Season of Mists

This morning I gazed out of my open study window for a long time, captivated by the view as always. A slight mist in the air gauzed the far distance where the treetops seemed to float above the ground. I watched a tractor plough the third field away from me, down the hill and up the other side. Yesterday a host of farm machinery dug up and collected the sugar beet to be ferried away to the British Sugar factory in Bury St Edmunds. At this time of year the Suffolk lanes are covered in mud. And now the silent tractor turns the earth from green to brown, drawing a massive flock of seagulls from the coast to feast on the worms. I can hear no sound at this distance, perhaps half a mile. Being deaf must be like this, knowing there is noise but not getting it.

Brown appearing in the distance where the tractor ploughs

But this morning my thoughts were not just with the tractor and the view. I was pondering on the chance that brought me to this marvellous spot, this wonderful house. Superlatives could spill from my fingers with exuberant abundance and not one of them would be an exaggeration. I try to find meaning in my coming here. It is the most perfect place, for me. Under any other circumstances I would be properly happy. As it is I struggle daily with the flood of despair and loneliness that threatens to submerge me. Uprooted peremptorily from the life I thought was permanent, separated from the person I continue to love despite everything, despite EVERYTHING, I try to find answers. Was this house given to me as a substitute for what I have lost? Must I accept it as the new focus of my life, and gratefully acknowledge its bounties? I will. I do. But how can you tell your heart to stop loving? Sooner tell it to stop beating. How can you quell the visceral craving to have just one more look, one more touch, a last smile?

It will not happen, and the house is a source of joy. It dawned on me only this week as I stomped around the garden in my wellies, content in the moment, that we were two very different beings, one at home in the country, the other needing the stimulation and amenities of the town. I search my memory for clues to how the rural ideal won out. There were no arguments, no discussion even. We shared the same dream. But in the end it suited only one of us, and now perhaps we are both where we were always meant to be. There's a sort of symmetry in that, a kind of rightness which my rational mind approves of. How could I wish it otherwise? But I do. Oh, in countless different ways I do.

Three French Hens, Six Geese a Laying

I haven't had an egg in weeks and I fancied a couple for lunch. Now that I can poach them in the microwave in an instant it's a breeze. But the cupboard was bare so I nipped off down the lane to buy some. Luckily I was in the car as the "nip" turned into the grand tour. Have the hens stopped laying already? Sign after sign after sign I passed, all propped up against or pointing to empty tables. Eventually, down a lane I've never been before, I found two boxes filled with massive, very dirty eggs. Normally I wouldn't touch these: when we had our hens we always cleaned the eggs before we sold them: salmonella is so easy to catch. But I was starving by now and they were very good. So is it back to Waitrose for eggs now until the hens get in the mood again in Spring?

The garden work continues, and now I'm laying a line of bricks to separate the edge of the big bed from the path. But I'm kicking myself, I mean really kicking myself. When the old lawn was about to be rotovated, Val told me I should hang on to some of the sods as they turn into wonderful compost. But I wanted them gone, and in the event there were three or four lorry loads. Attached to them was my precious topsoil, but still I didn't reconsider. But working along the hedge side of the garden yesterday where the ground dips down from the main garden, and especially from the summerhouse, it suddenly occurred to me that they could have dumped all those sods along there and they would have levelled out the space beautifully. You'd pay a fortune for that stuff once it's rotted! And I threw it all away. Ah, nose in front of face. Try looking beyond it next time!

Pathways

I've built a path leading from the lawn to the summerhouse, dividing the bed for easy walking. The bricks were all in my garden already, some very old Suffolk reds, some newer, all of different sizes. The really old bricks are shallow but wide, so it was going to be difficult aligning them all one with the other. Here is the result. I must admit I'm as proud of this path as if I'd built a house, but if I'd taken more time it could have been better. Still, not bad for a first try. And probably last.

I then set about raking into some sort of order the new area created by having less grass this time around. I've saved the part nearest the summerhouse for more shrubs, but the area further away was going to be a wild flower garden. Not so sure about this now. The soil may be too rich and could encourage grasses to drown out the wild flowers. I love bare earth, but it won't stay bare once the weeds discover it. Vegetable area? Swimming pool? Tennis court? Hens? Bees? Donkey paddock? I'll cogitate a while and see what surfaces. For the record, this is the result of my labours.

Shrubs in the foreground, wild flowers beyond?

It didn't look like that this morning. Buckets and buckets and buckets of dead grass sods, big stones, weeds and twigs were heaved over the deer fence into no man's land. There are probably a lot more buried under the earth, but they can stay there. Now for planting a few hundred daffodil and crocus bulbs. Val will love helping with that on Tuesday I'm sure. Val. Val? Valllllllllllll!!!

Postscript, or Postmortem

The strychnine was not needed in the end, nor were the traps. Sid, bless him, an old friend from Wilby mole days whose massive tombstone teeth and bleached hair set him apart from other men, came as planned this afternoon. He carefully studied the meanderings of Mr Mole, and scratched his head. "None o' them hooles goos anyplace," he said puzzled. "Can't see what he's up to." He set one trap but was not happy. "If tha's alright wi' you I'll sit here for a cuppla hours wi' me gun, and I reckon I'll get the little bastard." And he posted himself like a granite sentinel in front of the summerhouse, sitting unmoving despite the coldest southwesterly that has swept across the garden for months, eyes fixed on the grass and earth ahead of him. I brought him a cup of tea to warm him up, and occasionally glanced through a window to see if he was still there. Then I heard a shot, and looked out to see him kneeling on the ground with one hand buried in the lawn before pulling something out triumphantly.

The mole was not dead, or even scratched. It's body was completely intact, and it was as lively as a barrel load of monkeys. "They either gets blown to smithereens or they're like this 'un," said Sid. "It'll be the shock that stunned him. If I hadn't got him out right away he'd o' been off again, miserable little bastard." And Sid did the right thing by the mole, which didn't include taking him down the lane and setting him free. I looked away.

These Suffolk old boys, many of them not old at all, seem to take a shine to me. Sid told me he hardly ever sits with his gun to catch a pesky mole, but left the rest of the sentence unfinished. A few years ago I thought he was going to ask me out when he wondered if I ever dated. I think they like me because I like them, and they can see I'm genuinely interested in them. The way of life they knew as boys is all but gone now, but through their stories I can recall things as vividly as if I witnessed them myself. They are authentic and wise, and thanks to the trades they ply are likely to be regular visitors to Medlar Cottage.

