Waiting

Who'd have thought today would end up as a scorcher, too hot to do anything very physical? We had planned lunch out and then the cinema, but in the meantime I bought two terracotta beehive pots and everything changed. I racked my brain to think of someone I knew who was big and strong and had a van. And was cheap. Eventually I came up with the number for Quint, a man I accosted in Tesco car park a few years ago because he had a ponytail and was getting into a white Ford Transit. "I don't mean to disparage you in any way but I wondered if you might be a man with a van," I asked him, smiling with as much charm as I could muster on a grey winter day. He wasn't insulted at all, and duly picked up a brass headboard from Great Yarmouth for me without breaking the bank. He agreed to collect my pots from the garden centre within two hours of speaking to me. He said he'd call me. So Ruth and I sat in the garden of Juniper Barn in Rendham having a long glass of cold Pinot Grigio with lunch, and we were joined by Catherine who had popped in on her own and was surprised to see us there. All the time I was slightly concerned, sitting in a village with virtually no mobile phone signal, waiting for a call from Quint. But where was he? Back to mine we came eventually, to sit in the sun and gossip, still waiting. Eventually I rang him and he cheerfully said he'd deliver them tomorrow. Well, if I'd only known. We make assumptions, we're not clear in our communication, and everything gets muddled. Luckily it wasn't a problem. Freed from having to wait in once Catherine had gone, the two of us took Hugo to the woods for a scramble. But the combination of wine at lunchtime and hot sun meant the only scramble was back into the car after 20 minutes. You were short-changed Hugo. You was robbed.

Friends, Harold and Teddy, washed

Watching to see if I'm going out

Taking Advantage

Skylarks serenaded us as we tramped the fields this morning as they have been doing for weeks now. I know this is more a security operation than a free concert, as they seek to distract prey from their ground-nesting eggs and chicks, but it's still wonderful to witness. As so often happens when we set out under a leaden sky the sun suddenly burst through and dazzled us. Hugo takes it all in his stride, but I send up a silent thanks for both of us.

When we got back Rosemary the postwoman had just arrived at the gate and she handed me a few envelopes. Together we surveyed the front path where overhanging and abundant medlar tree and large viburnum will soon make passage to the front door all but impossible. "Don't worry about me," she said cheerfully. "I'm short and I don't mind brushing my head on the folige." We marvelled at how quickly the trees and bushes have put on their leaves and blossoms. Being out of doors all day and in all weathers, the difference is not so obvious to her, and when she stops and looks she is often taken aback at how advanced the seasons are.

Hugo dragged himself away from her caresses eventually, and we took advantage of the lull in the wind to plant three shrub roses bought earlier this week, and three margarites which I got Nick to chop off the crazily spreading parent plants last week. The latter are down in the bottom bed now, harmlessly filling in spaces which I daresay they will soon dominate. And then it will be off with their heads again. This really is the most thrilling time of year in the garden as all around you green shoots emerge from the closed and silent earth. How they have the strength to poke their heads through the hard soil is amazing. Inside the summerhouse the score is finally dahlia tubers planted 19, dahlias growing 19. Oh, the satisfaction. Soon the more advanced ones can go outside to toughen up when the weather is warmer, and eventually they will all be planted in their permanent places. I've got two beautiful clematis ready to be placed under the obelisks where I hope they will flower abundantly, and a few dozen sweet peas to share the lower rungs with them. Finally, two beehive pots all the way from the Aegean will soon grace the end terrace. All I need to do is find someone who will collect and deliver them for less than £50. Bleedin' cheek!

La Dolce Vita

Yesterday I returned home to find a pile of hailstones in the corner by my back door, and this morning I woke to a thick covering of frost on the lawn. So for our walk I wrapped myself up in clothing I wore on the darkest of winter days and found it wasn't that cold after all. Hugo was sharply attentive all the way around the fields, dancing along on points, ears pricked and eyes ceaselessly scouring the wheat for signs of life. He knows they are all in there, the hares, but he can't see them. Every slight shiver of the crop makes him go rigid with duty. I'm paying extra attention too while he is on his extension lead. I have no intention of being hauled to the ground by a sudden exertion of pressure. For a slim dog he isn't half strong.

