Breaking the Pattern

I decided not to throw on my grubby old working clothes as usual this morning, prior to getting stuck into the garden, but instead had my bath early and dressed properly for an afternoon of bridge. But not yet. Before I fell asleep last night I had plotted a bicycle ride around the lanes, to stretch my calves and thighs on the steep hills around my home, and I couldn't wait to get started. Curiously, though I've worked practically every muscle in my slight frame half to death since winter lost its chilly grip and slipped away, I found uphill cycling very challenging. What has my body been doing with all the exercise it's had? I was shocked to realise I had to dismount half way up the two worst hills, and stand panting until my heart had calmed down. I told myself that if I did this circular ride every morning, in a few weeks I would be fit, but I know I won't: the lure of the garden is too great, and I never have the energy for both.

I didn't really mind that I had to go slowly because at this time of the year, when the harvesters have begun their work and even fields not yet ready for cutting have had lovely swathes cut all around their perimeters, everywhere looks beguiling. Hares are disorientated, wandering around trying to get their bearings. Do they not remember this from last year? They can't all be yearlings. I made a mental note of the most enticing walks for when my visitors come next week, and only the shortage of time prevented me exploring some of them right away. I passed a field of cows, an oddity in this part of the world, and even if I hadn't seen them I could smell them. The odours have a particular resonance for me, bringing back powerful happy childhood memories of playing Nelson's Bad Eye with cousins in Ireland, and there was serendipity too because these and other cousins have been very much on my mind lately.

One family member has set up a Facebook page devoted to our huge clan, and for the past few weeks we cousins have been posting old family photos which the rest have pored over. Here are the grandparents as we've never seen them before, her tenderly fixing his tie, or leaning towards him to rest her head on his shoulder. This is the old family homestead, covered in ivy and fronted by a rough dry stone wall swathed in greenery, the iconic backdrop for an ever changing selection of sisters home for the holidays from London, Dublin or Belfast, wherever they worked, and young people posing with the new love they've brought home to meet the parents, and later their spouses and children. There's the pony and trap filled with laughing aunts - some of the ten beautiful sisters who were close as children despite the age range and remained so all their lives. There are village school photos, every small grouping containing two or three or more of my aunts and uncles, and there's haymaking, tobacco growing, weddings and birthdays, and new babies, and always the sisters are there, supporting each other, celebrating each other and their shared lives, laughing, lovely. For the thirty plus cousins and our own offspring it's a chance to peer into a lost, magical world, a wonderful time when poverty mattered less than the strength of family, and everyone grew up and prospered. We older ones especially have strong memories from these times, and we treasure them and the chance to share them with the younger generations. Every one of us is fascinated by this world that would have disappeared but for the photographic evidence left behind. We all feel privileged to have descended from such strong, loving stock, and grateful that our shared provenance is so special.

Four sisters haymaking, Evelyn, Vera, Irene and Mai

Paddy and Kathleen Moran, Lulu and Granny

Four Finlay sisters Irish dancing

Lulu on Bob, Vera and Grandfather

Five sisters, one husband, grandparents and baby Bruce

Kathleen with baby Margaret, Ann and Vera

Grandparents with Vera and Mai. Granny always wore big coats

All of them together, plus Michael's wife Jo (left) and baby Michael

The old house

Fixing his teetotaller's badge

More sisters, back home on holiday

Three beauties, Mai the bride, Elsie left and my mother

Glamorous couple, Alec and Mai

Irene on Bob

Six Finlay girls and Bessie Redmond

The ould ones

Eight Finlay sisters at Lulu's wedding

Rural idyll

Sensory Overload

I ate my supper late,and so it was 9.20 by the time I set off for my evening walk. Gosh, it was balmy, still and settled after the day's winds, warm, light and quiet, apart from the unusual sounds of machinery. I walked until I came to the fields being harvested, one completely bereft of its barley and instead sprinkled with golden rectangles of straw, the other being gradually swept clear by a massive combine harvester, lights blazing, support vehicle at the ready to take the ripe ears. It really is an amazing sight in the growing dusk, and you can't help thinking of all those harvests, through time immemorial, which may have taken an awful lot longer but were essentially the same. An identical prayer for good weather and good yield, a race to get everything safely in and stowed away. The fields may be much bigger now too, ten times as large as the ones our ancestors worked, but the scents of dust and earth and the rich malty smells of the crop must have been the same. I breathed it all in and felt light-headed as I strode down a bridle path and back home on a circular route. A tiny sliver of moon gleamed in the sky, and as it grew darker there were suddenly stars, millions of them above me. It's hard not to feel something when you are under such a sky, the endless spaces above you filled with pricks of light that must have some significance. I felt it anyway, and sent up a silent prayer of thanks for being alive on such a day, witnessing the scenes unfolding around me.

Big Plans

I've spent much of today making a scale drawing of my garden, the better to help me decide where to go from here. I stuck 6 sheets of A4 paper together, and then laboriously measured the distance between everything and everything else outside. I scaled down all of the figures by a factor of 10, and then multiplied by 2 to create a big enough shape to fit my paper nicely. I may have been influenced by Jessie Burton's The Miniaturist which I am currently reading. But the idea came from a friend who said it would help me see how to evolve the garden. She's artistic and it might have helped her. But as I proudly finished my plan and stared at it it was as clear as mud. Lines and shapes and hatching and crossed paving, all completely meaningless to me!!! I enjoyed the job but I might as well not have bothered.