Clematis against the oil tank screen

Clematis against the garage

Freemontedendrons grow large and are covered in yellow flowers

Another view of the freemontedendron

Kenneth Grahame Was Not a Gardener!!

The Wind in the Willows - such a romantic, evocative title. Picture a river bank peopled with small furry animals, and I use the word 'peopled' advisedly. Give these little animals human characteristics, project our best and our worst traits onto them, and watch them act out our daily struggles. Unlike in real life, the good and the righteous will prevail against the bad, the mean and the plain downright wicked. Thus Toad the arrogant, puffed up rich boy is humbled and turned back into a good 'un. Ratty with his sharp intelligence is the natural leader who guides the others along the straight and narrow path. A bit of a know-it-all for my liking, but not a bad chap. Stoats and weasels are just plain trouble: blame it if you will on their impoverished upbringings, drug addict parents, poor living conditions, sink estates and failing schools, and an absence of the saintlike interventions of a Camilla Batmanghelidjh. They will be vanquished, just like Islamic State when David Cameron gets his hands on them. Right. But if you must anthropomorphise these critters please get it right. Take Mole. A right evil little shit he is, masquerading inside his dense furry black coat as some Uriah Heap but without the sneaky bits. I have news for you. He is a sneak. And he's spiteful, vindictive, and utterly nasty. Grahame would have known that if he'd ever met one, and not drawn this vicious little mammal as a gentle, shy, well-meaning, bumbling, myopic little creep. He hides under the ground for God's sake, digging spy tunnels, stealing worms. If he emerges into daylight and blinks his squinty little eyes it's to gloat, to sneer and snicker.

Yup, I've had a nocturnal visit from Mr Mole. I can see the path he took just beneath the surface of my new lawn, tunnelling his way in a zigzag all down one side. He didn't have to work very hard because the turfs are just lying on the surface of the ground, as yet unrooted, and he was able to slide beneath them leaving the shape of his body behind. I know this vengeful little horror and his myriad cousins and siblings will be constant visitors to my garden, but so will Sid the Molecatcher (mole killer actually). Sid is coming this afternoon, but on the phone he told me he wished he still had access to strychnine, now a banned substance, which disposes of resident moles in a flash. Ah, but I have connections in the farming world, and don't tell me there aren't secret supplies of the poison still festering in old barns and dusty corners of sheds. I rang my friend Did. Unfazed, he said he'd make a few enquiries and call me back. I knew he'd say that. No stuff and nonsense about him or Sid. Proper country folk doing what needs to be done with unsentimental efficiency. And in the meantime if I see any movement near the surface of the grass and have my fork to hand .....

They Also Serve

At last, at last, at long long last! I'm finally planting my garden now I have the beds in the right places. Oh but it's fun. My neck aches, my hands hurt and my knees feel quite dodgy, but there's nothing I'd rather be doing. Truly, nothing. It's exhilarating, thrilling, fascinating, unbelievably satisfying. I won't go into details: I know what's there. I went in to put some ice on my neck and shoulders before going on a tour of the three closest nurseries to gather more beauties. Planning and planting is hampered by the need to keep off the new lawn for two weeks, and having to go all the way around the edge every time I need something. But it hasn't taken the shine off it at all.

Don't it look green

The orange, yellow and red bed, putatively speaking

Before my outing I waited for the promised rain to come, a heavy band moving from the west. So why did I keep casting a weather eye to the east where the undiminished brightness was most dispiriting. Eventually I got it, and turned my gaze instead westwards. It was due by 2pm, and I needed it if I wasn't going to use the sprinkler on the lawn again. I watched and waited with growing anxiety as the wind that normally heralds wet weather just dried out the new grass. Where was it, for heaven's sake? I checked and rechecked the satellite charts where the dark blue band seemed to hover over Diss and Stowmarket, barely moving at all. God, it was tense.

The first bed, growing nicely

To calm my nerves - I know, I really get into things, intense isn't the word - I defrosted the freezer with my hairdrier. It's a breeze, excuse the pun. Takes minutes instead of hours, and everything back in again before you could say ice cube. I made a cup of tea, buttered some toast and spread it lavishly with home-made blackberry  jam. And then I noticed it: a shy little sprinkle of rain drops at first, gaining confidence quickly and then lashing down with gusto, soaking the sods. I love a good downpour in the garden, especially now. I postponed the garden centre visits until tomorrow when the sun will be shining again, and instead got out my Italian books. Arrivederci.

And Some Fell ...

... on stony ground. I have never come across such a stony garden. It's not that there are stones there naturally but because someone put them there. But why? I'll probably never know. I've already shifted a few million of them from beds to the drive, but now I've come across a hoard of pebbles where I'm trying to plant crocosmia and hemerocallis. Digging holes for these plants was agonisingly hard, and my hands hurt accordingly. But this is the first time my garden has looked like a proper garden, and I'm delighted with it. All it needs now is for Mr Mole to come along and ruin everything.

After my digging efforts, long after Lewis and Darren had gone, I decided to go for a walk. It was a beautiful evening, possibly the last of its kind for many months - the weather is set to change tomorrow and become wet and cold. Warm, sunny, calm and peaceful, it beckoned with an irresistible hand and I responded. Down the lane towards Bruisyard I trotted, relieved that I didn't have to pull on a lead or steer a determined little body away from anything dead, or smelly. The big field that slopes down from where someone has planted thousands of daffodils was a picture in the evening sun, brown folds smoothly laid out along the hillside as neatly as if they had been combed. The sun was low behind the hedgerow and trees creating pointed shadows across the land that could have been painted, or cut out from brown earth-coloured fabric and pasted against the lighter soil. Walking back I watched a hare dash across the field behind my house, and found the cause of the scare - two riders ambling along the grassy edge, their voices reaching me clear as a bell. I followed two dizzy pheasants, a husband and wife, who scuttled just ahead of me trying to decide where to go. He made many suggestions, important and puffed up, but she rejected them all until she found just the right escape route underneath a hedge and he had no choice but to follow, a little deflated I thought.

Here's my garden. It was too late to take a photo of the beds I've now filled with plants, but I'll do it tomorrow. It really is a sight for sore eyes.

