behind the hedge. At times like these I am thankful that the dog I ended up with is a couch potato who likes nothing better than to sleep, as long as his few essential needs have been met. I'm going to dwell on that positive, and try not to think about the wasted day when I could have achieved so much in the garden in these ideal conditions. Is that what you call quid pro quo? I think so.

Milestones

More of a contrast between two days there could hardly be. Yesterday I went for a river trip when the sun shone unexpectedly - "Congratulations for picking such an unlikely day, forecast to be dull and grey!" laughed the boat's captain, Trevor - and there was almost no wind, perfect sailing conditions. My companion and I sat next to a jolly-looking lady from Milton Keynes who filled her ample dress to capacity. Teased for coming from such an awful place she refuted its poor reputation and entertained us with tales of the town's famous concrete cows which often get arty makeovers during the night, pyjamas, painted stripes and the like. Still nobody much fancied going there, and who could blame them when Suffolk boasted the sort of scenery we were passing through. Trevor had plenty to tell us about the history, social and economic, of the landscape we passed, but there was almost no sign of habitation now, and none of the old industrial workings that brought prosperity to this very rural area. My friend is writing an epic poem about the river, and she had a detailed drawing of the creeks and long-neglected piers we passed. We met her partner for lunch when we got back, the pub packed with people lured to the water's edge by another lovely day. I could have stayed all afternoon but I had to rescue Hugo, left with Penelope and Roger who kindly looked after him for me. He loves being there, with them. I don't have a moment's anxiety about him.

And so I wasn't expecting to wake up today feeling ill, headachy, heavy and lethargic. Apart from having to cancel my duty in Leiston it means Hugo can't have proper exercise, being limited to being let out in the field and urged to go as far as he likes, ideally at top speed and always productively, leaving behind a generous pee and a mighty poo. And that is a shame because, drum roll, he has been with me now for six months. Half a year. And I would like to have had a celebratory walk with him, maybe taken him out for lunch, a few glasses of bubbly. He doesn't know of course, and nor does he complain at the loss of his usual privileges. Happy anniversary dear Hugo. The pleasure has been all mine.

Home

There's an intensity, a particular flavour to the atmosphere some days. In an instant it can take you to an earlier occasion when your mind and body were sensitive to every subtle shift of light, every scent on the breeze, every minute change in air pressure and temperature. Today I was transported to Dublin, October 3rd 1997, the second time in over 40 years that I moved there to live, albeit just for an academic year this time. The day was unseasonably warm, and I was nervous and excited to be embarking on an adventure. I decided to take advantage of the sunshine and go on an open-topped bus tour of the city, to see all the sights in one go. It shouldn't take very long, a tour of tiny Dublin, but as the bus meandered slowly through the heavy traffic I sat back comfortably on the top floor and gazed around me with deep satisfaction. I belong here, I remember thinking, and now that I have a reason to stay I can get to know it properly. I felt such a connectedness that I've rarely known before or since, but there it was again this morning as near-identical conditions prevailed in my own back garden. There was even noise for once - a chain saw attacked the branches of a nearby tree while a tractor trudged up and down with its metal blades whirring through the earth. Deja vu, that's what it was, and it was so sharp and clear I could almost taste the feelings I experienced that day. The only thing missing was the ever-present tang of hops from the Guinness brewery near the river.

Autumnal echinops to add perspective to the view

Weeded and planted, the bottom bed or shrubbery

With my thoughts still in Dublin I cut the edges of the lawn and then set about doing some gentle weeding, sitting on my kneelers and sliding along on my bottom as I worked. I was still tired after the huge exertions of the past few days, and I knew I'd have to take it easy. I got a long way around, the earth in the beds soft and friable after the heavy rains and the weeds coming up easily. This is it at last, the garden as I've imagined it. It's a work in progress and will always be one, but the infrastructure is there now and I can see what it is going to become. Once again I can gaze around me with deep satisfaction. I belong here.

