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.