..... On the Wall

I bought a fifth one today, the biggest yet. It will go in my sitting room, above the fireplace. It's a sort of smart grey at the moment, but I'm painting it F & B White Tie, like the walls. I nipped off down to the antique centre at Marlesford in a break in the lawn laying, when I felt it was safe to leave the lads alone. And then one of said lads, the pretty Lewis, carried it in from the car for me. He was as careful as if it were a newborn baby, propping it gently on the mantlepiece, and then parking it pro tem in the room with no name. He doesn't know it's called that. He already thinks I'm a bit nuts. And that's because I don't agree with the slapdash way he has been taught to lay lawns, but I've only conveyed that sentiment by offering helpful advice and pointing out problems he's decided not to notice. It's my garden for flip's sake. I want it to be as right as it can be.

First Cut is the Deepest

And on it goes .....

From Coat to Vest, the lovely Lewis

End of play Thursday, one third done

After they left I set to watering the lawn-so-far. It looks amazing, but who knows what horrors it harbours this time around? Lewis told me to keep off the raked earth, but I didn't. Honestly, it is FULL of tufts of grass that haven't been raked out. His dad (stepdad) is coming tomorrow morning so I hope he has higher standards. Anyway, I raked around a bit and unearthed masses of huge tufts which I then threw over the fence so they wouldn't be seen. But Lewis will notice my footprints. Oh, what an agony of anticipation. Will he see for himself how much still needs to be done, or will I have to point it out to him. Next installment tomorrow. Dun da dun dun.

Mirror Mirror ...

I'm still playing a waiting game in the garden. The lawn has supposedly been killed off but it sure looks green and luxuriant to me. Still, nothing daunted I went on a plant-buying spree after Val had left today. She told me of a very well-developed freemontedendron that she had spotted in her local garden centre, and I duly went and claimed it. It will go against the black corrugated iron wall, well set back from the garden and sheltered by the outhouses and the jutting out part of the house, aka the downstairs loo. Coming from California it will love the shelter from the winds and the frosts, and the full blast of sun it will get for much of the year. I'm looking forward to seeing the profusion of yellow flowers against the black background.

I also bought a Hypericum 'Hidcote', more yellow flowers, for somewhere towards the summerhouse. And 15 wallflowers, assorted yellows and reds - yes, I LOVE yellow in the garden. Winter-flowering pansies too, and some dark blue miniature irises. These will go on the layered planting I intend to do in one of my big pots, starting with tulips, then daffs, followed by the irises and topped with pansies. This will give colour from now until May. Thanks for the tip Monty.

Val and I moved a chaenomeles from a pot where it was a bit miserable to a nice open, sunny spot against the oil tank trellis. There it can do its own thing or suffer being espaliered depending on how I feel when it starts to spread. Spending money in garden centres is just not spending money as far as I'm concerned, and it has no limits imposed on it. Keep your shopping centres, your clothes and your trendy things. I'm a plants woman.

And so to my final stop this afternoon, the wonderful antique centre at Marlesford. There I bought no fewer that four mirrors, three to hang in the 'room with no name', and one for the hall. I'm not much of a one for looking in mirrors, which would explain why I walked through the whole place, thousands of square feet of Aladdin's Cave goodies, and saw not a single mirror. When I went back for another look I spotted literally hundreds. I just didn't see them the first time. Not a narcissist then.

Parliamo Italiano?

First Italian Conversation class yesterday evening, and it was fun. The teacher is from Cuba, so her first language is Spanish. She's lively and fun - just what you need to get everyone relaxed and interacting with each other. My brain was hurting by the end, but so much of the language is familiar from opera that it doesn't feel too strange. I'm going to do as much homework as I can: I'm determined not to be the dunce of the class.

There's a lady there I've already met, though I only recognised her at first by her very odd name, and I'm sure she won't recognise me. I was introduced to her at a party as we apparently had being Irish in common. "How do you do?" she asked me in her cut glass accent. "I believe you're Aahrish like me." (????????????????). "I am indeed," I replied, dropping into a bit of the auld sod talk, an honest bogtrotter. "And sure where is it now that you're after being from yourself, at all, at all?" Not quite, but a bit. "My people have owned Kilkenny Castle since the days of Cromwell," she told me. "I'm descended from" (and here she named some English blighters who were given land stolen from the Kings of Tara, and went on to rule the country before Independence. I couldn't repeat their names). "Oh how interesting," I said. "I'm descended from Red Hugh O'Neill and Nial of the Nine Hostages, the High Kings of Ireland." And as my father would have added "and the seven snotty orphans". I do hope she won't remember me.

More lawn developments. John from Armagh (proper Oirish him) was coming tomorrow to rotovate the grass before removing it and laying the new lawn. But he didn't realise that there is still meadowgrass growing there, and it would have been scattered everywhere only to grow again. Now someone is coming to kill the stuff tomorrow instead, then John will come next week to remove the dead stuff and re-lay. And so it goes on. I'm going to put bags over my new shrubs before the sprayer comes or they'll be murdered too. I could murder someone, though a blood-spattering tool would be more satisfying than poison. And so I continue in a state of near-sanguinity, rolling with the punches, dreaming of the day when I can properly make my garden. And I miss my little friend and her cheering antics. I nearly added that you can't have everything. Hunfgh!

Human Frailties

I'm with my sister who's in plaster from toe to hip - a hinge allows some knee bending - and getting around with a zimmer and a wheeled office chair. Progress is slow as can be imagined, though it'll get faster with practice. She has been feeling nauseous all day, but given that she's eaten next to nothing since Tuesday and has been pumped full of drugs that's hardly surprising. I've just witnessed her injecting into her stomach before she went to sleep, a prophylactic against DVT apparently. A tight white sock on her good leg is an added precaution. They think of everything these days. She can't put weight on the broken leg for six weeks, and will be in plaster for at least twelve. No driving, no shopping, no outings that haven't been pre-planned by someone else.

All of this is quite disturbing, and leaves you feeling distinctly uneasy. Breaking a leg very badly is not fun at any age, but when you live alone it takes on added complications. Luckily she has good neighbours after over 30 years in the same house, and willing friends nearby to call on, though she's seriously independent and almost pathologically resistant to asking for help. All emergency services are close at hand. My situation is very different. I've lived in my remote rural village for a mere seven months, and the nearest hospital is over 20 miles away. Ambulances respond to emergency calls in the countryside, of course they do, but getting to hospital speedily with a life-threatening or merely painful problem is never going to happen. And as for the day-to-day tribulations of living by yourself with a major handicap, who knows? Better not to project into an imaginary future, but rather be careful and live optimistically.

