Prize Prig

I went to bed full of excitement, dreaming of the pain au chocolate I was planning to have for breakfast. I know this sounds sad, but I have eschewed sweet and fattening foods for several weeks now as I'm determined to lose my flabby middle. I haven't craved them, but I was really looking forward to this Sunday morning treat. And it didn't disappoint. That's the thing about treats. Because they are not everyday things but special, there is much more appreciation of them, more meaning attached. Anyone can guzzle chocolate all day. But the feel and taste of it on your tongue after a long time is unsurpassable.

I've been running a book on my dahlias to see whether the ones I dug up in the autumn after the first frosts, then dried and cleaned before and cossetting in the garage would outperform those I left in the ground. Given the terrible winter I would have put money on the indoor ones, except I'm not a betting man. But blow me if the five large pink ones I left in the perennial bed haven't all sprouted, much faster than the lifted ones and with 100% success. So far I'm still waiting for one Bishop of Llandaff and two Bishop of Yorks. That's decided me for future years. It's a big messy hassle taking up the tubers when the pre-winter ground is muddy, wet and cold, but it looks like it's not necessary. I'll make my mind up when I see the relative quality of the blooms, but it's looking good. One less job of putting the garden to bed for the long drab months.

Every year a large group of young people pass my house on a marathon trek as part of their Duke of Edinburgh Award. I believe they walk from Bardsey, or maybe it's Blaxhall, presumably staying at youth hostels. Four years running I've been here and watched them straggle past. But how my heart has gone out to them. The first year they slogged along in desperate weather, rainwater dripping down their faces and inside their hoods which were being battered by the rain, heavy rucksacks weighing them down. For the next two years the weather was scorching, positively Saharan, and they dragged themselves along under a relentless sun, stripped down to T-shirts with sweaters and jackets tied around their waists. On these occasions their puce faces dripped sweat. And blow me if this year's group didn't choose Wednesday to do the hike, and we don't need to be reminded of what a horrible day that was. I really feel for them, gutsy kids that they are. I'm hoping for more temperate weather next year, a warm, breezy day perhaps when their suffering can be limited to foot blisters and aching backs. And I can just watch them with pleasure.

Trials

I met Sarah on the lane this evening as Hugo and I were returning from a walk, and we exchanged pleasantries. Or raptures really. It was a still, warm evening, clear sky, sun slowly going down but nowhere near the horizon. New to the village like me, but not to Suffolk, she feels the same as I do about this place. We both had those sort of slow, sated smiles that signal deep contentment, and we gazed around us and sighed like lovesick heifers. We might even have been a bit smug. I tried to do some more gardening when we got back, but Hugo was having none of it. I offered to let him goin, to sleep on the sofa as he likes to in the early evening, but he was having none of it. He stood patiently and politely beside me until I gave in and came indoors. Then he followed, climbed on the sofa and went out for the count. Funny dog.

Yesterday I caught him drinking from a container of not just stagnant but fetid water, too late to stop him. And today he has the runs. Poor little chap. I had to leave him home alone while I went to work, Roger still recovering from a stay in hospital, and Penny off for a mammogram. It was 4 and a half hours by the time I got back, and he was overjoyed to see me. He's not allowed to jump up, but he did everything but. I marvel at his stoicism because, straight out on a walk, he produced more evidence immediately of the state of his guts.

All of the above notwithstanding, I weeded and cleared the raised bed behind the pond in readiness for planting summer bulbs and seeds. But I gulped a hot cup of tea while David was here, and sitting hunched on the ground while I worked, I must have trapped some wind or twisted something inside. Soon I was rolling in agony on the garden room floor while Hugo thought it was a game and kept butting me. Eventually he lay down beside me, but the pains persisted. I'm still feeling sore. I already had huge sympathy for him, but now it's increased many-fold. Pain. It's a bummer.

I posted this photo yesterday but forgot to label it. So here it is again.

Sable whippet couchant

The Joy of Work

It's probably just as well that I'm working tomorrow: when I'm busy in the garden I have no brake, no ability to say "enough is enough" and stop. I'm not overdoing it exactly, no hoeing or digging has happened, but I have worked my way around the large lower bed on my bottom and weeded with a trowel. It's much easier on the body to do it this way, slower but less taxing. Yet even so I ache a bit this evening, so a break from the job will be good. As soon as I get home though I'll be back out there. I love it! Sometimes I can't believe I'm lucky enough to live here, and when I take a short rest and look around me it seems like the most perfect place on earth. I get my energy from the countryside and the garden, my peace of mind. When it's warm and quiet, as it was this evening, with no wind and just the song of a blackbird to serenade me, I feel very close to a state of ecstasy. I laugh at myself in such moments, but it's no exaggeration.

