DDIY (Don't Do It Yourself)

The new shower is all but finished and it's looking good. I can't wait to try it out but must hold off for 48 hours for everything to dry. I've been looking at new towels for the users, mulling over colours (John Lewis of course) and to make sure that there is never again any confusion over whose is whose, I've put hooks up with the four main visitors' initials on them. Thus there is O, I, J and K. Could that be any clearer? Can my towels in the bathroom be left for my sole use in future? The downstairs is filthy, and I mean filthy, and because I can't really clean I haven't bothered to tidy things away either.  The first day when the concrete floor was drilled to make space for the drains, the plumber didn't see the sockets in the utility room and used the one in the study instead. Thus all the doors were left ajar, so dust has got everywhere. After that I popped an extension from the shed through the window for him, but too late. The mess in the cloakroom has been trailed backwards and forwards to the back door, and I gave up cleaning several days ago. I'm taking it slowly, but this evening I washed the walls, floors and windows around the shower, and I'll do the rest as and when I have the energy. But I'm thrilled with it. I hope everyone else is too.

The laying of drains in the field finished this evening, and what a huge job that has been. Five massive machines each doing a special job have taken three days to cover a large field. I can't help thinking of how different it would have been a century ago, for example, when most of it would have been done by men with spades. The trenches they dug were nearly six feet deep, enough to bury a coffin in. When they'd left Hugo and I strolled around looking for treasure, coins, axe heads, but could see nothing. If only I had a metal detector. I'm sure there's a fortune out there.

I opened my big bedroom window this morning to throw out a dead cranefly, and the pigeon on her nest flew away. I looked down and to my amazement there were two sizeable fledglings sitting there. Not five days ago there were two small eggs. How could they have grown to such a size so quickly? They are not pretty things but they are their mother's own, and no doubt she loves them. I hope they continue to get big and fat so they can fly away. Then there will be no return. I've had enough of their squawking and calling, not to mention their scrabbling noisily through the leaves.

I gave an armful of blood this morning and by Tuesday should know what if anything is wrong. I persuaded the doctor against his better judgement to give me a few valium (am I likely to become addicted on 28 pills, most of which I probably won't need to take? I think not), and when my head gets to the unbearable stage I take one which removes the pressure. There's no rush of euphoria as I feel the weight of the world slipping off my shoulders, but rather something close to the old normal returns for a brief while. It's such a relief. If I have any left when I no longer need them I'll take them behind Wickham Market Co-op one evening and make some money. I'm told that that's where all the action takes place.

Under the Nurse

These salvias are a much prettier blue than my camera could show

Still colour in the perennial bed

 I dead-headed a few dahlias but the delphiniums proved too much for me and I had to sit down. And so it goes on, with no end in sight. A very high blood pressure reading in casual circumstances on Sunday has both shocked and galvanised me, and I'm seeing the nurse today for a bit of clarification. Was it just a mysterious spike, or has the self-medication with high doses of calcium and vitamin D to try to counteract severe osteoporosis caused my body to overreact? It's a possibility, but checking things on the internet is fatal, and pointless. I'm not one for dwelling on medical matters. Having a mother with hypochondria put paid to that. If you asked me when I last saw the doctor, or why, I'd be hard pressed to remember. Have I ever had a serious illness? Couldn't tell you. Did either of my children? Hang on a minute, let me think .... For me it's out of sight, out of mind. If I'm functioning OK, I never give my body a thought. I tend to believe I'm from the school of that character in French and Saunders: "Leg chopped off? Load of stuff and bloody nonsence. Don't need a doctor, just get on". But actually, when things go seriously wrong, as they seem to be doing now, and the leg is hanging by a thread, I'm completely thrown. It's me head, see. You can't get very far with a dickie head.