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

I booked tickets for the Hockney exhibition when we got back, careful to eliminate the dates that Judith said she couldn't manage. So I don't know how I ordered train tickets for the journey to London for the previous week. I realised my mistake immediately, and could only stare in horror at this new evidence of senility. What was I thinking of? I rang the Trainline at once, fully aware that the tickets were non-transferable or refundable, and spoke to a lovely girl in Hyderabad. She wanted to know what the weather was like here, and when I told her she laughed and said it was unbearably hot where she was. "Is it always cold in England?" she asked with seeming innocence, and I told her no, but it just felt like it sometimes. Given how recently I'd made this booking she was prepared to change it for me, but when we got to the railcard bit she was laughing again. "Senior railcard?" she said. "I thought you were 18-25"! My turn to laugh, but she insisted I sounded very young. "What a charmer you are," I said. "You too," she came back. I don't know why we have such an aversion to overseas call centres. Provided you can understand the accent, and I've had more trouble with Liverpool and Birmingham, they are so well mannered and kind.

I've been watching Last Chance Summer set on a Tuscan farm, and it's been a big help with my language skills. I love the gentle way the locals talk about their lives in these hills where family, food and work are the main preoccupations. They labour hard in the fields but the whole family joins in at harvest and other busy times, and then they feast on the food that is locally produced and delicious, and drink their own wines. There is time to spend with the little ones and the older ones, and respect. A simple life but a real one, in complete harmony with nature. Isn't that how it's meant to be?

Exclamations

Oh, these long bright evenings! How is it possible to stay still, to stay indoors even, when outside the world is bursting into life and the sky won't relent and call a halt to the day until, at the moment, well after 8pm. In my late teens I used to get in my car and just drive, drive anywhere, sometimes until I ran out of petrol. Keep moving, don't stop, you'll exhaust your feelings eventually! At this time of year I've always found myself to be most alive when the day is mainly done, when any wind has settled down and the blackbirds find a handy tree and sing. Oh how unsettling it is! But how beautiful too, how seductive. Age is meant to bring a calming effect to these emotions, isn't it? but it doesn't, it doesn't. Luckily I have one thing to ground me when my senses threaten to run out of control: Hugo. I looked at him earlier, curled on the kitchen sofa in a deep sleep, a picture of relaxed bliss, and I said to him, Hugo, I'm so glad I have a dog to keep me company, to share my exuberance with. No, it's not just that, I added, it's that I'm so glad I have you. Imagine not having known Hugo!

Eventually the evening moves on and becomes just another part of the day and I can settle down to mundane things like cooking supper, doing the crossword, pulling out an Italian exercise book. It's still light outside, and lovely. The garden is a picture and a visit to the garden centre today garnered a load more exciting plants to mull over and relocate. I had a silver birch delivered from a local garden centre too, and that will beak up the lawn as the sorbus has already done. Courage, that takes, to dig a hole in the grass, but worth it. I've survived another maelstrom that is the spring evening. Tomorrow there will be another, and then another, and soon it will be their unbearably glorious relative the summer evening. A day at a time, that's how to take it. Hugo must have read my thoughts. He sat up and wormed his body towards me and crashed his head onto my chest, looking up into my face with a total absence of guile. Really, there are no words. Only gratitude.

Acting the Part

Is there an actress more compelling, more convincing, more gifted, more darned classy than Helen McCrory? No there isn't. She's starring in a series called Leaving currently on Saturday night television, and for me it's the best thing since the last thing she was in. I watched this programme recorded from Saturday night because it was cold when I came back from work and so I heated the whole house and lit the woodburner in defiance of this horrible change in the weather. Once the fire was blazing and the sitting room irresistible, I cooked my supper early and brought it in on a tray, then searched for some entertainment to accompany it. How clever of me to have thought Leaving would be good when so much else fails to interest.

