Trivia

I spent an hour yesterday sharpening my spade and edge cutter with a stone sharpener which is a wedge of graphite or cobolt carefully created in a factory. Anyway, the men in the hardware store told me not to drop it on a hard floor whatever I did as it would shatter, and I was very careful with it. I was getting the tools ready for Nick who is coming to perform surgery on my lawn on Friday and because he cycles up from Peasenhall he won't have any of his own tools with him. What a difference it made! I tried them both out on a patch of lawn when I'd finished and the edger especially sliced through the tough fibres of the grass like a blade through low-fat Benecol. Just as I was finishing Caroline turned up with her Kenwood mixer. She had told me on Sunday that her blender jug had broken and she was blowed if she was going to buy another. I remembered from a few days earlier that I had inexplicably found no fewer than three in my cupboard when I made the first soup of the winter (courgette and potato), and that she was welcome to one of them. We tried to fit them onto her mixer with no success, but she wondered what would happen if she just held it in place and Bingo! So she left happy.

I've ordered two rugs from John Lewis with the proviso that I will return whichever one is least suitable. You can do that with John Lewis, bless them, and they even give you 90 days to decide. The rug is to sit between the sofas in my sitting room, in front of the fire, to replace the temporary one which really belongs in the kitchen, especially in the winter. I've been searching rather half-heartedly for a while, but last week I had a more serious look and to my amazement I found these two which are the right size and, I think, the right colour. I think the lighter one will be best, but you don't know until they are placed in situ. Here they are, the smaller one the Kabir Goby and the larger one the Osta Kabir. Hopefully they'll arrive when I'm in. It's a busy week this week though I'll be here all day Friday with Nick. On Saturday I'm off to London for the day to see the Agnes Martin exhibition at the Tate Modern before it closes. It comes highly recommended, with a capital H and R.

And so the day ended with the first Italian evening class of the new academic year. It was fun to see everyone, and to meet the new influx of joiners which has brought us up to 20. Predictably I know a few of these already. It really is a small world. I came home with my head reeling and fell onto the sofa to watch a recorded University Challenge, followed by The Catch, an everyday story of trawlermen on the high seas. Both are so relaxing I was like a marshmallow when I finally went to bed at 11pm.

Keeping On Top

Forget watering in dry spells and deadheading. The number one rule in all gardening books should be: Keep your mouth closed when you're working with very well-rotted compost. Or perhaps everyone else already knows this? I fiddled around in the bin area for a while but the recent heavy rain has left the piles sodden so I'm leaving them to dry out a bit. Instead I turned to that perennial mountain of weeds, the bottom of the garden. How many times have I laboured down here only to find it's covered again when I turn my back? Too many to count. But you have to have a sense of humour when you're gardening, and a heap of optimism, and I try to cultivate both.

 My spirits were duly exalted when I looked out of my bedroom window at the front garden which I often complain about but which is actually lovely. It's the overview that impresses here. Needless to say there are many weeds but I try to ignore them until I have time to deal with them.

Anyway, I collected so many weeds and branches from the pond area that I decided to store them in the garage until I can take them to the tip. I can't risk leaving them out in whatever rain is to come because they are horrible to transport when they're wet, and any additional soil that comes off them can be swept up and recycled. I'm not just a pretty face. But why oh why didn't I make a gate in the fence between me and the field? There's a whole strip of my land out there where I could have just left the weeds to rot, out of sight. But trekking all the way around with a laden wheelbarrow several times is just too strenuous. Silly old me.

And while I was taking a photo of the weeds I saw a silouette of myself on the ground and photographed that too. I think it's rather flattering, but by then I had washed my hair and changed because I was going out to lunch. What long legs I have. Is it a selfie?

When I came home I toyed with the idea of cutting the grass, but the evening was too lovely to waste and I had already spent most of the weekend labouring in my field. So off I trotted down the lane, and I made a big sweep of it, through Joan and John's garden, round the back of Patrick's, over towards the hall's lodge, up to the top and back along The Street. It took me an hour and a half and it was lovely. The sun set before I was halfway round, but the evening was completely windless and warm, so I had to peel off my over-protective layers. When I came in I looked across my kitchen, and to my astonishment I spotted a snaking path of stones on the windowsill. I know they must have been there at least a couple of weeks, the work of a previous visitor, but I honestly hadn't registered them before. They're not exactly invisible.