I've not exactly been invaded but certainly visited by flies every time I open the back door, and have already broken two fly swats. Dead bodies litter every surface. Then I remembered the fly screen we had in Wilby, a brilliant device that attached to three small hinges and had a magnetic lock, and allowed you to leave the door open in summer, and then be put away for the winter. As in that house, I have masses of storage space here. So I rang the company that makes them, conveniently located in Fram, and they're coming to measure up. How wonderful it will be to have air in the kitchen which is currently stifling. The door can stay open all day and the flies can peer through the screen but not have access. There's always a solution if you just try to think laterally.

A magical light

The barley field is still intact. Last night the light shining on it was so extraordinary that I took a photo, but even with my new camera I haven't captured the sheer brilliance. Every day it remains uncut is a bonus for me but it can't be long now. Should I start fretting about the dust that will settle on my gleaming pond when they begin the harvest, or just let it happen? D'you know what? I think the latter.

Deferred

I planned to walk across the fields to the Framlingham Horse Show this afternoon, held in the castle grounds every year, but you know how it is: I got carried away titivating the garden. I was so close to being able to sit back and regard it admiringly that I decided to press on, and am I glad I did! It's not yet a year since the team came in to level the ground and lay the lawn, though I'd been clearing the space before that. I collected and moved a million stones, a thousand dried up old donkey poos lurking in the hedgerow, yards and yards of brambles. And now this. I'm very proud of my efforts. Not there yet but well on the way. Here's a picture taken after I mowed the lawn. Thanks to the ministrations of Green Thumb it has recovered from Did's massacre.

I finished creating the path down the side, taking the bark from the shrub bed where it never really looked very good and moving it here. It may be a bugger to keep clear once the leaves start to fall, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves. And there have been casualties. The lawn mower somehow managed to sweep a dahlia in its path, sheering it right off at the base. It was a big one too, well developed and flowersome. Such a shame.

Once the sun had set over the yard arm, 5.27pm I noticed with alarm, I opened a bottle of Provencale rose (I can't find the acute accent) and settled in my sun lounger to appraise my work. My but it feels good to have created this. Just the area at the bottom of the garden and around the pond to do now. Cheers!

Not too bad looking lawn

Newly dressed path

The bed minus the bark again

 

 

 

 

Bit By Bit

My sweet peas are doing well

I ate a raw carrot for my lunch today. It's supposed to help with anti-aging, eating raw food. I hope I haven't left it too late. I can't remember the last time I chewed so hard, if you discount the Thorntons toffee that Waitrose now ill-advisedly stocks. My jaw is aching, and I may not repeat the process for fear of dislocating it. There's quite a lot in a carrot. Perhaps I could start with something small, like an After Eight mint.

Pond with slate surround and new planting

View from upstairs as requested

Two goldfinches drinking from my pond again this morning, flashing reds and yellows reflected in the water as they hovered and dived. I went out early with all good intentions to shift the bark from the shrub bed to the path beside it, after covering it with a long sheet of weed-suppressing material. But I found I couldn't move any faster than slow crawl, and had to admit that I'm more tired than I had realised. I've been doing it in stages, dragging the bark across the bed in a couple of sweeps of the rake and then sitting down. The weather isn't helping. It's very breezy but warm, and when the sun breaks out I have to put my hat on, but that makes me feel even more sleepy. If only the occasional cyclists passing by had an inkling of the drama that happens in this garden on a daily basis.

Young hypericum, aka St John's Wort

I've now got a temporary oil tank beside the summerhouse, filled from the old one but leaving enough oil below the crack for me to continue using it.It probably sounds a bit perverse, but I like the look of it there. It gives substance to the summerhouse. I might have to replace it with something solid when it has gone, though the last of the summer evening sun comes in there and I don't want to block it. 

Oil tank next to summerhouse

 

Geraniums

Dahlias

I've managed to get my new camera working now, though I can't see how to use the x20 zoom. So I'm putting the latest pix in this entry and hoping they're not miniaturised or anything. Looking through the viewfinder is most strange. And the camera weighs three ounces more than the last one, which may not sound a lot but actually is. I'm not sure if I'll get on with it. I'll keep persevering. If all else fails I'll read the instructions.

New path with bark laid

Disaster (ish)

What a bleedin' day! I got up this morning planning to finish off the pond, but instead I discovered that my oil tank was leaking. So much for feeling smug when I filled the tank with 1000 litres in January at a rock bottom price. I felt like a headless chicken. What do I do, what do I do? So I did what everyone does in the 21st century and googled it, and was advised to buy some epoxy resin which would stop the leak. So I did, and it didn't. I rang my insurance company to see if perchance I was covered, but only for damage, not wear and tear. I haven't worked out what I might be able to claim for yet. A new lawn ha ha ha? So I tried the company that made it, and to my delight was told that it was under warranty for another 4 months! But there is no fairy godmother in this house, and I was never going to be that lucky.

I realised that I had to get the tank emptied to stop it causing an environmental catastrophe, especially with a field full of barley not 50 yards away. Who empties tanks? How do you find out? Google again, of course. After a dozen or so phone calls I found a man in Norwich who would send his lad out at lunchtime to empty the fuel and take it away, cost £150 plus VAT. And it would be the same to return it, almost as much as the 1000 litres cost in the first place. But by this time the engineer appointed by the warranty company to come and look at the problem had rung and told me that emptying the tank, and putting it in a holding reservoir in my garden until the tank could be replaced, was all part of the service. He would be around later to do that. So I quickly rang the man who was coming, and got dog's abuse. He was just a few miles away, and he'd have to invoice me for diesel and lost time. I said I'd be happy to pay for a couple of gallons of diesel, but it was a genuine mistake and I was terribly sorry for any inconvenience. He didn't like that and got a bit threatening, so I put the car in the garage, locked myself in, and waited to see if he'd come and beat me up. A while later, enjoying my lunch, I saw a man walk down the drive and fled upstairs, shaking like a twit. He knocked, knocked again, and then went to look at the tank. "Hello?", I called from an upstairs window with an Australian uplift to my voice. And it was the good man, not the bad man. God, what a relief.