Trying to keep Hugo fit without long walks

  
The field behind my house looks like a building site. They are laying drainage pipes to try and make the boggy parts of it more productive. It's been fascinating, watching the trenches being dug out, then filled with stones and blue plastic tubing, miles of it. Several vehicles and not a few men are engaged in the task, and the noise they are making is ricocheting off the walls of the house and bouncing into the summerhouse where I am sitting. Poor Hugo doesn't know what to make of it. We would normally be in the house when there's a commotion outside, but there's a plumber and an electrician in there, building me a new shower room, and boy are they noisy too. Men and their gossip! I don't know why women get such a bad press. I've given up thinking about the dirty floor as well. Time enough to worry about cleaning up after they've gone.

Armageddon

Yesterday I was sent the ticket order forms from Bayreuth Opera House to pursue my dream of going to this Wagnerian shrine in Bavaria to hear one of his operas. I felt a surge of excitement and hope, but in fact I haven't been on the waiting list for very long so probably won't qualify for next year. The average wait is about nine years. I dreamed of seeing Renee Fleming sing in Lohengrin next summer, but so did thousands of other people around the globe, I'm sure. Decades ago, when I was a young thing, my friend James Bell who introduced me to Wagner promised to take me with him but it never happened and we lost touch when I got married. In those days you just bought a ticket. Not any more. What recession? James took me to Covent Garden for the first time, to see Il Barbiere di Seviglia and I disgraced myself by being so bursting to go to the loo, SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO bursting, that in the end I climbed over the back of the seat into the rear aisle and fled to the ladies. Luckly he was a Scot with a dry wit, and he saw the funny side. It was the first of many visits with James, and later of course, but I never behaved so outrageously again. Anyway, I'll complete the forms and send off a gigantic cheque, and wait. I've got nothing to lose.

As part of my fight against whatever is making me feel dreadful I've bought a jar of Manuka honey. It has properties, apparently, magical ones. I've seen the long list of things it's meant to cure, or at least help, and "unspecified head issues" aren't on it. I have a feeling about it though. Anything that costs that much must be good. And if not, I can honestly say that it's the very nicest honey I've ever tasted, and if the jar lasts a week that'll be a miracle in itself.

Home

I lay in the garden on my recliner, resting as I've been forced to agree to do instead of tackling the 1001 delicious jobs awaiting me: the hedge needs clipping back, the beds need weeding, bulbs have to be planted, and shrubs must be relocated. But not by me apparently, alas. So I lounged supine, staring upwards into the wide blue yonder, when suddenly an aeroplane hoved into view. It drifted across the sky, wings outstretched high in the air, but as I gazed I realised it wasn't a plane but a bird. A marsh harrier. It was huge, and it floated on thermals way up in the distnce. Then I spotted another one moving towards it, slowly, slowly, and as they met they caressed, moving over each others bodies with great tenderness, tendresse as the French have it, hovering wing to wing in a joyful act of love making. They billed and coo-ed, they lingered together, they touched beaks and heads, then they wafted away only to come back together again. It was as beautiful a thing as I have ever seen, and I watched entranced until they moved out of my vision. Were they a pair, or was this a spontaneous conjoining? I'll never know.

I tried a bit of weeding, sitting on my kneelers, very little effort involved, but the result was the same. Ruth came over for the afternoon prior to us going into Aldeburgh to see Victoria and Abdul, and before supper we went for a walk down the lane. It was a little farther than I can manage at the moment, and I realised I had overdone it and couldn't make it back. As I waited by the verge, watching a reluctant Hugo being led away, she went to get her car and drive me home. Ridiculous.

My entire family is going to be away soon, off to Virginia, to Paxos and to Crete. But I seem to have lost my thirst for adventure, Blakeney notwithstanding. I blame it on Hugo who I simply cannot ever again leave with strangers, but the truth is I love being here and feel no urge to travel. Not even the darned wood pigeons, who have laid another two eggs in the nest in the tangled wisteria just beneath my bedroom window and crash around from early morning until late can turn me against this place. I just missed the opportunity to dismantle the twigs they call home and stop them rebuilding it, but I can't intervene now, godlike, and touch the eggs. Two more massive babies will hang on to their hopelessly inadequate home until they are forced to fly, and for all I know they will mate straight away and begin the cycle again. Ah well, there's no place ....