Horse Sense

I was working in the garden yesterday when I spotted a steaming pile of what a horse does best just along the lane, so I downed tools, grabbed my wheelbarrow and spade, and nabbed it for my new improved compost heaps. I told a friend and she was appalled. But I'm so serious about these compost bins that I'm thinking of stowing a small shovel and bucket in the car, for I often pass similar freshly-produced piles and it's such a shame to leave them to be ground down by passing vehicles.

Still in an equine vein I watched a brilliant Icelandic film called Of Horses and Men. I don't know why but something told me to record it, and I'm so glad I did. It was extraordinarily powerful and beautiful, filmed in an isolated community where the horse is both the currrency and the object of everyone's lives. Locals played the parts, but the wild horses were the stars. It was a series of short stories, and the opener began with a very tall, fastidious, tweed-clad man getting his dainty little pony ready for a ride. The camera panned to various houses dotted around the wild landscape where neighbours with binoculars were waiting for his approach. He mounted, and he was off, but the pony was not trotting or cantering but pacing, high stepping, very fast. It was amazing to watch the speed with which this little pony ran, her rider sitting very upright and proud, his legs hanging well below her girth. Anyway, our uptight man gets more than he bargained for. A black stallion very evidently on heat takes a shine to the small white pony, and having broken through a fence ravishes the pony with her rider in situ. It was so shocking, so unbelievable, that I sat stunned, unable to move. He took it personally of course, his dignity pricked (no pun intended) and when he got home he shot his beloved pony. Each story was as dramatic in its different way. An alcoholic man rides his pony way out into the ocean to buy high octane vodka from a passing Russian ship, the freezing waves crashing around them, him immune in his alcoholic state, the land a dot on the horizon. And there was much, much more. I've kept the recording. One day I might want to watch it again.

It's been a day of baking, casseroles and soup. The kitchen is filled with beguiling smells, and soon the freezer will be stocked as well. I had planned to wash the mud off every pair of boots I possess, all caked after being stored away like that all winter, but the rain came too soon. I have a new resolution: to clean my boots when I come in each time, however tired I am, and leave them in a state of readiness for the next time. And pigs might fly.

Hou can one person have so many booots, all of them muddy?

Small World

Truly it is a small world. OK, it is literally a small world, the patch of my everyday life which extends about 15 miles inland from the coast, and around seven miles from top to bottom. Even so I'm always surprised when I encounter people I've met somewhere else, and we have to engage in that dance where we try to identify the thing we have in common. Today at CAB I was immediately recognised by Catherine who is a fellow Snape usher and opera lover. She told me that the feted Glyndebourne production of Handel's Saul is coming to Norwich in November, and so I rushed home after my training and booked a ticket. Other advisers are familiar from a singing group I belonged to briefly, or sometimes just from encountering in Waitrose. When I first moved to Suffolk I was told to never fall out with anyone (not that I would!) because everyone is connected and word gets around. I can well believe it. Two of my friends are very close to the person who is training me, and I know the boss from several concerts we've both been to, separately. So I was hugely embarrassed when my water bottle exploded like a rocket just before the film 45 Years started on Sunday, and I realised she was sitting just behind me. At CAB I'm now officially known as The Philistine.

Unravelled

I moved a few hundred logs from where I'd tossed them last week to clear space for the compost bin, to their new semi-permanent site in a walled alcove. They are a year old now, the result of felled and reduced trees in the garden and along the tall hedge. They can join the main collection in the woodshed in a year or two when they've weathered and dried out. I'm quite pleased to have such a nice collection of free fuel, though I paid to have them cut down in the first place.

While Val worked in the front garden removing two horrible big succulent plants which she loves and I loathe, the sun came out and I decided to quickly mow the lawn. I had an hour or so to go before I had to dash off to meet Sammy for a live screening of Aida from Sidney Harbour, so I threw myself at it and got around with time to spare. My plan was to have supper at Waitrose, do a bit of shopping and then zip off to the cinema. But it all went terribly wrong. I ordered a lasagne - "won't be more than a few minutes" promised the assistant, and so I sat looking at the crossword instead of doing my shopping while I waited. Twenty five minutes later, by which time I was a nervous wreck, a nasty, shrivelled, burnt offering appeared at my table under the guise of lasagne, next to a nice fresh salad. They offered to get me another one but I was too hungry and too late by then, so I ate what I could of it anyway and they refunded the price. I had to buy a packet of crisps to stave off the stomach pangs. By now the queues for check-out were long, so I grabbed what I could carry and staggered to the basket-only counter. And outside the rain hammered down, bounced off the ground, like a monsoon. Crawling along over lanes turned to lakes on an empty stomach stuffing crisps, shaking sodden hair out of my eyes and trying not to skid, I could have wept. But there was Sammy at the cinema, glasses of wine in hand, having booked the luxury seats with tables between them, masses of leg room and 100% clear view of the screen.

