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.