The Times They Are A'Changing

It seems that November is the most depressing month of the year for a great many people. As soon as the clocks go back, away from British Summer Time, and the days start to get perceptably shorter, it seems that gloom sets in. In one of his brilliant medical research programmes for TV, Michael Mosely investigates this situation. He starts from his own reaction to November, and his recent diagnosis of mild SAD. "I'm aware that I become more introspective," he records. Well Michael, I think that's a very natural response to the approaching long nights and short days of winter when time slows down and outdoor activities become more limited. From time immemorial our foreparents must have experienced this. It's part of the natural cycle when the cold and the dark force us indoors, and inside our heads. I think we should take advantage of this opportunity to become more introspective, and take stock, recharge our batteries or at least let them run down. Distracting ourselves with bright lights and constant entertainment goes against the grain. I'm exhilarated by the onset of autumn, not just the changing colours but the sense of the world getting ready to hibernate before emerging rejuvenated in the spring. It's a time of joy for me, a sense of pure, calm happiness. I sympathise with those who don't share this feeling, who struggle with depression at this time of year. But I wonder if they are fighting against what is natural, and fear it instead of embracing it. Just saying.

The little bird who flew into my pill dish last week, recovering outside on the doormat

The garden is getting ready to sleep the winter away, and most of the necessary jobs have been done. Yesterday I cut down the dahlias and dug up the tubers to store in a warm place for the winter. Normally I would wait for the first frosts to cut them down and blacken the foliage beforte lifting them, but a friend scoffed at this idea at the weekend. "You could wait until February for that to happen," she laughed. Well, erm, yes, though usually not that long. But her gardener has lifted and stored all of hers already, as usual, and this early disturbance apparently does them no harm. You live and learn.

Sweetly scented winter flowers

I seem to have ended up with an awful lot of viburnams, especially the winter-flowering kind, and already these are bestowing their welcome beauty on the garden. I might have ten, though I haven't counted them. The big one in the front garden is really lovely, the scent from the blooms wafting a long way in all directions. Yesterday I watched a pair of cyclists go past, then stop and come back to find the source of the smell. They stood beside the shrub for several minutes inhaling with pleasure, something I do myself every time I go near. The helebores are flowering too, and the mildish weather has brought new deep pink blooms on the small carnation behind the pond, and a new growth of anenomies, fuschias and roses. It's all very cheering, and there's no sign of the fat lady getting her last song ready yet. Long may this display of loveliness last.

Round and Round

I like the idea of recycling things, rubbish as well as useful items, and for my part I've vowed not to buy new things again. Apart from clothes obviously, bedding and towels, food. Last week I bought a pine chest of drawers from Marlesford Mill, my favourite local antique centre, and it fits perfectly into its new location in the small bedroom. Today I sold a beech table that used to be my desk, and a kneeler seat, neither of which I need or want any more. I put a couple of cards on the Co-op noticeboard, and within 24 hours they'd gone. It's interesting that the buyers were both well-heeled, middle class people who could easily afford to buy new. But why do that when there are perfectly good used things going for a fraction of the price?

Without a desk I can't call the Room With No Name a study anymore, so will have to rename it. Nor is there anywhere to sit my printer, or my triple in-tray. With the money I made from my sales I'll find something more suitable for the space. In the meantime I've finally got round to painting the settle that has sat in there for a couple of years. It had been done in a distressed grey, but this style holds no appeal for me. I've found an interesting colour, Inca Orange, or terracotta in layman's language. It's bright, louder than I thought it would be, but I'm not going to change it. It's better than the first colour I tried which turned out to be a terrifyingly vivid sunburst.