Each To Her Own

It's been a blissful weekend. Yesterday we were going to join Dave and Lesley for an al fresco lunch at White House Farm where the art exhibition called Cornucopia is in full swing. They boast a half-mile long table through the grounds, and I know it's true 'cos I've seen it. Wood from the estate has gone into making the surfaces and benches, and it looks amazing, and seats hundreds for the occasional feasts they hold, usually featuring their own lamb. Today we had planned to go to Snape where I was going to look in the clothes shop before our much-loved walk along the river to Iken. Hugo might have started crying as soon as he saw where we were going, dreading that he'd be in for another long stint in the car while I ushered at some concert or other, poor mistreated creature. However, the garden proved too big a temptation, and in the end I didn't even go out for my Sunday paper. Nor have I spoken to a soul apart from one lovely long phone call on Friday evening. But I have longed for the moment when the bottom bed would be cleared of weeds and debris, smoothed and planted, and now it has happened. I'm so happy I could burst. From time to time I tell people that I just want to get on top of the big things in the garden and then I can do normal maintenance jobs - weeding, deadheading, cutting down, planting etc. And they tell me you can never get control of a garden, there will always be work to do. I know this! But inheriting a field that you need to make into a garden necessitates lots of huge jobs, one-off jobs, and I've had my share of them. But the end is on sight. Today I planted no fewer than seven shrubs in this area after spending most of the day working across it with a hoe, a fork and a rake. I still need more plants, but not many. In a few years it's going to be a fabulous feature of the garden. I might invite Monty Don and Nigel for a visit.

I'm too tired to take photos tonight. I decided to stop while I could still move, and got into a very hot Radox bath before smearing myself in Voltarol. I could have fallen asleep when I emerged, but the boy needed his walk, and there's no gainsaying that. He was very lively, and at one point leapt over the ditch and raced off after a couple of crows. When he refused to come back immediately to my calls and whistles I decided to be cross with him though I wasn't feeling it. "That's not good enough," I told him, holding his face so he had to look at me though he preferred to squirm away. "You must come when I call, as soon as I call. You can't continue scanning the field for prey when you hear me." He comes at the drop of a hat if he's not in hunter mode, galloping towards me ever faster when I call him, delighted with himself for his speed and his ability to stop on a sixpence and come to my knee for praise. But with Penelope wanting to let him off the lead when she is looking after him I need to tighten up on his procedures. A lot depends on it, and it's all for him.

Another Brick

The rain fell all day yesterday causing flooding in many places but thankfully not here. Instead my garden got a great watering, and the pond filled up to the top again. I wish I could say the lawn revived after the drenching it got, but alas not. A combination of red thread and leatherjackets - those nasty looking grey things that live under the grass which they chomp until they turn into craneflies - daddy long legs - has created dead-looking patches all over the place. But I'm chilled about it. It'll recover. The morning started wet again but it cleared quickly and we got a decent walk. Then I set to work laying my new paving slabs, and this area now looks rather too smart for somewhere that is pretty well hidden from view. But it pleases me very much, and is yet another spot I've been waiting for the right time to organise. The mole likes this space, and I'm sure he'll disrupt my neat surfaces at some point. But I'm chilled about that too! Hugo wasn't keen on the wind and spent most of the day indoors in his bed. Some companion. Monty Don doesn't have this trouble with Nigel.

This used to be mud, and bags of stones and sheep manure

Looking up towards the compost bins

Behind the summerhouse, old sods turned to black gold

This evening I surrendered early to extreme pressure first to feed the boy and then to walk him. It's not that he nags, or whine, or scratches doors or anything. He just stands beside me as I work or sit, and the minute I flex a toenail he races up to the house looking expectantly back at me. If I don't come he repeats this, sometimes capering and spinning instead of just running. His disappointment each time is tangible. So I fed him and took him to our favourite place, and he made up for being so sedentary all day. We came face to face with a muntjac at one point, and I was hugely thankful that I had just put the lead on him. Muntjacs can be extremely aggressive, and I didn't want to witness an encounter between him and my gentle boy. But the reason I had put him on the lead was that we were coming near the rabbit field and I didn't want a repeat of yesterday's incident when he was anything but gentle. It was his fourth kill including the wood pigeon and I'm fed up with it. It's not swift and it's not silent. By the time we headed up the last slope back to the car I was feeling really tired after the day's exertions, but it was worth it. I'm thrilled with what I achieved. Bring on tomorrow.