It was wonderful, the soprano Latonia Moore and the mezzo Milijana Nikolic beyond glorious. I counted at least six genres in this extremely flambuoyant production - but it IS Aida - including Star Wars, Colonel Gadaffi uniform fettishism, Follies Bergeres, Hair, Nazi supremacism and revivalist Pharaoh chic. But it all made for an interesting spectacle and the music was perfect. In bed later I decided to count Verdi operas, but couldn't get beyond 10 though I couldn't stop trying. And so my ravell'd sleeve of care was not knitted, and I woke this morning feeling like a sleepy elephant. I still do. Just call me Nellie.

So, Nellie and Helen went off to the White Horse at Badingham for the fabulous pensioner's lunch (she didn't quite qualify but they didn't ask) and when I came back home in the rain and cold there was only one thing to do. Here it is:

Making a Stink

Last night I went out for a stroll, past the church and then around to the hilly lane. A pipistrelle bat followed me, its chaotic flight looping backwards and forwards above my head. It was still and quiet, and as I returned and glanced across the field to the side of my house a barn owl glided low above the ploughed earth, rose over the trees opposite and disappeared into one of Alyss's barns, currently full of barley. So Hector was right, there is an owlish inhabitant there. Sorry Olivia, better luck next time.

This morning I cycled into Fram to get my paper and well, say what you will, but a quiet country lane, the sun appearing from behind the clouds to gently warm the air, and the smell of manure all around me and I was away. Sheer heaven. When I came to the steep hill I was amazed to find that I was up for letting go of the brakes and just going for it. I did slow slightly where the lane plunged precipitously, but mostly I sped down and it was wonderful. I felt no fear at all. I did some more dragging of compost into the newly-sited bin when I got back, but that's hard work, and despite there being no animal matter in there at all, the stink was ripe. I was saved by the rain, and so to Aldeburgh again for 45 Years, the relationship drama with Charlotte Rampling and Tom Courtenay. Bittersweet it was, sad and funny and lovely, but her expression at the end left you in no doubt that all was not going to be well any more. 45 years they may have clocked up together, but was it worth it? I scanned the screen for Sammy who was an extra in the Norwich street scenes but couldn't see her. A good advertisement for Norfolk though: Norwich and the Broads looked gorgeous.

Recycling

What a hectic few days. On Thursday I went to see Lampedusa, a play about immigrants trying to get to this tiny Greek island in flimsy boats, as part of the High Tide Festival. Two friends and I perched on circular benches in the round tent on Aldeburgh beach with 77 other people, while the wind howled outside and sucked at the canvas walls. I sat next to a scruffy man who moved slightly to make room for me and then with his hand dried the wet mark his water bottle had made where I was to sit. I smiled at him and sat down, and we waited for the play to begin. And he was the star! Inches away from me, still seated, he played out the part of Stefano, the fisherman who daily pulls bodies out of the sea. Much of the time he stared at me as he spoke, and I stared back, utterly transfixed. After half an hour or so it was the turn of Denise (no relation) to sit there, and again I became part of the play as she directed her comments right into my face. It was a powerful play made more dramatic by the small venue and the proximity of the actors. But catastrophe struck half an hour before the end as a woman got up to leave and then collapsed in the doorway. Denise had to stop her stream of words as people rushed to help the woman, and I felt sorry for her and put my hand on her arm and said "What a shame. You are awesome." And she smiled without looking at me, trying, I realised, not to lose her place. When all was well again she resumed her role, and at the end the audience, all 80 of us, stamped and cheered. It was a brilliant play, acted with extraordinary pathos.