I'm not sure how it happened, but I seem to have agreed to pay £1075 for an upgraded replacement. So much for the warranty. Like I said, there are no fairy godmothers here.

Once all of that had been straightened out to my dissatisfaction I returned to the pond. It's looking great, really fabulous, but in the course of placing all the stones around the edge I've dislodged a lot of soil into the water. I'm a bit obsessive about ponds. In an earlier house my favourite job was cleaning the pond, pumping all the water out, scrubbing the lining and refilling. I used to find dead frogs tucked into the folds of the lining, transparent in death but never smelly for some reason. The first time I did it I took out all the fish, 13 in total, unlucky for them, and placed them in a large empty bin full of water while I completed the job. To keep them oxygenised and happy in the fresh water I hung an electric mixer over the edge of the bin to create some bubbles by churning it up a bit, only it was the fish that got churned up. I never had fish again. I'm not a fit person. Anyway, in this new fishless pond I pumped out all the water, removed all the mud, and filled it up again with lovely clear water.

I'm really tired now. Not just physically but mentally too. It's been a long, trying day. What will tomorrow bring?

Stoned

I wish my new camera would come. I feel like a Monty Python lumberjack without an axe, or a pianist without my Steinbeck. I have things to record, progress to monitor, changes to display, and I'm being held up. It's been On Golden Pond here for a few weeks now, but the tale is nearly told. There will be a sequel, but it won't be as thrilling and eventful as the main story. Katharine Hepburn won't be in it for a start, but then nor will there be gnomes with fishing rods. I went on a hunt for stones to edge the pond, with my visitor who is good as snuffling these sorts of things out. We went to the big commercial garden centre whose telephone operator assured me they had what I was looking for. We hunted through the predictable stone collections and were just giving up when she spotted them in a storage area. They were perfect, lumps and slices of slate with rusty marks on them, and I bought six, three for the price of two. They were meant to add interest to the edging, but back home I decided I needed another 10, so off we went again and bought more. But when they'd been roughly laid in place, magnificently setting off the pond, I realised I needed more, so off we went again and got another nine. Twenty six would have been perfect, but I made do with 25, spacing them out a little, the interstices to be filled with small stones wedged in place when the area dries out. It's been pretty wet for several days and I've felt like a child making mud pies. But it really looks great now, and worth all the money and effort.

I'm alone again after a few days of company, and doing what I always do on these occasions: throwing myself into some diversionary activity. It usually works, and it's working now. If only the weather would perk up again and the sun shine. Hard to believe it's going to be 100 degrees by the end of July. Maybe my heavy parasol base will have arrived by then, but that's another story, and since it's already bored me rigid I'm not about to repeat it. I'll certainly have it for next summer.

Another World

Three lovely friends for lunch and bridge yesterday, and though they're all a decade and a half older than me, they don't feel it. We laughed like drains at all sorts of silly things, and ganged up on each other during the bridge. Two of the women had been educated by governesses, one before going away to school at 13 where she was a sort of scholarship girl - she had to do chores in lieu of part of her fees which included bringing the headmistress her tea at 6am, and the other until her father took over the jobof teaching in her teens. What larks they had, teasing and playing tricks on their respective 'poor mice', and pretending to be ill when it was mental arithmatic. One came from a bohemiam family, her father, born in 1882, a modern man well before his time who thought freely and expected his girls to do the same. She fenced for England, as did her mother, and rejected her MENSA membership because the other members were so geeky. They're terrific women, interesting, unshockable, open to everything. I love their company.

Today I bought some very smart stones to go around the pond, but the six I chose which looked huge in the garden centre were small when I put them in situ. But they were half price today, so I shall go back tomorrow and get some more, and hope I can still get a good deal. I can see the pond in my mind's eye now, and it will look lovely. On to Italian then for the last class of the year. I've been learning for 12 months, give or take! I'd love to say I'm fluent now but I can read and write very well, and understand quite a bit when it's spoken. It's just when I try to express myself that I hit a brick wall. Oh well. We've all signed up again for next year, so I can try and keep it going during the summer. Such a beautiful language. Bellissimo! Molto bellissimo!!! Sempre vivra!

Fresh Hell

Two men and a woman commentating on the Women's Final at Wimbledon for the BBC. Will it be two women and a man for the Men's Finals tomorrow? No, of course it won't. How can the BBC justify this blatant sexism? What possible reason can they give for choosing men when there are brilliant women available to do the job? It makes me sick, and angry. I'd love to grab Tony Hall - Lord Bloody Hall of Birkenhead - by his dangly bits and give them a good twist.

At least Serena won. And I went over the match in my mind as a distraction as I ushered at what must have been the most tedious event of the year. A local dancing school had hired the hall to show off their students, allegedly aged from 2 to 82. Well, there were plenty of tiny girls in a variety of costumes, muddling by on stage, bumping into each other, out of synch with the music, usually good for a laugh but not tonight, and a few fat middle aged women going through their paces, midriffs rolling to the beat, and occasionally there was something good. But mostly it was awful, mind-shatteringly dreadful. The Dorothy Parker quote "What fresh hell is this?" kept coming into my mind as yet another troupe of dancers took to the stage in a seamless flow. Dick sitting next to me was in agony, literally writhing in his seat with horror and occasionally whispering rude or funny comments in my ear as the mood took him. But we survived, and the Snape evening when we finally emerged into the dusk was calm, warm and clear. Beautiful.

Today the barley field has been full of Polish workers pulling up the last few pieces of rogue wheat. It's been hot, but they haven't paused in their work. Among them was my Icelandic friend, pale amongst the dark skins. I can't believe they are about to harvest. There is rain forecast for tonight and much of next week. Surely they'll wait until it's over?