Convolvulus finally flowering after severe frost damage last winter

Can this glorious thing really be a gladiolus?

The bottom bed, finally under control

Musing

I never seem to get used to the stillness of this place, the silence and the beauty. This evening I finished in the garden earlier than usual having accomplished a mutitude of tasks. I've finally been able to clear the area between the oil tank and the compost bins, and I've layed down sheets of weed-supressing membrane in preparation for the eight slabs which will be delivered tomorrow. Between them and the stones I rescued from the first version of the pond plus a pile of shingle which I still have spare, this space will be both utilitarian and smart. I've also nearly cleared all the turves which Nick and I piled behind the summerhouse this time last year to rot, the leftovers after we'd reshaped the lawn. They are mostly rich earth now, and I've been spreading them around the beds wherever they're needed. I did this work in the hot sunshine, resting frequently and drinking lots of water, and I still had plenty of energy for a long walk through the Woodland Trust. When we got back I dead-headed the dahlia and roses, watered where necessary considering that the weather is set to break tomorrow, and then just sat in the garden with a cold beer. I really can't get over how amazing it is being here. Hugo tried to herd me indoors as he does every night, having been fed, watered and walked. He doesn't understand why I won't settle down for the evening at this point, usually around 6pm. But I couldn't go inside and leave the garden, the peace. I rolled my icy beer bottle along his body to cool him off after his exertions, and he moved around under the massage with a look of ecstasy on his face. Then I had to be stern: Go to bed, I ordered. Go on, bed. He slouched up the garden in a wavy line, looking back frequently to see if I meant it. He was both tired and reluctant to leave me. Bed, I said a few more times, and in he went. I lingered still, unable to tear myself away. Anyone seeing me in my chair alone in the garden, doing nothing but looking, absorbing, thinking, might suspect I was lonely, or depressed. But they couldn't be more wrong. This might be the last perfect day of the summer. What a gift it has been. You have to catch it while it's there, acknowledge it, and then let it go. Its imprint doesn't vanish.

Ramblings

I know I've said this a dozen times before, but it was such a perfect day, hot, still and quiet with a clear blue sky, the sort of day that makes you feel not just happy but privileged to be alive. If only they could all be like this, but enough of them are. September 11th, and it was already 23 degrees. We set off early to pick the large crop of blackberries I'd discovered the evening before on our extensive rambles over the fields. Sarah and her sister were just on their way to the harvest festival as the church bells rang out summoning the faithful, and we exchanged greetings. We were off to our own harvest festival, but I didn't know quite how productive our foraging would be. OK, let's get this over and done with: as I sauntered along in the heat, reaching out for the plumpest, ripest berries and dropping them into my tupperware, aware of Hugo's vague presence but mostly oblivious to everything else, the very worst possible thing happened. No, the very worst thing would have been the hare killing Hugo. He must have caught it unawares as it happened about 50 feet from me, around a corner, and I saw nothing. No racing across the acres to the death, it was sudden and swift. And dreadful. But it's in his genes, and he could no more resist chasing a small furry animal than I could, um - no, there's no comparison. I'm mostly in control of my impulses. Moving on then. I dispatched it into the dark Stygian depths of the ditch, now tinder dry and lined with bracken and grass and wild flowers, and the exposed root system of trees. Only minutes before I'd been thinking how much I'd like to climb into it and walk along the bottom, a hidden world but still beautiful. I was shocked and sickened by what he had done, really shaken, but he was gentle and obedient again, still Hugo.