We had an extra walk this evening because the sun suddenly came out and as always I was unable to resist its lure. Hugo roused himself from a deep sleep to come with me, and we strolled down the lane, past the church which is having a new roof put on, and as far as the first field on the right which sadly is a sea of yellow rape this year. I know these fields look pretty, especially from a distance, but I hate the smell of rape. Nearly like wisteria, it just misses and verges on the sickly for me. On the way back I spotted five small hares racing around in circles on the other side of the lane, but Hugo's attention was elsewhere and he missed them. It's been a hectic day. Straight after work I raced over to Woodbridge to resume my product manager's duties, doing a last minute clean before the tenant moves in on Friday, and rescuing the things I'd left behind, like my hoover (which I haven't missed). Joe the handiman then came to look at my garage with a view to painting it, and I had planned an evening of bridge with Carolyn at the Framlingham club. In the end I had to cancel this event which we were both looking forward to - potential new partners - as I just ran out of time. And it seemed mean to leave Hugo alone again when he'd been out all day, and had stayed by himself for a long evening on Saturday when I saw Eugene Onegin in Aldeburgh. I'm just so proud of him. If only I'd known that leaving a dog alone just takes time, so that they find the confidence to know they are safe. And he's found it now. My heart thumps a little quicker when I think of how far he has come, how insecure he must have felt, but how happy and trusting he is now.

Let Us Prey

I check the BBC weather forecast for Yoxford every morning, but when is it ever right? The day started hot and sunny again with a clear blue sky though bleak grey conditions were promised, and when I checked the dahlias it was too hot to stay in the summerhouse. It clouded over a bit after lunch, so they were partly right. The gardening jobs from now on are quite delicious, and I spent a few hours in the front garden, sliding along the gravel path on my bottom pulling up weeds. Hidden as I was when the refuse collectors arrived, I was just about to call out hello and thanks to a big burly man when he stuck a massive finger up his nose. I kept my head down.

I had to watch the time because there was an evening evacuation practice at Snape and I wanted to get the boy done and dusted and settled before I left. Supper was at 3.30, and then it was down to the woods where we were in for a big surprise. Well, I was. Yesterday our track was crossed by first one muntjack and then another. Hugo paused as the first one crept along and disappeared into the woods, and he was just about to follow when the second one did likewise. To my astonishment he then plunged fearlessly after them and disappeared. I wasn't too worried apart from the consideration that they might attack him, but he soon returned panting his head off. Today at the exact same spot he did the identical thing, but this time he didn't return unscathed. When he raced up to me blood dripped from his ear and there were cuts on his head. Thorns stuck out all over his body. It seemed that the old adage about whippets preferring to tear their flesh on sharp hedging than lose their prey was right. I mopped him up and patched him up and pulled out the thorns while he stood patiently beside me.

I made it to the practice, and though there were splashes and drops of blood across the kitchen floor when I returned, he was fast asleep on his sofa and only got up to greet me out of politeness I think. It's such a happy state of affairs, his willingness to be left at home when I go out. He seems to accept it as normal. I think he must have been used to it once. With his newly plumped up chest like a goose fattening for Christmas, I think I might have to eat him after all. I've been telling him for a year that I love him so much I could gobble him up. At least now there would be something to get my teeth into.

That Gardening Bug

It's been the most perfect of days, for so many reasons. It was hot, and there was barely any wind, ideal conditions for gardening. Time didn't race away from me, but behaved in a leisurely way so that when it would have been 6pm on a normal day, it was still only 3pm. I achieved plenty, and only came in at 7.30 because I'd had a very light lunch and thought I should have supper before I went wobbily. What did I do? I cleaned out the summerhouse, washing windows, sweeping up winter insect detritus and cobwebs, and scrubbing the floor. The furniture went back in and immediately looked better. I've also now power-hosed the two terraces by the house as well as the lower concrete area. I've made inroads into the bench, and when it's been completely stripped of lichen I'll smear on some teak oil. I'm thinking of getting Handiman Joe up to paint the garage. The stuff we used a couple of years ago was a mistake, a sort of acrylic paint that has since been baked off in strips by the hot sun. I'll use a more absorbable paint next time.

Newly scarified lawn

The bottom bed, under control at last

Everything in order

Pond growth developing

Azalea and rhododendrons just showing red

Coming along

Dahlia tubers in their nursery

Everything neat and tidy at last

 The Green Thumb men came to scarify the lawn, and when they left I put the sprinkler on to give it a drink. I completely re-did the long path down the side of the garden, raking up the bark and laying a strong weed suppressant material along its whole length. With the bark back in place and all the weeds gone it looked very smart. I then repaired the line of bricks that separates the main bed from this path, and hoed around generally. I mended the path I built beside the pond, and then weeded the older path that I built in front of the summerhouse a couple of years ago. I ended up by watering everything. Best of all, and I mean best of everything, has been watching the potted dahlias put out shoots. The 19 pots have been in the summnerhouse for several weeks now after wintering in the garage, and they've been revelling in the heat and shelter. Several times a day I've anxiously stared at them looking for little shoots, holding up each one under my nose and searching for the tiniest hint of new growth. The score so far is 15 on the way and four without any shoots, yet. I'm hopeful they've all survived. This is the last time they'll be lifted for the winter, and that was only because they weren't yet in their permanent positions. Now that I'm sure of where they'll go they can stay there until they need to be divided.