This morning I was shopping in Waitrose when I noticed a young man, early 40s perhaps, pushing a trolley with three under 4s in it. A small blonde girl sat in the seat, a little boy was in the trolley itself, and a baby girl, maybe a year old, was strapped into the baby perch. I noticed them first because the older children were quite vocal, calling out in squawky voices when they spotted cauliflower, broccoli, carrots. The baby hung perilously out of its seat over the edge of the trolley, placidly chewing on a strap. Their father was tall, good looking, wearing khaki shorts and sandals. What was most striking was his patience, his unflappability as he negotiated the shelves, discussing his shopping list with his children. They were on the same route as me so I encountered them again and again. Not once did he get irritated, or even seem harried. I couldn't stop looking, smiling at the sight. The little group with this calm and friendly father made me happy. Outside as I put my shopping in my car I saw him load his children one by one into a huge people carrier, followed by the shopping. The vehicle showed it belonged to Easton Grange, and when I got home I googled it. Wow! This is the most beautiful house, outbuildings and grounds that I have seen, on the road between Framlingham and Easton. It's immaculate, gorgeous, and I've often wondered who lives there. Turns out it's a wedding venue, top bracket luxurious. This young couple renovated the old house and dilapidated farm buildings into something really special, and now run a successful business. Knowing all of this, seeing the young man and his children, somehow made my day.

It was nearly curtains for the tiny blue tit who flew in through my open kitchen door and nearly knocked itself out on the window. I found it sitting in the tiny bowl that holds my vitamin pills, beak open, quite stunned. I gently placed the bowl outside the door and watched to see what happened. After 10 minutes it recovered and flew away. But not before it rendered my pills quite inedible. I threw them away. End of story. We all lived happily ever after.

Like A Magnet

I'm so glad to have Nick coming every week to work in the garden. He's vey skilled and knowledgeable, and he doesn't need supervising. Yesterday he planted and transplanted several things whose positions needed tweaking, and he removed the spreading clump of Japanese anenomies that I foolishly brought from the front two years ago to fill out the perennial bed. These plants, along with their friends the echinops, are as bad as Russian vine: give them an inch and they take a mile, burrowing under the ground and emerging in all directions to start again. It's a pity the anenomies are so pretty. They've been moved to the area behind the summerhouse where they can't spread themselves out too much. Nick then continued clearing weeds from the bottom of the garden, though we don't always agree on their entitlement to exist. He knows all their names, and unless they are horribly invasive he welcomes them all. Yesterday he persuaded me to taste something - speedwell? - and it was as good as watercress. He knows all about birds too, and animals, my own personal Chris Packham.

My plumber, Neil, turned up yesterday to discuss putting in a much more powerful extractor fan to replace the one he installed with the new shower. It fails to extract, and with a north-facing room jutting out of the house, lingering steam is not a good idea. As we chatted he showed me his copper bracelet with six magnets, and he reckons that in just 8 weeks it has massively reduced the pain and stiffness in his knee, his elbow and his wrist on his right side. With his new-found mobility he was walking the dog more, and that had lead to him buying a fitbit, to record his calorie intake and energy expended every day. Along with the improvement to his joints he has lost several pounds and plans to continue monitoring everything and getting fitter. I was impressed, and have ordered a magnetic bracelet of my own. It's my wrists and thumb joints mainly. I reckon that moving house 10 times in the last 30 years, and carrying thousands of books to shelves from packing cases and back again has buggered them up. Not to mention gardening. We'll see. Neil bought his at a country fair for £40, down from £60, but I've seen the same ones on Amazon for well under £20 (don't tell him). I've been told about the efficacy of these magnets before, but stored the information away for a rainy day. And today? It's lashing.

Ophelia

The sky is an ominous yellow, and the wind is getting up. The margins of Hurricane Ophelia are scraping past Suffolk, and it's definitely not an evening for a walk. Hard to believe that it was scorching in the garden yesterday, and sitting in my lounger reading the Sunday papers I actually got a touch of sunstroke, even with a hat on. I crawled into the summerhouse feeling sick, and slept for nearly two hours. It was glorious again today until the atmosphere suddenly changed. Skylarks soaring and dipping in amorous pairs filled the sky with song, and if they are low in numbers elsewhere in the UK they're not here. What ill luck, though, that I was at the lower end of the field when the grumpy farmer attacked the hedges again, including the field side of mine. I couldn't see if he was slicing back the top or not, but when I got back to the house it was clear that he was not. He had disappeared again, but none of the tops have been done so he will return. Maybe next time I can catch him and stick a tenner in his face.