A Near Miss

I nearly made a total ass of myself yesterday, and messed up an event too. Ushering in the smaller hall at Snape, where a group of young stars in the making - musicians and composers - were giving an end of course concert, I noticed an empty can of coke on a music stand and thought about removing it. If I'd read the programme, item 6: Coke Bins and Other Things, I'd have realised the can and its fellow on the other side of the stage were part of the percussion for this experimental piece. I went hot and cold when they played it. Lesson learned.

Earlier I had a run in with two essential pieces of equipment, and have had to give up on one of them. My camera has died and has to be replaced. I've probably had it for over 10 years, but even so. And my hedge-cutter sputtered and wouldn't work properly for ages but eventually got a grip, I hope for good. I need both to work, so must now replace the camera. I've decided to go for a reconditioned one which came out tops in the Which report. It's for sale on Amazon, and I liked the blurb that went with it: IMPORTANT NOTICE TO PURCHASER: WE MAKE THE BEST POSSIBLE TO PROVIDE RELIABLE PRODUCTS. BUT IT IS DELICATE AND ELECTRONIC PRODUCTS AND CAN RARELY HAPPEN THAT SOMEONE GIVE THE PROBLEM. BEFORE YOU GIVE HURRY ANSWERS PLEASE CONTACT US AND WE WILL DO EVERYTHING TO SOLVE. WE APOLOGIZE IF OUR WRITTEN ENGLISH IS NOT PERFECT, BUT WE ARE A YOUNG COMPANY COMING IN ENGLAND WITH INTENT OF DOING WELL.Good for you, I thought. I promise not to post a negative report on Amazon if the thing is a bit dicky, not before giving you a chance to put it right. Respect.

In the garden I continue the seemingly endless job of making Sissinghurst out of a donkey paddock, or a silk purse from a sow's ear if you like. There's still so much to do! By now my hands are aching, especially the joint around the thumb which I suppose must mean arthritis. But still I plough on. Yesterday Sarah came over and told me she'd been in every day to check on things while I was away, and thinks it's already perfect, especially the view which she does not share but envies. I've got three old friends coming for lunch on Sunday, and they haven't seen the garden this year. They will be the litmus test, their reactions the most telling. They are a well-mannered bunch, so I shall be watching the whites of their eyes for the truth. The last time one of them came she said: "Oh Denise, I'm so daunted by what you have to do", and then I wondered if I should be too. But I haven't been, not so far, though my energy if not my enthusiasm is definitely lacking a bit. 

It's not long now until the barley field will be harvested, one of the saddest days of the farming calendar, at least for me. I love the rich colours stretching down the hill, though the swaying in the breeze has stopped as the seeds have ripened and thickened and there's little space for the stalks to move. I know the stubble is pretty too, and beyond this is a field of wheat, gradually lightening and brightening as it too heads towards fulfilment. The sky is clear again and it looks like being another hot one. I wonder when I'll be able to look at a day like this and think: lounger! book! shade! drink!

Pond Life

The hated pond, too shallow, too beachy

  
I haven't posted much recently. I've had a lot on my mind: a few tonnes of earth and several hundred gallons of water to be precise. Plus three bags full of stones sir. Yup, it's the new pond. Disappointed isn't the word to use; gutted is nearer the mark. I'm not sure quite why it all went so badly wrong, but I knew as soon as the hole was dug that it wasn't what I wanted. Did I say anything? Not really. And so the liner was laid, the beach was created across about one third of the surface, and the shelves - far too shallow - were stocked with plants. I tried to like it, I really did. And then I knew that I never would, and I'd have to take action. Belatedly, I know. But was it too late? I told Sarah from Native Gardens that I wasn't happy with it, that there wasn't enough water and that the shelves were not deep enough. I told here it was my own fault for not being more specific before it was created, for not showing her pictures of what I wanted. She was very sympathetic, but not prepared to risk tearing the expensive liner by taking it up. And so I tried my old mate Julian Barclay who had wanted the contract in the first place. Yes, he'd send two men around, at the daily rate of £500 including VAT, but I'd have to take responsibility for any unpreventable damage. It probably wouldn't take them a day, but he couldn't let them out for just a few hours, could he? What would he do with them for the rest of the day? I'd like to have told him, but instead I took stock, thought hard, and knew I could do it myself. Or die in the trying.

Starting again, beach removed, pump in position

Removing the grassy edging

Lining peeled carefully back

Starting to lower the shelves by 6 inches

 

Liner back in place again

Starting to refill the newly spacious pond

Pond full again

Earth edging nearly back in place

Exactly a month to the day after the hole was dug I completed the job. Was I triumphaant? You bet your life I was. God, but I enjoyed it too, hard, tricky work though it was. I was careful, I was systematic, I was bloody determined. I never felt overwhelmed though it was a massive job, just confident and happy and relieved. David loaned me his powerful pump, and he and Judy delivered it to the Indian restaurant in Fram where they treated me to a meal. Wouldn't take a penny. Lovely, lovely people. That same evening I had the water emptied in a jiffy, pouring away effortlessly down the hill through the barley field. Then I removed the wretched stones that made up the stupid beach, bagging them up and cursing all the while. Next I shifted the earth that secured the liner in place around the edges, carefully removing it with a plastic spade and depositing it all around me. Lastly I peeled back the liner and soft under-fleece, gently as you like for this was the scariest bit, and I could see what needed to be done, and I knew I could do it. It took me three days, getting filthy and using every muscle I still have left, then sinking into a hot bath at the end of each day to soak away the aches and pains. I don't think I've ever got more satisfaction from a garden job.