We met Stewart and his son Sebastian who are renting the farmhouse now that Alice and her family have moved to another property on the Kindred estate. We were also properly introduced to Toby, the evil chihuahua who yaps like a mad thing when we pass by and charges at Hugo's legs with his fangs bared, overtures of friendship rebutted viciously. And Oliver, the cheerful black German pointer who is his opposite. Amazingly, Toby began wagging his tail as we stood and chatted, though I'm not putting my hand anywhere near him. Hopefully he'll be more friendly in future.

On duty in the church yesterday, a cyclist from Cratfield came in and we got chatting. I know the village well from playing bridge in the Poacher pub on a Tuesday night for years, and visiting friends there, and of course the wonderful classical concerts held over six Sundays in summer, when the music and performers are brilliant, but are slightly eclipsed by the home-made cakes served in the interval. How many lovely Sunday afternoons I've spent sitting on a gravestone or the grass with a cup of tea and a giant slice of Victoria sponge, some piano concerto or Schubert quartet replaying through my mind. Anyway, he told me about the lead that was stolen from the church roof, just one of eleven in the vicinity including Denington a few miles down the road. The thief was caught because a glove left behind at the scene was later found to have his wife's DNA on it. Who'd have believed it? A future storyline for the Archers maybe. He's a Latvian living in Coventry, currently serving eight months behind bars. Had they been able to pin the other thefts on him he might have got eight years.

We went on to have a busy day. Ruth had been invited to a private viewing of an art exhibition in the next village to me where a London company called Printroom have moved their business. The art was good, but the tea and home-made cakes - there I go again - were even better, and we had two slices each. When I spotted Leo from Leo's Deli in Fram  hovering around the teapot I knew the food was going to be good.  From there we went to Aldeburgh where Humphrey Burton was giving a talk on the forthcoming operas in the Live From the Met productions. He illustrated it with clips from all the listed operas - not the ones we'll be seeing but his favourites videos from the past. So we had a very young Kiri Te Kanawa, a youthful Pavarotti, Renee Fleming before she had her lips frozen with Botox, and other fresh faces from another time. It was glorious, finishing with the trio from Der Rosenkavalier. I just made it into the chippie before the blinds went down and the closed sign went up, and Hugo and I scoffed the lot in record time. Ruth was disdainful. She's on a diet. Yes, after two slices of cake she is.

A Beautiful Thing

Dogs are allergic to chocolate, and grapes. Presumably large quantities of ripe Reblochon too. But not this dog, not Hugo. To my knowledge he's eaten a bit of chocolate, perhaps not enough to kill a normal animal but still. He's also scoffed a large semi-circle of rich French cheese with few apart from the expected consequences. And while he stayed with his new foster parents for a few hours on Thursday he gobbled up all the rotting, fermenting grapes lying on the ground from their highly prolific vine, and plenty of fresh ones too. In fact Penelope showed me how she got him to sit and give a paw by offering him a grape. When I arrived back to collect him he didn't charge at me with delight as usual, but maybe he was drunk. He looked a bit glazed. The grapes will have to stop though, and the bagful I was given to continue the treats at home will not be going to him.

Yesterday he spent the whole day with Ruth as I was working in the morning and ushering in the evening, 9am-9.30pm. He didn't settle back into his bed when I sat down to chat for a bit, and as we were leaving I discovered why. "When did he last have a walk," I asked. Around 3 she thought, maybe earlier. Whattttt? We barely got out of the door before he did what he had to do. Poor little chap, too polite to ask, or else he doesn't know how. We had a lovely long walk by flashlight when we got back, the stars bright pricks of light above us. It was hushed everywhere, apart from a few disturbed wood pigeons who ruffled their feathers and flew off crossly. Those stars, I thought as I stared, they are so far away, their light travelling through space and time to reach us. But where are they, and what is beyond them? It doesn't really bear too much thought.