Feeling the Chill

I found a pair of jeans in my wardrobe this morning. Unworn, Land's End, and I swear I have never seen them before in my life. OK, they are my size, but they have a proper high waist and widish legs, in a thich, rough denim. More like work trousers than designer jeans. I would never have bought anything like them. But where the heck have they come from? Has a friend left them behind, given that my wardrobe is in the guest room and so visitors have to do sharesies. It's a complete mystery, but I've worn them all day and have to admit that they are warm and cosy, and the high waist is very snug and comfortable. It's like the small blender I have had for aeons, which my girls learned to cook with and I used constantly. One day I took it out of the cupboard, stared at it, and had no idea what it was. I simply didn't recognise it. That was about 6 years ago and this is the first repeat amnesiac episode, so hopefully if it's Altzheimers it's the slow kind.

I went to a village meeting last night, another stage in our attempts to get rid of the poultry sheds, and before I went out I switched on the Rayburn heating for the first time since winter. When I returned the house was as cold as it has been all day. And I couldn't get it to work though the water was hot and the cooker functioning. Has the plumber done something? He thinks not, but when he returns tomorrow he'll see if it's an air lock or something similar. So, given the chilly morning, I lit the woodburner after lunch so that my Italian conversazione would be nice and warm. So it was typical that the sun was out and the summerhouse was toasty when they arrived. Nevertheless they opted for the sitting room, and we sweltered in there instead, removing cardigans and sweaters and opening doors. When they left I stuck in a few more logs to see me through the evening. Last night I had to go to bed at 10 when I couldn't stand being so cold any longer.

I'm making a mushroom risotto tonight. The one I cooked a couple of weeks ago was a sensation. As usual when I've finished for the day and think about supper I want a drink, but there were no beers in the fridge or cupboard. I didn't want to open a bottle of wine, so I resorted to the sloe gin I made last year. Gawd, it's good. One small glass, two slurps, was quickly followed by another, and the feel-good factor was all present and correct. I've put the porcini mushrooms in to hot water to soak, but may have to take a rain check on the rest of the ingredients. In the meantime, Hugo and I are missing Blakeney and the lovely walks along the creeks and inlets. We've added a few pics to cheer us up.

Me and Hugo at friend's holiday barn. Prince Harry came for tea once.

Taking A Break

My exhaustion is lifting, and my headache with it. This holiday is doing me good. I suggested we came here after being hooked by the TV documentary Normal For Norfolk. I wanted to find Wiveton Hall which I must have passed unknowingly dozens of times staying in Blakeney, and maybe spot Desmond and his ancient mother Chloe. We had planned to meet a couple of friends there for lunch tomorrow, but they cried off after both went down with heavy colds. So we decided to walk to the estate today, a lovely path that goes right from our hotel through greensward on the edge of Cley marshes. No dogs, the NT signpost said firmly as we came through the gate, but we ignored that; this injunction couldn't possibly mean Hugo. No sign of Desmond, but we ended up having a cream tea in his cafe, one of the nicest I've ever had. Warm, crumbly scones, home-made jam from the farm's own strawberries, and thick, thick clotted cream. Loose-leaf tea. A meal made in heaven.

Over the past week several people have stopped to pet Hugo, admire his beauty and chat to us about him. Most have thought he was a greyhound. And so it was again at lunch today in the Victoria Arms on the Holkham estate. Two ladies sat across from us in the conservatory and asked the usual question: Is he a rescue? It was only a while later that we realised they had made the usual mistake. As they left they stopped to chat again, and I told them he is a whippet. They were amazed, almost disbelieving, still full of praise for his good manners and his looks. He nuzzled gently stroking hands and gazed lovingly upwards. We've thought of a way round this common misconception. A recorded message stored somewhere in his collar, so that when people approach I activate it and he seems to say "I'm a whippet, not a greyhound!" That'll learn 'em.