But when things do go wrong, the comfort of a loving, familiar presence is of incalculable value. The kindness of strangers is humbling to witness and heartwarming to receive. In times of crisis it can make the impossible possible. But there's nothing like someone you can call your own, in one way or another, someone who has seen you at your best and worst, being there for you when you're at your most vulnerable. We do this for each other when it's necessary. It's called family, and it can be worth its weight in bullion.

Shocks and Sparks

What a difference a day makes, 24 little hours. So the song goes, true to life. Heavy mist lifted early to reveal a view as tidy and organised as patchwork. The sun shone on the brown fields, tilled and tilled again until they nearly glistened, everything worked over ready for the next stage in the farming calendar. I watch the tractors making their slow passage up and down the fields and marvel at the transformative neatness of their work. There was just enough breeze for a fire, and so I set one in the drive again. Within a few hours all my garden rubbish had turned to ashes. It's astonishingly enjoyable, burning rubbish. I had to remember not to park the car on top of the embers when I returned much later, the dark so impenetrable I had to feel my way to the gate, and then the door. My torch battery was dead, neglected in the car all summer.

And then a phone call from my sister to tell me she'd broken her leg. Only a few hours earlier she'd emailed to wish me a good day in the garden and now she'd fallen while stepping from a wall to a chair. It turns out the leg is very badly broken on and just below the knee joint, and a conservative estimate is three months on crutches. And so her planned visit tomorrow will take on a different hue: instead of her driving up here I'll go down there and bring her back when her leg has been pinned. Being single again, the scariness of what happens when something goes badly wrong is not lost on me, and so I completely understood her emotional phone call this morning, thanking me for being there.

At least we're not Blanche DuBois. God, her plight was wretched. Gillian Anderson, her voice a classic Tennessee Williams high-pitched Southern drawl, part Plantation heritage part booze part fags, brought her to uncomfortable, agonising life last night in the cinema live from the Young Vic. Her reputation ruined, her teaching career gone to the dogs thanks to a fling with a young student, her beauty ravaged, alone, penniless, increasingly unhinged, and now humiliated by her brother-in-law, the vile Stanley, she faced a terrible future. Her raw delivery tore into the audience, pinning us to our seats in horror at what we were witnessing. Great theatre - it mirrors and magnifies our lives and imperfections. There's nothing to beat it.

Back to Normal

I've emptied my pockets of dog treats, shaken out the crumbs. The chewed twigs and branches deposited all over the lawn have been collected, as have the tasty clods of earth, the big stones, the stalks of dead plants. I found a few stray old poos delicately secreted behind the compost box, and they'll make good manure since they're probably made up of other dog poos anyway. There are few signs left that a little dog ever lived here: some muddy paw prints on the garden room windowsill where she tried to see who was inside, and lots of muddy footprints on the weed screen over the veg bed. "Off!" I used to cry, "this is not a good place for you to be." "Don't be silly" her look would say. "It's perfect for chewing this spiky bit of wood, and so warm underneath me. A bit flimsy, but when I make holes I can move a bit further along." And so she stayed, happy as a sandgirl.

I never had a problem having a dog, just that dog. Poor little Sasha, sweet and eager and full of energy as she was, loveable and cute, she was too much for me.

What did I do with all this unaccustomed freedom? I power hosed the terrace and the concrete under the summerhouse. I dug over and raked the bed by the corrugated fence. I hung out the washing, not one dog towel or dog-dirtied garment of mine amongst it. I had a leisurely lunch in the summerhouse with the crossword. I finished painting the front of the garage. I went shopping for milk and chocolate, for once not stopping at the pet shelves for treats. I ambled and sniffed and ruminated. Then I rang Mary to check if Sasha was OK, and she told me the little creature was quite at home, friends with the other dogs, even the bossy chiahuahua. She slept the last two nights, as she always will, in the big bed with four other dogs (the chiahuahua sleeps on the parents' bed) and there wasn't a peep out of her all night. Her collar is off, and she stuck with the others when they went for walks. She got biffed by the cats a couple of times, but Mary thinks she's learned to be more respectful of them.

How do I feel about all of this? I'm thrilled for her of course, delighted that this is such a suitable home. She will have friends to play with all day, and when she's tired she can crash in the communal bed. Mary says that her being so friendly and happy is a tribute to me, and certainly she wasn't like that when I took her on. I'll take comfort from the crumbs offered. But how I wish it could have turned out differently. My heart lurches when I think about her firm little sandy body, her dear black face, her squiggly frown that quickly becomes smooth and transforms her face, her ecstatic leaping in the air mid-run just for the sheer pleasure of it. I'm jealous of their good fortune in being able to provide what she wants and needs. And I'm cross that my desire to shape a future with a dog for company will now not come about. And so my dog days are over. Like my salad days.

Priorities

So, I've had a cull of my bookmarked websites. It was an interesting list. "Ten Best Toys For Dogs": how to keep your dog from being bored, and to challenge them at the same time. "Baskerville Muzzle" - this was in a desperate attempt to eliminate the poo-eating, but abandoned as being just too mean to inflict on a dog who loves to put everything in her mouth and then spit out the uninteresting things, though there weren't many that fell into that category: blackberries, fallen sloes, plums and hips, stones, twigs, leaves, clods of earth, hay, straw - these were among the acceptable things she picked up. "Dog Food Search Results", which led to me ordering a massive sack of cold-pressed dry food milled in Germany, defined by researchers as the best available. "Pack Leader - this has to be YOU". The list of dog-related items went on and on, but I've deleted them all now. I suppose it says as much about me as the dog. Anxious, determined to do the right thing, constantly looking for answers when problems arose, insistent that everything would work out fine, I piled the pressure on myself. I think it's probably what I do. It's been an illuminating experience, but one I would prefer not to have had. They say it always ends in tears, but I disagree. I chose the 'fat lady sings' finale, and I played some Mozart arias sung by Deborah Voigt before she shed a few tons, so that's OK.