Today we did a stint across the lane in St Peters for the annual event where cyclists from all over Suffolk visit as many churches as they can to raise money for these ancient buildings. You don't have to go far in Suffolk before you see a church, but some of the cyclists had been out all day and had called in at close to 30 to have their sponsorship cards signed. I was relieved by Sara from just up the lane with her two daughters and one of their friends. Her husband Rob is the cousin of my old bridge friend Julian's wife Barbara. It's like that in Suffolk. "Your daughters are absolutely beautiful," I told her unnecessarily gazing at her own dusky gorgeousness. "I wonder where they get it from?" Their father I expect, she replied with a grin, and I agreed, yeah, that'll be it. I wonder what it's like for him to look on these dark-eyed, dark-haired beauties all the time. Does it ever overwhelm him? Everyone else must look so beige, so anaemic, so plum plain by comparison. We all agreed that Hugo was lovely too, and so boosted by my association with him I turned my back on this trio of graces and sauntered back home.

Heating Up

Ruth and I went to Aldeburgh yesterday to have lunch and watch Barry Lyndon at the cinema. But the day was too perfect to sit inside and so we spent the afternoon on the beach, and in the garden of the Wentworth Hotel having tea. It was lovely to see the town restored to its normal self, no longer a holiday resort but a quiet, calm seaside place once again. Oh it wasn't without visitors, but I'll wager that not one of them was under 70. "I hate being around old people," Ruth said with a sigh. Ho hum. They didn't consider themselves to be old, with their queueing up for ice creams, baring tanned, albeit wrinkled limbs, wearing jaunty hats against the baking sun, and laughter. Who knew how much fun retirement was going to be? What bad luck for our counterparts a few generations back who grew old gracefully, and firmly at home. The dog was a big hit as we tried to make him curl up small and sit in confined spaces while we drank chilled wine. I don't mind him sitting, lying, resting on my feet, they chorused from the tables either side of us. He's gorgeous. And impervious to it all he slept, or tried to as I continually hauled in his ever-expanding legs.

In the morning Penelope had come over, she who is going to be Hugo's foster parent along with husband Roger. She's a lot of fun, and we ended up going for a walk so that I could show her where some plump sloes were growing, to be turned into delicious sloe gin. Back home in the evening I returned to that field to collect the huge blackberries I had spotted earlier, and left Hugo to potter around by himself. It seemed to be empty, a yellow expanse that hasn't yet been put to the plough, and the dog amused himself chasing birds. But then a large, sleepy hare stood up and stretched not 50 yards away, and as Hugo raced towards it there was no sign of urgency from it. Within seconds the dog was inches behind, but then the hare put on speed and began its life-saving zig-zag action across the vast field. I watched helplessly as they vanished through a hedge, knowing there was a lane beyond the next field but feeling fairly relaxed as I could hear no traffic, no sounds at all. As I waited I counted no fewer than seven hares in various stages of relaxation, some quite visible, and some very obvious though the boy, the sight hound, hadn't spotted any of them. After a while the little black chap appeared again, and trotted gently back to me, sides heaving from the effort. Stay where you are hares, I prayed. Please don't stand up. And by some miracle they didn't, though they must have been super aware of imminent danger. Hugo was seriously out of breath, and so I put his lead back on and continued to pick blackberries as he walked and waited patiently beside me, gradually cooling off. He was asleep almost as soon as we got in, opting for his soft brown mat on the garden room sofa to collapse on. He has a bed in every room downstairs, but it doesn't stop him climbing onto a guest bed if I forget to close the upstairs doors. Prince Dog. Emperor Dog