Summer Hols

I made a mistake and booked the wrong hotel. "Where are you staying?" asked Judy when I told her we were heading to Blakeney to catch the Indian summer I was sure we were due just as soon as the schools went back. I told her the Blakeney Manor Hotel, when her eyebrows shot up and she said "Oh we never stay there. We prefer the Blakeney Hotel." I stopped with my fork halfway to my mouth, which stayed open. "What?" I asked, perplexed. "Isn't the Manor the lovely one by the quay?" Well, it turned out I'd misremembered which one I'd stayed at a few times before, but when I tried to rectify the situation not only did the right hotel have no rooms but it didn't take dogs. That settled it then. We were stuck with the Manor.

Manor Hotel, Blakeney

You can tell a hotel by its reception staff first, and then by its food. The former were well meaning but shabby, the latter merely shabby. We weren't allowed in the restaurant because of Hugo, so we sat in the uninviting bar eating a lacklustre, poorly-cooked meal that showed no sign of any professional input. Some people might get upset under these circumstances - dry sea bass on soggy stir-fried veggies, and raw salmon steak in a creamy sauce - but we saw the funny side and laughed at everything. Even the little tubs of Golden Shred marmalade for breakfast had us in stitches. Who knew they even made these any more? The major plus was the bedroom, and Hugo quickly found a corner for his bed and settled in.

On the way up to the coast we hit the jackpot when lunchtime was fast approaching and we spotted a sign to a Heritage Village. As soon as we drove up beside the large green with its pretty estate houses and gardens I knew it had been the setting for The Go-Between. Here Julie Christie was discovered in old age by Leo as he tried to make sense of what had happened during that golden summer he spent with his schoolfriend before war changed everything. And I was right! One of my favourite films, and books of course. The village has not been added to for over a hundred years, and all the buildings have been beautifully preserved. We found lunch in an old tea shop, then visited the massive church where an organist was practising. This church served all of 100 people, so its size must have been more to do with prestige than necessity. Those were the days. And still are for some.

Heydon Village

Julie Christie with her dog

  
Today we walked in the grounds of Holkham Hall after a visit to the beach. On the sands Hugo encountered that rare thing, a dog who could outrun him, and the pair of them raced around for several minutes, the lurcher always a few feet ahead of the astonished Hugo. It was poetry in motion, and lots of people watched the speed of them, and the beauty of the boy. He gave up first, the lurcher obviously relieved at the reprieve, and came back to walk quietly and sedately by our sides. He wasn't especially exhausted, so I think he was humiliated to find himself at a disadvantage for the first time in the speed stakes. Since then he has virtually ignored every dog we have passed. Oh Hugo, king of the racetrack, you had your nose put out of joint today. The forecast had been for rain, but apart from  two short-lived showers we had sunshine all day. Lunch at the Hoste Arms in Burnham Market was a delightful treat.

I love this part of the world. I first came on my own in 1971 when I was 23, and stayed in this same hotel which I remember as comfortable and traditional. I was thrilled by the village, the creeks filled with small boats and families playing in the sushine, and the long walks along the Peddars Way. I returned many times but not for some years, and nothing has changed except the hotel. I'm sure there was proper marmalade in 1971.

Heartened

A funny day. I came down this morning to discover that Hugo had done his shopping again, browsing in my larder and laying his purchases out in his bed. I had not only closed the larder door when I went upstairs last night but had put his bed against it. The canny little monkey had pushed this away and assembled two tins of sardines and one of mackerel (this bought in error), and a new, now empty 150g packet of almonds. I was planning to use the nuts for one of Jamie's new 5-ingredient recipes, that of frangipane puff pastry tart, a delicious-looking thing made from freshly-ground almonds. Thanks Hugo. And good to see his digestive system is working well. No sign of him feeling poorly, and the almonds have begun to work their way through. I always check the state of play.