Coming down this morning at 6.45 to an empty house was not a distressing experience. I am nowadays if not necessarily by nature a quiet person. I take much pleasure in the things that are done silently, like gardening, reading, doing the crossword. I like to take my time. The radio has its place, but often a whole day goes by without it's company and I don't even notice. Music, too, can be absent without being missed, and the television doesn't go on every night. Accommodating an insistent, demanding little person was a challenge for me that I rose to. And so I would come down in the mornings dressed but unwashed, and be out of the door for the necessaries to be performed before the kettle had boiled for my tea. Back indoors, balls were brought to me to throw, soft toys were thrust at me to play tug with, a firm little body was pressed against my leg as a reminder that strokes were vital and had to happen NOW! It didn't come naturally to me when at that hour I preferred to read the paper online. But I did as she wanted, I rarely pushed her away. I loved it.

Now I can go back to how I was. I haven't worn my dressing gown for around 90 days, but that's come out again. I can regulate my days as I want to without having to plan for another person. I'm not saying it's better, but it's how it is. And I'm not going to feel bad about it. I had already thrown away that T shirt.

And Then There Was One

These are photographs of Sasha's new home and some of her new siblings. I honestly and truly believe she will be happy here, happier than she would have been with me. It's a farm for God's sake. She's going to sleep in the kitchen beside the Aga with some of the other dogs. No more cage. No more wiping feet when she comes indoors. She can eat dogs' poo for breakfast, lunch and dinner if she wants, with tasty snacks in between. She can roll in fox poo and nobody will rush her into the bath. Hare's legs? Eat the whole hare if she likes, even if it's been dead for weeks. I doubt she'll ever go into town, or even need to be walked on a lead. She'll have the run of the place, surely every little dog's idea of heaven. I know from her time at Happidays that she loves the company of other dogs.

Me? I feel a bit wretched, disappointed, my dream of having a little dog completely scuppered. I've tried, I really have. For three months I've struggled with her behaviour and with much hard work got her back to being a nice, affectionate, happy little creature. I've put her before the garden, spending a fortune on fencing to keep her safe, not caring if she dug holes, sat on top of plants, made rat runs through expensive shrubs. I've delighted in seeing her joy at being free, being able to fly around if she wanted, or flop on something comfortable when she got too hot, even if it was the weed-screening sheet which her claws tore holes in. It was the price to pay for having a dog, and I willingly paid it. I decided that NOTHING in the garden was out of bounds to her.

Indoors it was the same. She loved to snuggle up against me on any one of my five sofas, including the summerhouse one, and I let her, willingly. Though I wiped her feet when she came in wet and muddy, still they were not clean but it didn't matter - after all the kitchen tiles didn't show the dirt. I bought a huge cage so that she'd have room to manoeuvre at night and be comfortable. I brought her with me when I went most places, knowing she preferred to be left in the car than at home, despite what the puppy training people told me, and often at huge inconvenience to myself. I so, so badly wanted it to work out after a difficult start, but every time I thought we'd got there another problem arose.

What broke the camel's back? It wasn't the poo eating, though that was horrible and worrying. In the end it was the day she rolled in the fox excrement, again, and ended up stinking to high heaven. On the same walk, free as always, running and skipping like a Bambi, she found the hare's leg, rotten and smelly, and kept running past me with it in her mouth, dropping down in front of me, and chewing the leg, crunching the bones. Nothing I could do would get her away from it. Not even the lovely sausages I bought for her. I couldn't catch her, and she ended up running across the lane into the garden. She could have been run over and hurt or killed, or caused one of the many cyclists who use the lane to crash off their bike.

I had to put her straight in the bath, a lovely hot one with nice soapy shampoo. But overactive after her exhilarating freedom, she struggled and fought, and I was left exhausted as well as soaked. I just didn't have the strength for her, and unless I curtailed her freedom and walked her on a lead, baths were going to be a frequent occurrence.

The whole point of getting a dog was to walk, and those walks were not fun anymore, for me at least. I had to admit failure. The animal rescue people found this new home for her. It's a beautiful farmhouse surrounded by fields and woods. They love dogs, and wanted a replacement for an old Jack Russell that had died. She ran into their kitchen, ecstatic as always to meet new people and other dogs. Mary, her new owner, told me she was going to take them all for a walk in the fields. None of them wear collars as there is no need. They don't wander off because they are pack animals and stay together. This was going to be her new life, and as I deposited all of her paraphernalia and took my leave she was excitedly playing with a sheepdog, elbows down and hindquarters up, tail wagging wildly. She didn't notice me going, and I honestly don't think she'll miss me.I'll ring in a few days to check that she's OK, but I already know the answer.

Vunderbar

What an absolutely wonderful day we've had. Have we spoken to anyone all day? No, not a soul. But it's been the sort of hot, still day when being outside is the only place, and working in the garden is the only possible pursuit. I've moved from bed to bed, still on my mammoth task of clearing stones and transporting them to the drive, but also weeding, raking, plotting and scheming. Tomorrow the two areas of trellis will go up, and they should help to provide a framework, a backdrop for my planting. We've picked two huge tupperware pots of plums from the trees at the end of the garden. Many of them were so ripe they fell into the ditch from whence I can't retrieve them without risking life and limb, but we got ourselves a good haul. My assistant, I noticed, ate more than she put in the pot. In fact I didn't see her put any in the pot now I think about it. The freezer is nicely bulging with produce, and some good autumn and winter crumbles and pies will be made for visitors.

I knew I shouldn't have washed the dog at 90 degrees- poor shrunken Sasha

I had to come in in the end before I did my back, neck, hands, elbows and, newly, my knees any permanent damage.The bath beckons. Sasha is asleep on the doormat. We are at peace.