A happy, happy day. Hugo plodded around after me in the heat, getting up every time I moved to  follow me. We played with his squeaky ball for a while, and he flew around the grass in mad circles. But he soon tires of this game. At 5pm I took him to Pound Farm, and he worked off all that excess energy chasing other dogs. He could barely catch his breath by the time we got to the car, but I knew he had enjoyed himself. It's funny, but no matter how absorbed I am in other things I never begrudge him these outings. He's loyalty personified to me. The least I can do is return it.

40 Years On

I've always loved water, moving or static. A stretch of water, like a horse, offers the possibility of transport without effort, at least from the legs. I used to dream of building a raft, not necessarily to go anywhere but merely to float. That was as close to freedom as my young brain could imagine. If I'd only discovered Swallows and Amazons as a child it would have been my favourite book. As it was I had to indulge a retarded childhood through my own offspring, and the longing to be one of Ransome's gang was not diminished for all that. So offer me a long weekend in a huge Georgian former mill with its own waterfront and selection of small boats and I'm in heaven. I'd like to say that I skiffed, paddled and rowed up and down the Waveney for four days but I didn't. I stepped into one craft, felt it wobble, and got out again. I blamed it on a stiff wind that curled coldly up the river and denied the prospect of waterborne fun, at least for me. When the sun shone, and it did, I followed the others with my greedy eyes, my camera and on foot, but I didn't join them. Their pleasure was enough to satisfy me, but take me back there in summer and it will be a different story.

We celebrated the 40th birthday in numbers and in style. Our two resident chefs made dinner times so special that some of the finest Cambridge brains could only gasp and sigh at their brilliance, silenced for once. On Saturday night we gathered around the massive dining table in our finery, expectant and excited like characters in an Agatha Christie whodunnit. The wines had been carefully selected and each brought its own series of superlatives and well-deserved hyperbole, an oxymoron if ever there was one. The birthday girl was toasted and saluted and trumpeted and sent on her way into another decade. All good things come to an end.

Hugo behaved immaculately all weekend, tolerating the late nights and large numbers of people. He was petted and fussed and praised enthusiastically, even by the cynophobe, even when he was trying to sleep, and apart from a bar of fancily wrapped chocolate that he dropped when I appeared unexpectedly, nothing forbidden passed his lips. At one stage he picked up a fallen grape from under the table and dropped it at my feet. When we got home he went out for the count. We all agreed he is the best dog, ever, and it was the nicest group of people, and the merriest of weekends. Amen.

Heatwave

Ruth arrived at 1pm with most of the components of lunch, and it was just as well I had to stop working in the garden then because, when I tried to get up from a kneeling position, I had no legs. The mental prompts I thought I had put in place just don't work. "Get up and stretch at regular intervals," I exhort myself, but do I remember to follow my own urgings? Do I 'eck as like. Anyway, the legs recovered quickly and we sat in the garden relishing the sunshine and the absolute, total absence of noise apart from birdsong. My old friend couldn't live where I do - too isolated - but she loves being here. We couldn't linger though as we had business to attend to in Woodbridge, shoes to return, new ones to buy. That accomplished we parked the car by Melton Station and walked up the river towards town. The tide was out, the curlews calling their watery cry, and we barely passed another person during the best part of two hours. A hand-written sign on the bank beside one of the houseboats promised tea, cakes and lunches, but we were a week early. It was an Easter event only. Shame, as we'd have killed for a cuppa. Hugo enjoyed the freedom off the lead, but even he was wilting when we returned to the car. It had just been too hot - too much too soon. Eventually he and I will acclimatise.