We started the morning with a run at the Woodland Trust place, the sun so hot I had to peel my layers off, scents of blackberries, apples, the earth and the cut grass floating dizzyingly past our noses. Leaves are beginning to turn from green to the autumn shades of gold and tan, and there are scarlet berries on the mountain ash and on the wild roses. I took my time, Hugo running on ahead enjoying the power of his little body, and then coming back to find me. At any crossroads or junction in the tracks he stands and waits for me to decide, alert as a gazelle for my signal to proceed. It would simply be impossible to have a dog like this and not let him have his freedom to race and explore. I pity any dogs who don't get these daily opportunities.

Next Hugo and I headed across the lane to man the church for the Suffolk Churches Annual Bike ride. I was relieving Sara and her daughter Grace, and as usual I stared in rapture at Sara's beauty. I know for a fact that had Paris set eyes on her the Trojan Wars would never have happened. Agamemnon would not have needed to slaughter his daughter Iphegenia, Clytemnestra wouldn't have had to murder him, nor Orestes slay her. Elektra could have taken up knitting, or become a nun. Greek mythology would have fizzled out. We chatted for a while, and then Sara told me how much better suited to me is Hugo than the pup I once briefly had. "You're so tall and slim and elegant, and Hugo is tall and slim and elegant too," she said, stroking him admiringly. "Whenever I see you together I always think you make a wonderful pair." Well, my jaw dropped open, and I told Grace that Hugo and I loved her mother, who is my new best friend. Beauty and kindness, what a combination. The next shock came later when Daniel relieved me, and we reminisced about the donkey paddock that is now my garden. I told him what a slog it had been creating it but that I feel I am there now. "Well you're looking good on it," he said. There must be something in the atmosphere of the church. Patrick had put a recording of Byrd's Mass for 5 Voices, sung by the Sixteen, on repeat play, and in that setting - as it would be anywhere - the music was simply sublime. Perhaps that's what skewed everyone's vision.

I spent the afternoon listening to Strauss lieder at Snape, ushering a concert given at the end of a week of masterclasses by the Austrian mezzo Angelika Kirchschlage. The music was gorgeous, and the young singers at the beginning of their careers are a talented lot. What a way to spend an afternoon. And finally the elegant boy and I had a walk down the lane as the sun moved towards the horizon. The evening light these past couple of days has been extraordinary, luminous and lucid one minute, a tangle of oranges and crimson with swirling grey cloud formations the next. There was no wind and I didn't need a jacket. In this early evening stillness I felt the old magic wrap itself around me, and I suddenly knew that winter, that dreaded period when you enter a sort of limbo and pray for escape, would be more than bearable. Because it is the countryside that buoys me up when times are difficult, the power of the natural world that stimulates and thrills no matter how harsh the conditions, how short the daylight hours. Living in rural England, in rural Suffolk, feels like the best gift I could be given. I feel privileged to wander this land that has been trodden on for countless generations, across the lane from a 15th-century church that is mentioned in the Domesday Book. To feast my eyes on the landscape, and relish the silence and the aloneness it offers most of the time. I could not be anywhere else now.

Pests

Our daily walk down the lane takes us past a very productive blackberry bush, and it is here that Hugo, nowadays always on the extension lead lest he hurtles after a hare, stops and waits. He loves fruit - apples, plums, anything really - and so I pick one for him and one for me, then another each, and then another. Sated, we trot on. It's been a very productive year for fruit, and already the freezer is stacked full of plums from the garden and blackberries from the bottom field. For picking the latter I left the boy at home. The last time we worked the bushes down there he disappeared around a bend and the next thing I heard was a scream that went on and on. When I dashed after him to investigate I found him shaking a very large hare to death. Horrible, but it's inbred in him. He won't get another chance. Anyway, crumbles and pies will grace the winter table when visitors come to stay, especially a caramelised plum flan created by Nigel Slater that resurfaces every year.