Carpe Diem

Oh, what a perfect day. The early sky a brilliant, flawless blue bubbling up later with tiny ragged puffs from Helen Macdonald's fag (https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=553807433670&set=a.553806400740.2223145.36916331&type=1&theater). Not a murmur of air, barely a sound apart from an unidentified (as yet) bird that emits an erratic staccato from its hidden perch. Sasha doesn't know what to make of it. We linger on the terrace for the first cup of tea, then after breakfast we're off down the hill, up the hill, then down the other side. Is this the same dog who appeared in my life nearly three months ago? She's on the extended lead, and glances back at me for approval every now and again, her doe eyes gentle and trusting. "Good girl" I say every time, "You're Mama's good little girl." It might make Ruth want to puke, but I can't help it, it's just me. The views are breathtaking, the morning an absolute peach. We both breathe in its loveliness with deep satisfaction.

h

The new shrubs planted

Back home I tackle the area where the trellis will cover the oil tank tomorrow. After a burst of energy which involves digging up all her bones from their secret hiding places (don't think about a career in MI5 Sasha) and flying around the garden as if a hornet were after her, the dog settles down beside me in a long relaxed stretch. She watches, she bats the occasional insect, she closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh. I move to the front for a rest on the bench which is just coming into sunlight, and she follows, drops to the ground, rests her head on some soft leaves overlapping the path, and watches me through half closed eyes. I move back to the digging, and she drags herself after me, flopping down again near my feet. Oh Monty Don, eat your hearty out! This is what I dreamed of but didn't imagine would happen for another ten years or so. Wonderful little dog, ideal copmpanion.

Not yesterday she wasn't though. Running through the fields, taking big deer-like leaps every two or three steps in what looked like sheer exhileration, she found what must have been fox poo and rolled in it. And rolled in it again. The small pieces of delicious sausages I carry around with me now (Bramley apple flavoured, two packets for £5 in Waitrose) lured her away, but the smell was horrible. I tried administering a dry shampoo when we got home but she smelled worse - fox poo and some disgusting fake perfume - so it had to be the bath. She's very good in there, quite enjoying the hot water around her feet and on her body. But she has to shake herself, it's what wet dogs do. At least I ended up with a clean bathroom floor. Back downstairs, after my supper, she came into the sitting room as usual to snuggle up on the sofa. But all the activities of the day had exhausted her and she sat looking at me, bewildered. "Are you ready for your beddybyes?" I asked her, and carried her unprotesting to her crate. She was out like a light.

Losing Things

I wrote two long blogs on the same day, bursting to record things, and blow me if I didn't lose them both. I could mostly remember what I'd said, but couldn't summon up the energy to write it all again. Much of it was about going to four garden centres and buying loads of plants, and then bumping into a friend from Wilby days who I didn't recognise. "Hello Denise!" he called out, and I looked at him, and I looked at the woman with him, and would have sworn on my life I'd never seen either of them before. But it was Nick of Nick and Matthew, with a beard, a grey beard though he's no more than mid 40s. "Look, I've grown a beard and you didn't know me", he laughed, and kissed me on both cheeks. Very soft beard. Woman was a client. Between the four garden centres I bought nearly everything on my list. And at the weekend I planted them. All very satisfying, and parts of the garden looking progressive.

But not the lawn, oh no. That is going to have to come up and be replaced. The thought of all that disruption is horrible, but it must be endured. The treated grass is looking dreadful, and even the prospect of having all my money returned is not enough to persuade me to keep it. The new one won't be laid until the end of the month, so in the meantime I'm preparing the other beds, and trying to work out a new shape for the grass. I definitely want much less, but where can I do without it? Hopefully the next few weeks will give me time to get it right.

I've been gathering blackberries, one of my favourite activities of the year. I thought it was a dismal crop until I  came across the best I've seen in ages just behind Alys's house. Sasha and I had been on a long, long walk last Sunday after bridge with Judy, David and Caroline. It was a bit of a gamble because I had no idea if the circle we made would lead us back home or not. It got tricky when we came to a ditch, but small puppy and stiff old bag leapt it together, and we were on our way back. Early next morning we returned with a tupperware box to reap the harvest. Sasha pottered around me off the lead, every now and then finding her own low crop and scoffing them off the prickly branches. What a funny dog she is, the reincarnation of Snoopy. She has so many of the same characteristics. Anyway, I was woken at 7am by terribly noisy tractors, and to my horror I saw that they were cutting the hedges. Again Sasha and I shot off to rescue the rest of the blackberries before they vanished for good. Farmers: they're never happy with the status quo but always have to go changing things. Shifting sands. You can never be complacent.

Out of Control

That heading might suggest that this is a post about Sasha, but no. Ruth and I were at a concert at Snape the other evening, a trio of women in drab dresses and for some reason knee high boots singing Norwegian folk songs a Capella. Free tickets, so we took advantage. The voices were incredible, pitch perfect, no accompaniment, but the songs were a bit folksy, a bit dirgy and samey. During one which seemed to be made up almost entirely of Diddly Diddly Dums, I asked Ruth what she thought this was Norwegian for. "Three Little Maids From School Are We", she came back with immediately, and we dissolved with laughter. A while later she leaned over to whisper something to me, and I could tell straight away that she couldn't speak for laughing. Her shoulders were shaking, and that set me off. I had to move right away, luckily being on an aisle seat, and not look at her. But we were hysterical for at least three songs until we calmed down and she could speak: "Do you think the woman on the right has false arms?" she asked, and we were off again. Oh, it sounds silly now, but it was even sillier then.

I worked hard in the garden yesterday, spurred on by Val who told me we had to remove the weeds before they spread evil seeds everywhere. She put her back into one bed while I tackled the other, and we were triumphant at what we achieved. The vegetable bed will have to be covered with a weed suppressant until next spring, it now being too late to plant anything. The wild garden at the bottom, truly wild but not planned, will be brought under submission by Ash who is coming on Saturday. So that leaves the main bed, partly cleared by Val and then raked over again by me. I'm going to a few garden centres today to see about buying shrubs, and then I can start planning the design. A hot bed, it has to be because of the proximity of the hedge and its hungry roots. That means, as well as the shrubs, crocosmia, day lilies, maybe dahlias. Yellow and red and orange. I can't wait for it to happen now after the long delays. It's so hard to imagine

Silence

There was an eerie silence as we set off on a long walk this morning. It's a bank holiday, and no one was stirring. It felt like the world had ended and we were the only beings left. There was rain coming so I wore wellies and a mac, but though the weather map showed it currently lashing over the village, it stayed dry until we were nearly home. Where to walk? After yesterday's extended car journey I wanted Sasha to have a real run, so we set off down Bannock's Lane and climbed to the very top, her first time. Then we struck off across the upper edge of a shorn wheat field where hundreds, possibly thousands of daffodils flower in the spring along the hedgerow: it's quite a sight then, though I don't think there's a house near enough to enjoy it; a quite extraordinarily generous act on the part of some farmer. I set Sasha free and she leapt in the air again and again like a deer for the joy of it.