I finally understand the whippet stare. It's what they do when they need a pee, or want feeding. Normal dogs would run to the door and whine or get excited when they need to go out, and circle their food bowl when they are hungry, but not whippets. They stand stock still in front of you and stare. They do this until you ask them what is wrong, and then try to second guess them since they won't show you. I used to be puzzled until I read I read about it. It's unsettling, the absolute concentration they focus on you, but I think it's rather superior way of communicating once you've found the translation. These breed characteristics are fascinating, and Hugo is typical in every way. I'm thinking of taking him to the agility classes run by my chiropractor. When he's at the bottom of the garden and I call him he's taken to flying over the lavender bed as he rushes to me. He's a natural leaper, and I think he'd enjoy being put through his paces. I'll stand in front of him in a minute and stare at him, see what he thinks. If he expects me to be telepathic, I'll see how good he is.

Finding The Positive

I've done some gentle pottering in the garden, for its good and that of my soul, and though I'm a bit tired I'm not exhausted. I try not to think of how far ahead I would be if only I hadn't lost the best part of 10 weeks, and instead concentrate on what I do have. My neighbours, attached to me on one side, pointed out in conversation that they don't have sun and light in their house like I have, facing east and north as most of their rooms do, and I know that if I lived there I might as well curl up and die. As it is I have sun in most of my rooms, but especially my kitchen, all day long (provided it's shining of course) and the huge windows give me a vast view of the sky and trees across the lane. At night time, if I haven't closed the blinds, I stare out at Venus, and when the sky is clear the moon is a luminous companion. So those are a few positives to start with.

It's hedge cutting time, and the landscape is being transformed from shaggy to very neat. I've never been sure who owns the long hedge down the side of my garden, but between us the farmer and I have kept it trimmed, me lowering it by around 20 feet in my first year here, to let the evening light into the garden, and her cutting back the year's new growth in the autumn. Alys is a good neighbour, and considerate when managing her fields. Most of her workers are friendly and nice, but one of them is not, and he seems to be on hedge duty this year. As he worked his way in his tractor along the field beside me I went up to him, money in hand, to point out the new contours of my hedge and ask him to follow them. But he ignored me and drove on past me! I stood for a moment with my mouth open, then decided to try again the next time he came near. He must have expected this because he moved to another part of the land and didn't return. I know he will cut the hedge, but it changes in height at one point and I'd like it to remain so. He's a curmudgeonly man, though I always smile and greet him when I see him. I shall persist. I shall succeed.

Hugo is oblivious to my miniature trials, and wends his happy way through his day without a care in the world. Mealtimes are at the top of his agenda, followed swiftly by sleep. He eats breakfast at 8am, and then makes it very clear that he wants his supper between 3 and 4pm. I used to try to follow the timetable given me by the rescue people, but there's no point in insisting on an arbitrary schedule. Once he's had this second meal he goes into a deep, deep sleep that lasts until I tell him we're going walkies. Home again, he turns in for the night and goes out for the count again. He never demands more food, and once he's greeted me in the morning at 7ish he sleeps again until 8am. Extraordinary dog, a real couch potato. When he's awake he's lively and energetic, but it doesn't last long. He's no trouble at all, a solid, warm shape on the sofa beside me twitching and jerking, occasionally crying out as he dreams, undemanding, sweet natured and polite. If that's not a positive then I don't know what might count as one.

That's Life

It's about time I updated my blog, which I haven't had the mental or physical energy to think about. I'm not there yet in terms of recovery, but I live in hope, some days more hopeful than others. Given how sedentary I've been forced to be, I was delighted to come across my old microscope last week, and I set it up immediately. There was no problem looking for specimens to examine, the windowsills being full of dead flies and wasps. There were even mouse poos, and dog hairs. Of course there were: no one has done much in the way of cleaning lately. It's not exactly a pigsty, but someone with OCD would rush for the yellow Marigolds before you could say "disgusting".