I don't normally buy biscuits, but at work we all find we need them after seeing a client or two, and I've started getting them in from time to time. My chosen variety is from the Co-op's Truly Irresistible range, the chocolate and ginger ones. They are all the brand claims for them, delicious cookies stuffed with fresh ginger and lumps of chocolate. I don't eat them in a normal way, but first try to nibble the pieces of chocolate that stick out a little, and then gnaw into the bits I can see but that don't protrude. Then, as my heart starts to race with anticipation and greed, I break them open and pick out the chocolate with my teeth. I end up with the lid of the biscuit tin scattered with small lumps which I then eat slowly, crumb by crumb. Two, I allow myself at any one time, but I don't always listen and have had as many as four in one sitting. But when that happens I only eat the chocolate and leave the crumbs for later. Such are the thrilling activities that make up my life. You get your pleasures where you can.

As Hugo and I lazed on the kitchen sofa yesterday, me reading and him dozing, we were both startled into alertness by the sudden sound of galloping inside the skirting board just behind us. I leapt up and called him to follow, but he was too comfortable. Shoving him off, I hauled the sofa out but could see nothing. When I swept the cobwebs and dust away I found a couple of tiny poos. In the garden room beyond were a few more. So it wasn't just one mouse then, but a whole tribe of meece. I enquired via the online community website about someone to remove them, and got some very interesting suggestions. Surprisingly, to me anyway, the majority were more concerned with the welfare and happiness of the mice than my sensibilities. They were just looking for a warm home for the winter, I was told, and what harm were they doing me? One man advised getting a humane trap and offloading them several miles away. But how would they fare then, alone and far from home, scared and lonely? The local response to other matters has been equally surprising. One man wanting someone to scythe a patch of nettles in his garden was lectured about the benefits of nettles to wildlife, with many pleas to leave them be. Who are these people? They mainly come from Dennington and Badingham, but are they true locals or twee incomers? Surely Suffolk-born country folk aren't going all precious about the evils of a rural life? Haven't they spent their lives annihilating everything that moved?

Dog He Would A Running Go

There's only one thing worse than not finishing the Saturday crossword, and that's finishing it. The delicious tussle, the brain-racking, the allowing of your focus to slur slightly from time to time, so that your imagination takes over a bit and words pop into your head, usually the right ones. It all comes to an end when your solve the last clue and you're suddenly shut out, like when you finish a wonderful book. Today's was a bugger, so much so that I went right through it and could not get one. I wasn't alarmed. This was a tricky setter, and once you get inside his or her mind you start to penetrate it. It was clever, not just opaque, too clever in parts, but working out the difficult ones is especially satisfying.

Hugo and I sat in the summer house watching torrents of rain crash onto the washing, and the umbrella, and the lounger I had been slouching in. I had planned to do some weeding in a desultory sort of way, my new MO, and had finished one bed when it began. Just a few drops, I said to myself, and joined Hugo where he lay slumbering on his padded furry bed. But the heavens opened, as they did yesterday, and they stayed open. Luckily I had the crossword with me because it was a while before it cleared. When I finish tasks before the rain starts, or get the washing in nice and dry, I feel as if I have cheated the elements. When it happens the other way around, I feel cheated. Grrrr, I seethed, grrrr! The forecast said some inland parts of Suffolk might get a soaking but it would be mainly dry. I think it was only over Cransford.

Earlier we had taken our first walk at Pound Farm since Hugo was attacked there two weeks ago. His wound is healing nicely, and I was desperate to let him have a run. But as we approached the car park I started to feel sick, and I realised I was terrified that my precious little boy would be hurt again. He seemed impervious to the memory and galloped off as usual. We went with a friend for security, and our two dogs are old mates. It took a while for me to relax though, and when we encountered other dogs towards the end of the walk I was hyper alert. He had so much fun, racing around, teasing the others, flying at top speed. It was a while before I noticed that one of his gaiters was missing, and when I went to look for it I could find no trace. I'll have another go when the grass is dry. But for now he's back to full health and happiness, and that's all a mother could ask for.