Oh, it was good to be out on such a day, in such a place. The peace, the beauty of the golden stubble, the broad sloping fields, the dancing, haring dog, all near overwhelming. At such times it's best not to think, just be. The air was warm enough to need just two thin layers, my cagoul tied around my waist for later. How the landscape can change dramatically with the seasons. The last time I did this walk it was very hard going, the grassy edges overgrown and tangled and difficult to penetrate. Walking under those circumstances is a slog, and often we've had to turn back, exhausted and defeated by the struggle. But pass a giant mower across the wild grasses and the coast is suddenly clear to stride out with confidence. The bare fields make changing course easy too, and we followed our fancies, zigzagging hither and thither. We ended up where the pheasants are bred and fattened for shooting. Last time we trekked along this track we were told by a young man in a tractor that it wasn't a public footpath, so we proceeded along this last bit at speed, Sasha back on the lead. Luckily the coast was clear, the village as silent as when we set out an hour before.

On another note: reading The Times online as I do, I came across an article entitled "My Secret Was I Couldn't Act", an interview with Bill Nighy. I couldn't resist adding a comment. "Oh Bill", I wrote, "It never was a secret!". Dozens of readers found this hilarious. Such fun.

Tail-end Charlie

Went with Tricia yesterday to see two Avro Lancaster bombers do a demonstration flight at the Little Gransden Air Show. I've never watched one fly before, and this was the first time since 1964 that two have flown together. It was one of the most moving things I've ever seen. The show's commentator said it was the first time he'd shed a tear at an air show, and he wasn't the only one. There was an absolute hush as they flew overhead in formation, two majestic giants trailing a history of pride, glory, horror and destruction behind them.

Paddy

My father was a rear gunner on a Lanc, the most dangerous job in the RAF. On sortie after sortie he sat alone at the end of the plane, cut off the the rest of the crew, surrounded by glass, perilously vulnerable to being shot. His capsule would have been very cold and cramped, with only his fur-lined leather flying suit to keep him warm for eight hours at a time. Suspended over the dark abyss until the searchlights below tried to find him and the flak started flying, he must have been frightened, lonely, maybe claustrophobic. He told me with regret some of the major German cities he "dumped a load over". How wonderful it must have felt to land safely after a night of such terror, and tuck into rashers and eggs before hitting the sack. Tail-end Charlies had the shortest life expectancy of any air crew, and he knew it. A hero if ever there was one.

The turret where the rear gunner sat

Sasha had quite a day of it, from the long car ride to the thronging crowds at the show. I made frequent breaks for a run and a drink for her, but even so. Tricia and I took flowers to the parents' grave and then had lunch in what used to be the Rose and Crown, now The Old Courtyard. Potton has changed dramatically, for the better. God knows it was a backwater in the 60s. It's always funny going back: not unpleasant or pleasant even, just interesting.

Chewing on her favourite piece of rawhide

It was also Sasha's half-year birthday, so when we got home we had organised a party for her. Some of her friends came - Lisl the whippet puppy, Griff the West Highland terrier, Molly the teacup chiahuahua, Charlie the black labrador puppy, Malcolm the giant boxer puppy, and Alfie the pale gold half lab and cocker spaniel. We laid out coloured bowls of different food around the kitchen floor for them, and I had baked a cake of banana, peanut butter and ground winalot with six candles, one for each month. Alfie preferred the candles to the cake, and luckily they hadn't been lit. Afterwards there were games in the garden: someone had given us a tunnel which they all had a go in, and there were throwing games and hiding games, and just tearing madly around the garden games which they never seemed to tire of. And then they all went home to bed. And when they woke next day they realised it had all been a happy dream.

The Furies Cometh

Greek tragedy is full of injustices, vengence being exacted for crimes committed by association. It's always, or nearly always, the innocent who get visited by the Furies. Hubris is not always a factor. Sometimes a friendly god can be persuaded to intervene and change the inevitable. My nemesis has found me and is beginning to wreak havoc in many guises. Who is this all-powerful one? It's the Lawn Devil. First of all my wildly expensive turf was colonised by rough meadow grass that flowered and spread its seeds everywhere. Next came a plague of mushrooms, small brown yokes that proliferated across the lawn's surface. Now it's that enemy of gardeners everywhere, the mole. Early this morning I dreamed that I peeled back the corner of the grass to find a network of tunnels but no sign of the little black pest. When I came down at 6am there was a third pile of earth but no evidence of immediate activity. The lawn is already looking dreadful because the turf company have come and sprayed it to kill the meadow grass. They've agreed to refund the entire cost, £750, and I can see that all going to the mole catcher.

The new fence, and the new path

Half of the fencing is now complete, and in a surge of optimistic generosity I let the dog out in the garden, thinking she would stay put as her usual escape route had been closed. Not a bit of it. In the middle of a game of throw-the-ball, which I admit I was thoroughly enjoying, she disappeared into the field again. None of my entreaties would make her even look up from the immediate job of eating the field, and it was more than an hour before I got her back. I didn't try to catch her all that time, trusting that she was unlikely to leave the field. Instead I worked on the massively weedy vegetable bed, beginning to clear it for a planting of leeks. It was satisfying work, and when I finished, dog now safely indoors, I wallowed in the deepest Radox bath I've had in years and soaked all the aches away. The Radox was a Mother's Day present a few years ago, and it's such a luxury to indulge in its relaxing properties.

First vegetable bed, nearly ready

So I was up at 6am. It's not an hour that I am generally acquainted with, or have any desire to see again. And it's not as if I had an early night last night. Donna Tartt's Goldfinch is my bedtime companion, so I blame it and her for delaying my sleep. Bridge today is bound to suffer, just as lunch with Helen on Wednesday, including a bottle of Prosecco consumed just before our bridge afternoon, helped us come second from bottom. Luckily Helen doesn't use the internet to check the results. "Did we come last?" she always asks, and I can honestly usually reply with feigned astonishment "No!"