I spent an utterly fascinating hour peering at wings, thoraxes, tiny immaculate spiky hairs that the naked eye could not even imagine. No matter how small the specimen, it was made up of exactly the same detail as we are, or anything is, perfect but in miniature. Miniscule filigree on an apparently transparent wing, noses covered in weeny sensitive cells that seem in close-up to belong to a boar, or a cow. It was mesmerising, but squinting into the eyepiece was very uncomfortable, and I could see why research scientists have one for each eye. I'm so glad I rediscovered it, though, and will keep it going now. Blood, spittle, skin, nails, a salt grain, sugar, eggshell - everything is constructed according to a geometric pattern that is simply marvellous to examine. What it all means is quite beyond me. Creationist or evolutionist, it's a miracle whichever way you look.

I drove through Framlingham the other day and nearly lost control of the car. There in front of me was a shop being refitted, as what? A tattoo parlour and vaping lounge. In Framlingham. I really couldn't believe my eyes. I can only wonder at the reaction of the local denizens who, on the whole, belong to the well-heeled class, many of them comfortably retired. Apart from mothers - and the occasional father - who drive their children to the town's primary school, most people tend to walk, and this shop will be unavoidable for them. I'm tempted to hang about outside when it's finished, to see just who is going to use it. I have no patience with vapers, who seem to me like toddlers with dummies. If you need to smoke, then use a proper fag or just stop it, that's my view. But who will the tattooist's customers be? Smart grannies looking for a discreet dove on their shoulder blade in solidarity with their grandchildren maybe. Or their husbands who have always hankered after a naked lady on their bicep and know that it's unlikely to be spotted. The mind boggles.

Not wanted, dead or alive

My wisteria has finally been cut back and the mouse problem solved. But I was distressed to discover that the pigeon nest had been completely revealed and the two big featherless chicks had no protection from the elements apart from Ma. I found the man on the neighbourhood website, and he had a long ladder and could do the work quickly. But why did he remove their cover when I particularly asked him to leave them alone? It seems an act of unnecessary cruelty. I hoped their feathers would arrive soon and they could fly off. Go south, my young friends, and find some sunshine, I told them. It's what I would do. But when I took a photo of the nest today I saw that one of them is dead and the other already a fledgling, unconcernedly preening its new down. I'll never know what happened, but I'll have to get rid of the body, and I'll make sure they never come back.

October 2014, lawn just laid

Other half

October 2015

October 2016

October 2017

Timeless

It's October now, and the air has turned quite wintry. Strong winds from the west haven't helped, but wrap up warmly when you venture out and you can't help feeling exhilarated. The leaves are just beginning to turn, in this corner of Suffolk anyway, and there are few on the ground. The drainage pipes in the field behind me have been laid, and the earth raked over, a job that took a whole day to complete in a slow-moving tractor. You'd never know how disruptive the pipework had been. Other fields around me are already showing green shoots of wheat and barley, but mine was delayed and so is yet brown, smooth and bare. This morning Hugo and I walked the whole way around it for the first time in a couple of months, a renewed joy in itself. And as we neared the first corner I looked back to see my house. The freshly-turned earth, the old farm labourer's cottage with its red-tiled outbuilding jutting comfortably onto the land - it all looks so timeless, as if you could blink and the 20th century had not yet happened. Living in a city or town, apart from the variations in temperature you are barely aware of the real impact of the seasons, the absolute changes to the terrain, the spaces around you. But in the country you are surrounded by the daily signs of the passing year, the gentle clues of the coming one. For me a newly-ploughed field is the quintessence of life, the people who work it, the food it will grow, the husbandry that will keep it fertile. The methods are different, but the function and appearance are the same. The sight, mixed with the coolness in the air, the heaviness of the sky, never fails to fill me with elation, and awe too. I'm succoured by it, sustained.

The far ...

... and the near

I'm currently trying to complete two application forms, one for an Irish passport to which I am entitled thanks to two Irish parents, and the other for tickets to see Lohengrin at Bayreuth next year. The latter is completely in German, which is double-Dutch to me. The former asks questions I don't understand, and therefore don't know how to answer. Writing my name and address in a blue biro which I thought was black, I have to go over the words again with the proper pen. Nothing is straightforward. I put them to one side and instead brought in some logs for the woodburner tonight. Lighting the fire in the evening is a well-established routine now and I look forward to the ritual and the result. Just another of the pleasures of winter.