This morning we were at the woodland walk early, but not before a group with their dogs had assembled at the gate. "Which way are you going?" I asked, eyeing the German shepherd and the big hungry-looking lurcher. Once I established their proposed route we took a different one, and met not one single person all the way around. Mornings like this are a tonic for the soul. The day is young but full of promise for what is to come. Already the grass is long, and very wet after a heavy dew. The light filters through the trees, still bare after the winter but beginning to shown green. The long brakes between the woods are bright and inviting, and you could probably walk for three hours without repeating your footsteps. We were back at the car in half an hour, already hot and panting after our exertions. Out of the sun the air is still cool, but this is a day for hats and suncream. And joy.

Miracle

I ran out of time to write my blog yesterday, but it was just as well. The superlatives would have flowed fast and thick had I jotted down my thoughts when I came indoors from a long day in the garden. Twenty four hours later my emotions are somewhat muted though my memories still dazzle me. It was a fabulous day, hot with little wind, but when it did whisper across the fields and over my labouring body it was cooling and welcome. A far cry from earlier in the week when it had a frosty sharpness to its edges. But what really boosted my spirits was that, after staring with a petrified bleakness and helplessness at the weeds in the bottom bed just two days earlier when I despaired of ever getting in control of the garden, suddenly it was virtually all done. Val came on Tuesday for two hours and that helped but hers was more moral support than actual work done. I've been battling with those weeds and, much worse, the grass that still grows thickly there from when that area was part of the lawn, for several weeks. I've made progress, huge progress, but the work is horrible and I've wanted to get on with other jobs. Was this to be my fate every year, plucking renegade, tenacious clumps of grass out of the soil? I seriously wondered if I'd made a mistake taking on a donkey paddock and trying to turn it into a garden. But hey presto! the area was suddenly mostly clear and for the last hour I was able to go back over the other beds I cleared several weeks ago and root out the strays. I was exhilarated, thrilled. The rest of the work I enjoy, dogged garden creature that I am. It will be normal service from now on.

By 7pm I was tired but I wanted to reward Hugo for his patience over a long day so we drove to the woodland walk for a run. There's an ease to walking after being hunched over a fork or a hoe all day, and I enjoyed striding out and having a stretch, watching the boy having fun. Back home again I was only interested in a glass of cold Sauvignon. The sun was still a way off setting, so I took my drink down to the summerhouse and lay back on my lounger, admiring how far I've come in the garden. It's still only 7th April for heaven's sake! The beds are clear, the dahlias are potted and in the summerhouse waiting for growth to appear before being planted out, the roses are all pruned, the pond is planted and clear. I've cleaned the bottom area and just have the two terraces to do. All I need now are some greenfly and a few slugs to make the situation more normal. I took great sips of chilled wine and sighed with pleasure, Hugo asleep and twitching at my feet. It truly felt miraculous to be exactly where I was. 

Normal

I brought the table tennis table out onto the lawn for the weekend and made everyone play with me, as often and for as long as possible. Luckily they all enjoyed it too. I don't think I've played for four years but it soon came back, and I remembered the utter bliss of the game. Honestly, if I had someone to play with me I'd be at it all the time. Table tennis. It sharpens your reactions, it exercises your hand-eye coordination, it keeps you moving about and it gets your heart rate going. What could be better, especially as it's enormous fun too. I'm thinking of advertising for someone to play with me, a card in the Co-op in Fram maybe, or a line on Streetlife. It's absurd that I have the table and accoutrements but nobody to share it with. I'll have to be clear that I'm not a brilliant player, and that I'm a woman of a certain age, but that I'm still quite fit, in the old-fashioned sense of the word obviously. I'd hate someone to turn up and get a shock when they saw me.

Hugo revelled in all the attention he got, the sheer adoration, and was charm itself as usual. I quickly got used to tea in bed every morning, and long leisurely chats while the dog basked between legs on the duvet. Despite the miserable weather forecast every day we had some lovely sunshine and warmth, just what you want when people come to stay. But it was back to normal today, which meant slaving over hot weeds in the garden, and chattering in Italian with my two amiches while munching the most divine chocolate and ginger cookies (Co-op Truly Irresistible). Now it's just us again, the boy and me. The song that has gone round and round in my head for the last four years, namely Alone Again, Naturally by Gilbert O'Sullivan, is no longer appropriate, as I'm not. There are two of us here now, and who could be more companionable, more easy going, more loveable than Hugo? Who indeed?