Indulgence

I had double-booked myself for 10am yesterday and in the event had to cancel both appointments thanks to a horrible bug that has kept me close to the bathroom. One of them was my annual dental check-up, made for a Monday 12 months before I started yoga on that morning. How did I not notice this clash until I turned the page on my diary? In the event nobody minded except me, and I made up for the loss of both by brushing and flossing my teeth extra thoroughly, and working up a sweat in the garden despite the stomach cramps. It was a nice day, very warm and still with sunshine now and again, and I got a lot done. I bumped into Nick on Sunday on my way to meet Ruth for a walk, and he has promised to spend a couple of days with me next month moving things around, splitting logs, generally getting the garden in good shape for next year. In the meantime I have shifted three hemerocallis to where their spiky leaves are less obvious once the flowers have finished, planted another rose, and another jasmine, and taken out the euphorbia fireglow which has spread all over parts of the front garden and I foolishly introduced to the back. It may look stunning in the autumn when the leaves and flowers are bright red and gold, but it's messy and incredibly invasive. Good riddance. I potted up some of it plus a few other plants for Lesley when she comes for Italian this afternoon, as requested. I also came across what I now know to be a wasps' nest buried under the ground. I thought it was a puffball at first when it surrendered to my rake in a cloud of papery dust, but then I saw the trays of perfectly hexagonal combs. I saw the queen struggling along the ground, but there were scant wasps to protect her. This evening I'll spray it, but I suspect it's pretty well unused now.

There was a dead hare in the field when we walked there earlier. Two magpies were hard at work on it while a seagull made an incongruous sentry, and I went to have a look when they flew away. An eye had been pecked out, but I couldn't see what had killed it. So sad. Luckily Hugo wasn't interested. Yesterday we got mildly ticked off by the gamekeeper of the pheasant wood as we walked past, and I promised not to go there again despite the beauty of the fields spread all around. Property is theft, as Proudhon said, but try telling that to a farmer set to make a fortune out of the gangs of armed thugs, sorry, city gentlemen in expensive green tweeds, who descend for their annual day of carnage. I thought of staging a solo sit-in with an ALF placard, but there's no point in upsetting the neighbours when they've been doing this sort of thing for centuries and see nothing horrible about it.

My innards are still upset today. I can only put it down to a cheese scone I had up on Dunwich cliff at the end of our walk. The NT tearooms had run out of plain and fruit scones, and because I'd been lusting after one of these with some jam and cloted cream for weeks I was primed to eat something, the juices running in anticipation. I didn't enjoy it, nor the cup of tea, and am paying the price. Still, it's a nice day again and I'll take the crossword to the summerhouse in a minute. There's never a dull moment when you're retired.

Getting the Scent

The main problem with finding the perfect people to look after your precious dog when you're involved in things to which he can't accompany you is that said people might wear perfume that lingers all day on said dog. It's 10 hours since we met Penelope and Roger, and Hugo still reeks of one of them, a classy smell but not his. It's something I'll have to get used to since the arrangements we are going to make will involve them having him for the best part of a day each week. Still, it was love at first sight and I have no doubt that, after the essential preliminaries - they come here for coffee, Hugo has a few very short play dates that gradually expand until, on Friday fortnight, they have him for real - he'll be familiar with them and won't mind being left with them, or be afraid that I won't return. I will Hugo, I promise you. I will always come back.

Other news - I now own no fewer than three obelisks for the garden, and I paid around £300 less for each of them than the market price, a snip at £15 for them all. The company that makes these expensive, upmarket items is owned by a neighbour, and they had been placed outside his house with a cardboard sign offering them at a ludicrous price to clear the decks for the latest stock. I pounced, and within the hour they had been delivered and positioned in the garden, one in each bed. I'm thrilled with them. They are meant to create a focal point where roses, clematis or whatever can be grown to provide height in a bed. But whether or not I cover them in flowers they are beautiful in their own right. Today, as with so many recent days, I've struggled in the heat and not achieved much. I began the slow process of moving plants from the wrong place to the right place, or so it seems to be at the moment. I also began planting the lovely roses I bought in a sale. The ground is hard from lack of rain, and digging suitable holes has been difficult. I have a lot of rearranging to do, which is irritating, but looking at pictures of the beds this time last year I'm actually flabbergasted by the difference. They were so bare then, the shrubs so small and undeveloped, and now they are burgeoning beautuifully. Give me a year or so and it will look even better.

In the meantime Hugo and I are curled up on the kitchen sofa together listening to Bach's B minor Mass from the Proms. I'm trying to ignore the scent wafting off him. I might have to resort to rolling him in fox poo tomorrow, or dead rabbit. At least it would be an animal smell.