It's not completely finished, because I'm going to put a few interesting stones around the edge to break up the wild flower seed I shall plant. But it's as near as damn it done. Now, instead of looking at it with a heavy heart and trying to work out how to make it OK, I'm feasting on it and pondering ways to make it beautiful as it matures. At the moment it's just a round hole full of water, but to me it's a rare sight to behold.

A Losing Battle

Did came round today to do some work, and his visit coincided with that of the Green Thumb woman who came to give me a quote for reviving the lawn. As she stood there with her hands on her hips kindly berating me for cutting the grass much too close in this hot weather, I saw him slink away behind his Landrover, for he was the perpetrator of the lawn murder when I was away on holiday. What possessed him to scrape it practically to the very roots? After she'd gone he told me he'd sat in my garden and had his lunch, and put the sprinkler on for a while, though he didn't mention the close shave. I couldn't be cross with him. He's not exactly Monty Don. As he stood scratching and rearranging his genitals as usual while telling me how much he hated the heat, clothes so filthy I don't know why he doesn't smell, he mentioned his little ride-on mower which easily fits through my gate and which he's getting rid of when he finds a replacement. Well, we made a deal there and then. A ride-on mower again! The hours I'll save cutting that bloody lawn, heaving myself up and down the slope. As these things happen, the man who takes aerial photos of houses turned up with a new one of mine, and I had to buy it. Pity both myself and the neighbours had the washing hanging out at the time it was snapped. And who is that old bag stooping ungracefully behind the summerhouse?

I went mad with the power hose today, cleaning the front door area and both rear terraces. Tomorrow I'll do the summerhouse stand as well. It's one of my favourite jobs, transforming the paving stones by removing the winter grime. Everything is gleaming again, and the baking sun dried it off quickly, including my sodden jeans. Yesterday in a fit of rage I removed the branches of the dead arbutus, and hacked great chunks off shrubs that had got too big for their boots and were overshadowing their less thuggish neighbours.This inappropriate pruning will probably come back to bite me, but it had to be done. I took huge piles of it to the council tip, and my rage subsided. Did's job today was to strim the nettles in the field and spray the life out of everything else that shouldn't be there. Then he removed the trunk of the dead arbutus and that of a rowan I cut down last year.

Living in the middle of the countryside does have its down side, though it's a mere blip compared to the bonuses. The wilderness continually tries to encroach and engulf, and you have to work hard to keep it at bay. It sneaks in when you turn away, and there it is, curling and weaving around your precious shrubs, briars, bindweed, nettles, that sticky creeper and all manner of evil growth. Its fecundity is almost appalling to witness, but catch it early and you're in with a chance.

Some LIKE It Hot

Living here in rural Suffolk, my favourite time is the summer evening when the dew is falling, the light is failing and the scents of the countryside are powerful and evocative. It always reminds me of camping as a child when the end of the day, and the beginning, were full of thrilling smells and sensations. It still feels like being on holiday, the sort where I turn longingly to my love and say, god, I'd give anything to live here. And now I do. Back from holiday in the south of France where the sea and the sky meet in an ever-changing variety of dark blue and turquoise, the exact shades impossible to describe, I'm relishing the more earthy greens and golds. The barley field behind me is still turning towards the colour of butter, while the trees and shrubs remain fresh looking, unbaked as yet by the hot sun.

My glamorous companion

I've brought the back garden under control again after my absence, clipping edges, planting pots of geraniums and weeding everywhere. It's looking nice, not lovely yet but agreeable. Coming home late last night I went down to the summerhouse to retrieve my book, and in the moonlight the garden seemed to be huge, gloriously spacious. The front is a different matter. Broad and open in the winter, it's completely overgrown, a riot of colour as they say. Some of most striking plants are self-seeded, especially the poppies which have gone completely mad everywhere. In this space I don't know where to begin. Soaking the densest spots has helped to loosen the soil before removing weeds as tall as myself. Japanese anenomies which I usually love have colonised one huge area, and the echinops with their blue thistly heads have taken over another. In the autumn I'll shift great batches of them to the back, but it's too late now. The intense heat is slowing me down and preventing me from working. There is no shade in this garden in the middle of the day, in the middle of the year.

Last night working at Snape I asked a few people who'd gone to see the Andreas Scholl workshop students give a recital of their polished music how it went. Everyone raved about the Swiss girl, Veronique Rapin, whose throaty mezzo voice and aria from Handel's Tamberlaine soared above the rest. Apparently she's been based in New York but is planning to move to the UK. Take note, Covent Garden. You'll be sorry if you don't.

The Great and the Good

They came from Aldeburgh, London, even Switzerland in the case of a couple who had flown in specially that morning, to attend the premier of Harrison Birtwhistle's The Cure. One area in the foyer was reserved for the Press, another for VIPs, and then there was the majority who are the stalwarts, who met and mingled and talked and talked and talked. They were silent during the production though, and I haven't seen an audience quite like this one before. It was very Covent Garden, very Glyndebourne, very Wagner. And of course very Britten. Even Jonathan Reekie, the former Snape boss, returned, adding a touch of glamour. It was the opening night of the Aldeburgh Festival, and I was lucky enough to be there. The place was packed and there was a waiting list. The music wasn't exactly beautiful, but it was dramatic, forceful and interesting. Librettos were handed out to everyone and they took them gratefully, eagerly, but it was too dark to read. At the end Birtwhistle and his team came to the front to take the applause which included loud cheers. As I said, not a typical audience. I really, really enjoyed being on duty.