Drive from the lane

 

 

 

 

Newly-painted garage, nearly finished

And the side, all done

Jungle

While my back garden continues to languish, bare still apart from a lot of lawn, the front area expresses its exuberance in the only way it knows how: fecundity. Val and I laboured for a couple of hours yesterday morning, her exclaiming in delight as yet another smothered plant sees the light of day, me snorting in disgust as the things I dislike - grasses! euphorbia! bergenia! are the most prolific and the hardest things to remove. Val groans over the masses of violets that spring up everywhere - "weeds" she says, while I try to hang on to them and direct her attention elsewhere. Good-naturedly we comment on everything we find, everything we trim and hack and remove, almost never agreeing. In the end, screened by tall shrubs, I dug out two huge, enormous grasses that had spread their tedious feathery fronds over a wide area. Exotic and expensive, they were: I saw the labels. But hateful and untidy to me. "Val", I called. "You're going to be appalled!" She feigned shock, but when the two unexpected gifts were safely tucked away in the back of her car she was grinning like a kid.

She had no sooner gone than a big lorry bearing the new fencing poles and wires arrived in the drive, with Tim the fencing man who is going to erect them on Thursday. And Ollie. Yes, Ollie. A cute little thing of about 6 or 7, he was cocky and confident, too much testosterone already. How can one small boy create so much havoc?  "Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay! Stay!" he shouted at Sasha. "I'll be back in a minute!". He then proceeded to charge around the garden, poking sticks into the lawn, banging sticks against the newly-painted garage. Maybe I was anxious because I had people coming to tea in a short time, but he nearly drove me mad. I was truly shocked at how stressed I felt. "I'll see you bright and early on Thursday", Tim called as he set off. "And will Ollie be helping again?" I asked nervously. "Oh God no, he'll be at home." Did he notice my huge sigh of relief? If he did, I think he understood.

After tea it was off to puppy classes, a new series with only Lisl the adorable little whippet and Sasha from the last class. We had to demonstrate the various tricks we'd learned for the benefit of the newcomers, and with what pride did I watch Sasha obey instructions to "Wait", "Sit", "Down", "Off" and "Come" while for some reason Lisl who usually stars was off-colour. And wonder of wonders, there's a tiny, TEENY teacup chihuahua, owned by a big gruff farm labourer, who had taken Alpha Dog to new heights. His fingers were literally bleeding as he tried to put a new collar on her, the better to control her. She was having none of it, and bit him every time he tried. He was told to put her on the ground so that she didn't feel so important, and ignore her as she tried to climb up his leg. Oh, shadenfraude, old friend, it did me good to watch. Quite reminded me of the old days.

The last of the wheat harvest, from my study window

Piccadilly Circus

Really, it's been like a busy metropolis out there for the past few days. For the second night running combines and balers and tractors have been thundering up and down the fields and lanes getting in the wheat, bundling up the hay and piling it all away while the weather is still fine. The giant storage barns behind Sarah's house are the focus of all the activity: grain is being offloaded from the trucks into the storage areas, to be sealed off from rats and other vermin until they are taken away for grinding into flour. Dust has risen all day from the fields to merge with the sunlight as the race against the oncoming rain has been in full pelt. It's been so dry. What a summer. It must be one of the best harvests on record.

Today I had two lunch invitations, from Ruth and Helen. I'll be seeing Helen on Wednesday, so Ruth and I met up at Snape for a pannini and a walk. It was heaving, full of summer visitors. I think Benjamin Britten might have turned in his grave to see the crowds, there for every attraction apart from his music. We went into the big shop and hunted for birds, as R is making a birdcage and wants some lifelike inhabitants. The cage is a disused lampshade. She never runs out of ideas.

Sasha has been walked on the lead all day since she's returned to her evil ways. No charging around the fields unchecked for her for a few days. It's back to the draconian measures, ignoring her when I come down in the mornings, pretending to eat her food before giving it to her, the old alpha routine. Such a bore. I don't know why she has this horrible streak. Hopefully once the fence is in place she'll be happier. Meantime we're getting ready to entertain Nigel and Sue to tea tomorrow. The chocolate cake I bought for them on Saturday has all gone, and I've replaced it with a carrot one. I didn't eat it all, really I didn't. But once you start something you might as well finish it, get rid of temptation. That's my philosophy anyway. And why I'm so fat.

Back Again

I've been there and back, but I'm up and running again and once more in the groove. August may have been a wicked month for Edna O'Brien, but for me it's a tricky month, a sticky month. Too many anniversaries that can't be celebrated. I've been busy, but it's not been to Sasha's liking. The main problem has been that she discovered how to get out of the garden, lured by the, to her, intoxicating small of the silage that was spread on the field after the peas were removed. She would eat it until she burst, given half a chance, so I've had to stop letting her out in the garden to play and run around. I'm having the whole place fenced on Thursday, both to keep her in and the deer out, but until then she's had to be kept indoors while I work out there, or be tied up. It doesn't matter how many toys and chews I give here, she wants to be free and I know just how she feels. So we've walked more to compensate, across the acres of pale, bright stubble left behind by the giant combines. It's still beautiful out there, though the farmers are quick to plough once they've harvested, and it's too soon for brown earth as far as I'm concerned.

While I walked the barren miles of Orford Ness on Thursday with Ruth and Chloe, and Nigel and Sue, Sasha spent the day at Happidays, the doggie adventure play centre. She had a ball, and there were photos of her on their Facebook page afterwards, running with other dogs, triumphant at the top of a slide, staring smugly into the camera. My little baby! It was a great success, and she'll go back again, often if she gets her way. Lisl, the delicate blue whippet from puppy training wants to meet her there so they can play together. Oh Lisl, I'm afraid she might eat you!

Look how long I am

Ruth has spent the weekend here, and we painted two sides of the garage a lovely Suffolk black. It's much smarter now, and I'll finish the other two (hidden) sides as and when. We chatted to Old John, he whose garden one of our favourite footpaths runs through. He's lived around here for all of his 85 years, and he and Joan his wife are the smiliest, happiest people you could meet. He's full of reminiscences which I could listen to all day, but she tells him to stop rabbitting. Instead she makes us laugh with her self-deprecating anecdotes, the self-confessed "mad woman of the village". And I thought that was me. They are letting me have a load of white phlox when they clear a bed, and as we discussed the plants in their garden we couldn't remember the name of one. As  we walked off down the lane, back home for a late supper, she ran after us at top speed. "Cosmos", she shouted. "It's called cosmos!". And she threw up her hands in comic despair.

Ruth and Sasha vying for length

It's been quite autumnal these last few days. The temperature is much lower, and there's that unmistakeable quality to the air, a slight chill and scent of blackberries. It can't be the end of summer yet though. I haven't even started my garden!