Every time I get up and move around the garden, Hugo follows me. He drags himself to his feet, walks beside me, and when he is sure I'm going to be stationary for a while he plops himself down. It's touching, but quite unnecessary. "I'm just putting these weeds in the bin," I tell him. "I'll be right back. You stay there." And he gives me a look, whippet-face, and lies back resignedly. But the next time I stir he's up again, plodding along beside me. I'd love to know what he's thinking. But here he is in Cambridge, sunning himself on a shelf barely wider than himself, content to be by the water and to watch what's going on. I know I shouldn't boast, but is he beautiful or what?

Contrasts

At 4pm today the sun came out and I did a tour of the wind-battered garden. Not much damage apart from one delphinium that has fallen before the onslaught and a few tired looking climbers. The delphinium doesn't look broken, though, so I shall tie it up again tomorrow when the good weather returns. The pond is finally full and I can remove the hoses from the water butts and let them fill up again naturally. I can't wait to get out there and start work on clearing the big shrubbery before planting all my new purchases out. No distractions for me now. It's getting serious. Already the front is filling up and spilling over the path. In winter it is impossible to imagine this but it happens very quickly. I returned indoors just in time to watch the sky darken and rain hammer down for about 10 minutes before disappearing again, for good this time I hope.

I've been in Cambridge for a few days, leaving Suffolk in buffeting gales and cascading rain and waking up to the bluest skies and hot sun. What contrasts we are experiencing. Morning tea and company in bed are perennial treats, and Hugo made the most of an invitation to join us, burrowing into bodies and stretching himself across us democratically. While my hosts worked at their "letters" in the afternoon in their various studies I curled up with Bruce Chatwin and On the Black Hill, and time could have stood still or rushed past for all I was aware of it. At 6pm we convened around the dining table with a glass of wine, and it's this time I love the best as we toss ideas around and share our thoughts about books and writers and everything.

I called in to see David on the way home and was pleased to see him looking well, working at the crossword as I would do later. He said he was OK, that life had to go on, but of course he's lonely, and sad. It's a terrible thing to lose a partner after many years together, especially one as  lively and companionable as Judy. She filled the space they occupied, and looked after him with love and good humour. The difference will be enormous, but I hope he finds a rhythm to his life, and keeps going. I told him not to get up when I arrived and left, but he gave me a wry smile and his eyes twinkled as he said he hoped it would never come to those courtesies being abandoned and affection being ignored. I hope so too. His charm and beautiful manners are part of his very great appeal.

Passing (from April 29th)

April is almost over, only one day left. How can this be possible? We have ached for its bloom and benefice all through the long winter, and apart from a few odd unseasonally hot days it has been a grim disappointment. Seeds remain unsown, plantlings unplanted. Tomatoes can't get going, and nor can sweet peas. Who in their right mind would put anything delicate into this cold ground, to be whipped and blasted by high winds and bitter rain? Apart from putting out these new additions I am fairly well ahead of myself in the garden. Beds are mainly cleared of weeds, and pots emptied and replanted. But what will be the fate of the three blossoming blueberry bushes, rescued from a bed where they did not thrive but now at risk of losing their nascent fruit? So many questions, so much regret. The weather will not revert to spring until Thursday at the latest, but there is hope that the days will warm up enough for the tender things to get a grip and develop into the lovely things they are meant to be, and the nights won't knock them back again. We live in hope. We can do nothing else.

We had a good walk at the college grounds this morning, Hugo's first proper run for a week. I think it is safe to say he has recovered. We probably had the best hour of the day, but every cloud has a silver lining. Being unable to spend time outside, I've turned my attention to housework. Once I set my mind to it I enjoy it, though pushing my hoover around the carpets is much harder than hoeing.With all the ironing safely put away, the sitting room and my bedrooms spring cleaned and shining, I have only the kitchen to do. But would it make any sense with a dog in the house to scrub the busiest floor before the weather settles and muddy paws are a thing of the past? Not at all. Something else to look forward to.