The production was in one of the smaller halls, and the conductor sat at a table just in front of the first row. In the interval I tucked his chair right into the table to make room for people to get past, and immediately the person sitting behind it pulled it back out. I looked askance, but the beautiful boy in black sitting next to this person came over to me, introduced himself as the assistant conductor (!!) and said it was fine to push it in, but would I be kind enough to pull it back out again once everyone was seated so that the poor conductor wouldn't have to do it himself? I agreed, of course, and did so, crossing the hall from where I was sitting. He was inches away from it, and gave me the thumbs up and a beautiful grin. Being assistant conductor clearly didn't include this simple job.

The great and the good were still chattering away when I left. The performance had clearly excited everybody, and they all had so much to say. "Wha wha, wha wha wha," they went. "Wha wha wha wha." Yes, well. Whatever.

Reunions

I met up with Chikako Goto at Snape this afternoon, and handed over the artwork I've stored for her for the past year. She's setting up her new exhibition in the Pond Gallery, based on the performance last year of Owen Wingrave, and already she's planning her return next year with The War Requiem. She loves Snape! And Benjamin Britten's music!!! Her enthusiasm and optimism know no bounds. After we'd greeted each other with a hug her friend, a very pretty Japanese lady, put her hands together and did a formal bow. It felt very graceful returning her salute.

It was very hot at Snape, and so I decided to treat myself to an ice cream. As I wandered through the emporium I spotted the young Swiss mezzo from Tuesday, Veronique Rapin, browsing through some postcards. I couldn't resist it, and spoke to her again. She remembered me, and at once thanked me again for my kind words the other day. I told her I had gone home from the masterclass in an altered state, and had found a clip of her on Youtube singing Rodrigues in Handel's Alcina. "Oh, but that was years ago and I was so young then." Yes, I agreed, and her voice has become richer and more mature, but it was still wonderful then. I also told her I had found a recording of another mezzo singing the Tamburlaine aria she had so memorably performed, "and it was great but it wasn't thrilling like your piece was," I said, "or at least was at the end once you had relaxed." "Oh I was so nervous, singing for Andreas Scholl whom I admire so very much. It was terrifying." We discussed how he had made her work by dancing in front of her and getting her to copy him. He is a very good teacher, and a very kind and sensitive man, we agreed. I left her then and wished her luck in the future. I don't suppose she'll have given me another thought, a beautiful young girl on the threshold of a great career I hope. But I won't forget her. Music: I could talk about it and think about it and listen to it all day. It fires me up, it churns up my emotions, it calms me down, it relaxes me. It has all the answers to all the great questions. It is everything.

The North Wind Doth Blow

It's cold enough for snow, especially when you're standing in the teeth of the wind. Absolutely bitter it has been for days, and seems set to continue until Saturday when it finally veers through an easterly to a more moderate westerly. Yet again the men were out in the field, pulling up the unwanted wheat. They must have been freezing. I ventured out to water my pond, or at least the wild flower seeds surrounding it, and then nipped back inside again where it was cosy and warm. Helen had booked a table at a restaurant in Aldeburgh for lunch at 12, but I knew it would be a mistake. Bridge starts at Leiston, five miles away, at 1.15, but players need to be there by 1pm so they know how many tables to set. I told her, I persuaded her to miss dessert, I chivvied her, but still we didn't get there until just after 1.10. Walking in to that crowded hall with everyone settled at their tables was an experience I do not want to repeat. I approached the director: "Mo," I said. "I know we're terribly late and if it's too much we can easily leave." But she wouldn't hear of it, and had us sorted in seconds. Not so some of the others who would tell you what to wear if they thought they'd get away with it. All of this brings the naughty schoolgirl out in Helen, and she stuck out her lower lip and her chest and gave as good as she got. Good for her: she's braver than me.

I came home via the council tip again where I deposited no fewer than 10 bags of stones, rocks, pieces of brick and nasty clumps of clay. It feels so good to get rid of this stuff. Val is coming tomorrow to help me clear some of the front beds. Everything is burgeoning wonderfully out there, but triffids are growing too and they have to go.

As the sun slowly slipped towards the horizon I found the remains of last night's bottle of wine, and was just about to take it to the summerhouse when I looked into the garden room. It was bathed in golden light, warm and welcoming. I took my glass in there instead and settled down with my holiday reading which I've picked up too soon and can't put down. It's M M Kaye's The Far Pavilions, a massive read which has completely engaged my interest, and if I'm not careful I'll have read it before I go away. What an erudite writer she was, so well read. I'd give my toe nails to have an ounce of her talent.

From the Sublime

They were out there again today, the three farmers, while the icy north wind blasted the countryside. I stepped outside briefly to hang up the washing, and it was shades of Mrs Tiggywinkle as the shirts took on the shape of people and the sheet became a bloated white monster. But there were no little ones to hide fearfully behind my voluminous skirts: the last one left on the 6pm train on Sunday.

Sid called by, ostensibly just to check if I was still mole free. But something wasn't quite right as he mooched around, and eventually hetold me he hadn't been very well. Not the hip this time, which is still causing him gyp, but anxiety attacks. "I'm right for a coupla weeks, then that hit me again low in me belly. Worried, like, hurtin'." I commiserated with him, and then he said, "I can tell you, you're right nice and you won't think I'm cracked." And so he told me he'd met a woman who he liked very much, and she seemed to like him. Only she'd been in three abusive relationships, and he was worried that he might do something wrong and scare her off. She'd moved up from Berkshire to escape the last one, and he wasn't sure how to behave. He was worried half to death. All the time he talked his chin wobbled and tears welled in his eyes without spilling. Oh Sid! I told him he's a lovely, gentle man, and that's why she likes him. He should just be himself and let it take as much time as it needed. "Enjoy it," I suggested. "It sounds like a wonderful thing to have happened. Good for you!" He left at last, telling me it had helped to talk to a sympathetic friend. Oh Sid, I say again. Any time.

From Sid I went to Snape for an Andreas Scholl masterclass. I'd only been to one before, and that was Pavarotti. I thought it might be quite entertaining. Wow! Was it ever. The first two singers were sopranos, lovely, competent, moving. Andreas was very articulate and thoughtful, obviously full of musical ideas and suggestions. Then came a fabulous young counter-tenor who already seemed to be the full package, and his time with Andreas was creative and vocally glorious, his singing so expressive and beautiful. Lastly came a young Swiss girl, petite, dark, very attractive, so tense you could have bounced off her. She sang an aria from Handel's Tamerlano, her voice completely incongruous from such a small person, a mezzo verging on contralto. The music was incredibly beautiful, but her singing was dead, dull, awful, her face an agonised pantomime. I cringed, and wanted to leave it was so painful to hear. She must have been nervous. She held her right hand stiffly, fingers straight and stuck together. Oh god, what was wrong? Andreas knew. He got her to sway with him, to mirror him as he danced and she sang. The voice started to lighten, the throat open out, the chest expand and relax, then she began smiling, and suddenly you heard the full power and magic of her voice and it was like being wafted up to heaven and held in ecstasy there. I felt an explosion of emotion inside myself, but I managed to contain it. Afterwards I spoke to her. "You have a really great voice," I told her, like she didn't know. "I know I'll hear it again." She thanked me, and I walked away knowing I'd witnessed something special.

What a day. I ended it in the summerhouse with Sarah and a bottle of wine. It might have been the sublime to the ordinary, but don't knock the ordinary. It's the stuff that the days are made of, when the dreams are done.

The Chaff From The Wheat

As I worked in the garden today three men appeared in the field behind me, chatting amongst themselves - an almost unheard of occurrence. I looked up to see who they were and they all waved merrily at me. It was my young Icelandic friend, plus Alys's husband and father, and the job they were doing couldn't have changed in centuries. By hand, bent double, they were walking through the barley picking out clumps of black wheat which, if left, would adulterate the crop and spoil it. It was a medieval job, timeless and back-breaking. Staying in a group, they worked their way systematically from side to side, stopping to load up the truck when their bundles got too large to carry. Part of me wanted to join in, as it's the sort of job I like, but I had my own labours to attend to. Sarah from Native Gardens came and prepared the pond for planting, tucking the edges of the lining under the soil and sowing wild flower seeds all around. It looks a bit bare at the moment, but it'll soon be full of marginals and lilies, and once she left I started planting around the perimeter. Lobelia cardinale went in in a clump of three, five iris Siberica made another grouping, and other perennials that I've never had before and can't remember the names of, though they're all carefully labelled, were added to the picture. Otherwise I continued hoeing the large area around it, and now it is all clear and neat: the pond makes just the sort of eye-catching feature I hoped for.

I was accompanied by a blackbird all day, which serenaded me as I toiled. Hearing it drew my attention again to the fact that it sang alone, for even the skylarks were silent. Later a blue tit sat on the chimney and carolled away, but it is a desperate situation and I can't believe that it's getting worse, not better. I wonder if a CD of birdsong played at full volume outside would entice birds from other gardens to favour mine? Or I could just listen and pretend it was real.

Dumping All the Rubbish

Kitty always brings the barn owl with her: invariably on our evening walk we spot it quartering the field behind Sarah's house, and at one point it flew straight at us, its little creamy face focussed and keen. She grabbed my arm in delight, and made me stand still while we watched its aerial peregrinations. Luckily for me she always brings flowers too, and her gift this time was a lush creation from an award-winning florist, flowers hand-picked by herself. Before she arrived I took a load of garden rubbish to the council tip, including the rocks and stones unearthed by the pond diggers. A few houses ago this used to be our near-weekly sport, heaving mountain of weeds and clippings to our local depot, and feeling that wonderful sense of satisfaction as we left it behind, another clean slate. For a good few years now the gardens have been huge, and everything disappeared on the bonfire regardless of the size of the heap. I can still have fires here, but it was good to clear out the unwanted debris. But I'd forgotten how busy these places get, especially on a Saturday, and especially too as this one 10 miles from me is the only free one remaining. Stressful isn't the word, as you wait in a queue for a slot, and then lug your bags to the right container, hoping one of the attendants won't spot that some of the contents should have been deposited elsewhere. But the feeling of "good riddance" was as fresh as ever as I drove away, much lighter.

The pond has been filled with water and I'm awaiting the return of Sarah tomorrow who will finish off the edges, and maybe do the planting too. I dreamt last night that she had come while I was out, and the whole pond had been covered with earth and planted with hidden marginals. The trees behind it were festooned with plants that apparently rooted into the branches and then hung low over the pond. "Gosh," I thought, "isn't that marvellous, how tidy it all is," before clocking that actually there was no visible water.

The swathe cut around the field

I must stop having these anxiety dreams. All will be well and all will be well. All is well.

Lark Rise in Cransford

I was woken this morning by the sound of horses going past my house, hooves ringing on the tarmac. I came to briefly, noted what I was hearing, and promptly returned to sleep only to include them in my dream. I was trying to smuggle a woman with children out of some bad place - it was unspecified and unclear where it was but the job was urgent. The children were pale and listless, and the converyance in which I had hidden them was airless and very hot. I hitched the vehicle to a horse when the engine failed, and was urging it up a steep hill while its feet kept slipping and skidding backwards. My anxiety was growing unbearably, and when we finally reached the top of the incline I looked inside to check on the children but they weren't moving and .... I woke up with a jerk. Horrible dream! Where does this stuff come from?

Larks soared all day above the barley field yesterday, rising so high that at one point I couldn't even see them with the binos. They are bursting with joy, though on a sunny, still day who isn't? Their song is continuous, compelling, and to listen to them is to smile with pleasure. They nest on the ground where the crops conceal their babies, and maybe they feel safe now because I haven't seen a magpie for several days. When I could still focus on their flight I noticed that they seemed to spiral upwards and then hover, fluttering, for several minutes, singing all the time. It's an amazing feat of flight and stamina.

I came face to face with a big old rat last night, my second in as many months. It was the sort of evening when you just couldn't be indoors, still light at 9.30 when I'd eaten my meal and succeeded in knocking a spatula covered in food onto the floor, scattering the mess far and wide. I strolled down the lane, wandered into the field, sat outside the summerhouse, just being part of the lovely day. It was the first really warm evening when no jacket was needed. Just across the lane from me was the rat, and we both stood still and watched each other for a bit. It was a mangy thing with a stunted tail, and it didn't look as if it could run away if it tried. There's nothing like coming face to face with your worst fears, and feeling them dissolve. It wasn't a lovely thing, but it wasn't terrifying either. Country rats are probably different from urban ones: they aren't fresh out of sewers, and they don't have a cunning, desperate look about them. Eventually I moved, and it turned and disappeared into the ditch. I walked on into the night.

The Earth Moved

Research has revealed the "appalling care for the elderly in their homes", according to today's paper. But I've been saying this for  years, ever since I became elderly, technically at least. Well, more like weeks actually. But I know it's true. For example I have to make my own meals, do my own gardening, clean my house myself. Appalling, yes. But will anything be done about it? Probably not.

In the spirit of not even being able to dig my own pond, Seth and Jack from Native Gardens arrived today to do the job for me. It was just as well they did as it was a heck of a job. The pond measures three metres in diameter and is one metre deep at most, so a lot of soil came out of the hole. We expected it to be clay but in fact there was very little apart from a layer at the top. The rest was lovely topsoil, but the deeper they dug the more horrible rubbish they discovered, including at one point a small piece of asbestos. It seems that whoever built the various extensions on this house buried their nasty detritus and covered it up again. I wouldn't have minded a Victorian rubbish heap, but this was very 21st century: cans, bottles, plastic bags. The guys bagged the mess, and the spoil was used to make a bank behind the pond, which will be planted with wild flower seed. It'll be a picture when it's matured a bit.

A young man on a ride-on mower turned up in the field next to me and proceeded to cut a swathe around the edge, and into the barley itself. Odd, I thought, and I popped around to see what he was doing. Cutting out the rogue black wheat that threatened the quality of the crop, apparently. The upside for me was a lovely new path around two sides of my boundary. He turned out to be from Iceland of all places, a musician working here for the summer to perfect his already fluent English. He loves Suffolk which he says is in stark contrast to the flat, frozen, treeless landscape of his home."It's beautiful though, Iceland, isn't it?" I asked him. "You would probably think so," he replied with a sour grin, "but I don't."

Much later, when everyone had left and I'd eaten my supper, I walked into the field and followed the new path around the edge of my garden. The air was sweet with the scent of new-mown grass and barley, and the sky was just beginning to show pink. Nothing moved, not the graceful heads of the barley stalks, not a hare's listening ears showing above the crop. It was silent too apart from the final song of the blackbird. I looked up at my garden from the field end where the pond is now sited, and it looked beautiful, like a garden you might spot from a train and stare longingly at until it was out of sight. My heart swelled with happiness; I could feel it growing inside my ribs. Some of those old cliches are so appropriate.

The First Cut

Seth making headway

Pond with backdrop, as yet unlined

Stroke of Luck

Village life is lovely. Small statement, big truth. The village I live in is spread along nearly a mile of lane humorously called The Street. At one end lives the man who sells vegetables from a stall beside his gate, great veggies and lovely fresh eggs. I'm at the other end, the last cottage before the 30mph signs. There's no village green, no pub, no school, no focal point apart from the village hall where parish meetings are held and the occasional celebratory function is arranged, though the less said about those the better. People are not on top of each other, they don't interfere or fuss or push themselves on you. But they're there. This morning Mike, a village stalwart enjoying his retirement, stopped by to deliver the parish magazine. As we chatted I asked him if he knew of someone who might water my garden while I'm away on holiday. "I'll do it," he responded immediately. "I didn't mean you," I said quickly," but he was adamant. "It'll be a pleasure," he told me, and he meant it. I took him into the back where the donkey paddock he remembered has been transformed, and he was full of praise. I know he'll enjoy caring for my plants in my absence, and I couldn't be more relieved that someone responsible will be keeping an eye on things. I suppose good neighbours can be found everywhere, but I like to think of them as a village speciality.

On Thursday my new pond is being dug out, and then later the lining will go down, a bank will be built behind it from the clay spoil and spread with wild flower seeds, and planting will take place. I'm having water avens, flag irises, great spearwort, common water crowfoot, bog bean, amphibious bistort, brooklime and marigolds, and ten black ramshorn snails. It's going to be beautiful, a real eye catcher. And tomorrow the man who built my summerhouse is returning to do a few repairs, especially to part of the roof that suffered in the last terrible storms a few months ago. Given that the company is based in Scotland I feared that I would never see them again.

Last night I went to Italian feeling down, arriving a bit late, and was greeted rapturously by Wendy whom I sit next to. "I'm so glad you've come," she cried. "We're working in couples on this exercise, and I've actually done all the work for a change to save you doing it!" She was so pleased with herself, and disappointed to the same degree when she realised we haven't got to that section yet. We chatted about our mutual Altzheimer's fears, and I left feeling that my brain is just fine, perhaps a little stressed still from all the changes I've made, but in full working order. How else could I more than anyone in the class have remembered both the past and future tenses of all the verbs we discussed? Sara bene, as they say in Italy. It will be OK.