On Friday Sammy came over to help me empty the compost, a sturdy assembly of wooden pallets containing all the grass cuttings, fallen leaves and dead flowers amassed over a year. But as we forked and raked it all out it became apparent that this was going to be a massive job, and by 1pm we were both mildly shattered. We adjourned to the summerhouse with courgette quiche made earlier that morning by me, salad and new potatoes, and a lovely bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. As far as the work was concerned that was it. Neither of us could summon the energy to resume after lunch, and so we nattered until Sammy left mid afternoon and I promptly fell asleep. Anyway, under her direction I've now clered the space out completely and moved the pallets right to the back of the allotted area. I need two lots apparently, and today I had a spot of luck. In Woodbridge to look at trees, I stopped off in the town centre and spotted a pile of pallets beside a huge skip outside the furniture shop. They said I could have them, but they weighed a ton, so I waited on the road until a young man came along. I asked if he would help me in return for some cash, and he said he'd be happy to do it and needed no ;payment. Carefully he loaded the four of them into my boot, and I had to force him to accept a fiver for his pains. What a lovely person.

Massive heap of compost out of its bin

Bin put back on cleared land, waiting for return of compost

They're still in the back of the car. Why didn't I ask him to come back with me? Anyway, Sammy's pleased with my progress. She thinks I'm going to empty both compost bins out twice a year and give the contents a fork over before returning them. As I sit here with every muscle aching I can only think of one thing: dream on Sammy.

Small World

Helen invited me to lunch today prior to playing bridge - a 'light' lunch as usual, the table positively heaving with food -  and she'd invited another friend to join us. As we were introduced and shook hands we both looked at each other and said "I know you!". But could we work out where we'd met before? We went through everything we could have in common, but nada. And so we set upon the food, the two of them telling me about scams that had emptied their bank accounts of thousands that same week. The friend, Barbara, had had one of those phone calls supposedly from the bank's fraud squad, telling her she had been hit by hackers and asking her to call them back on the number on her statement so she would know it was a genuine call. When she did, they identified themselves as the fraud squad, but in reality when she put the phone down they had stayed on the line and she had just got straight through to them again. She lost over £6000. Helen's was a different scam, with someone intercepting an online purchase and clearing out her account, again of over £6000 which was on the way to her savings account. They were both devastated, even though they would get their money back. They felt violated, idiotic. What horrible people there are out there.

We got onto other stuff, as you do, and eventually as usual I had to tell Helen that we had to be out of the house in 10 minutes or we'd be late for bridge. She knows I'm never turning up late again and having all the other members glare at us as they have to rearrange the whole system. So we gathered ourselves up and prepared to go when Barbara suddenly said to me "Are you an usher at Snape?" That was it! We hadn't actually manned the same door but we'd been on duty together. What a relief. And so she said "Did you hear about the Romanians?" No, I told her. What about them? A troupe of Romanian musicians had been hired for the second year running to perform at the Snape Proms, despite having stripped the dressing rooms before they left last year! They took towels, soap, irons, kettles, mugs, dressing gowns, mirrors - you name it, they took it. And they did the same again this year! And to make matters worse, they had a row on stage in front of hundreds of concert-goers! It wouldn't happen at the Albert Hall.

Fruits of the Fields

Up again at 7am for the second time in two days, though not woken gently with a cup of tea this time. It was strange being out and about well before 9am, people rushing to work, schoolchildren "with shining morning face, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school". The towns I drove through seemed fresh, newly cleansed, and Waitrose where I briefly stopped was near empty, a complete joy. I got a free cup of latte with my few pieces of shopping, and as I was still early I sat in my car and drank it. Lovely. Ready now to face the day. It was my first CAB training session, and a complete eye-opener. It was a baptism of fire, but though it was tough, and not just by my reckoning, it made me more determined and sure that this is what I want to do. I've been so lucky in my life, so privileged, and have rarely been knocked flat to the ground. Other people's lives are not so agreeable, and they deserve respect and help if they ask for it. I'm daunted by the sheer amount of information that needs to be absorbed, not the answers themselves but the knowlledge of where to go to look for them. I'm sure I'll get there. Everyone else seems to have done.

I came home via Ruth's and we went for a walk through her local fields. As everywhere else, the blackberries are non-existent. It may be early days, but it's not looking good. At the weekend I got a good haul from the wild plum trees at the bottom of my garden, and they've been cooked and frozen ready to go on my breakfast oats when blueberries and nectarines have gone from the shelves. Amazingly I still have some blackberries left over from last year. But the next crop will be sloes, which are already looking fat, and I'm planning on making a good few litres of sloe gin to keep me and mine warm through the winter. I might get myself a little hip flask to make bridge go with a swing.

Pickin' a Chicken

What a kerfuffle! Olivia had not been here a few hours when we'd done catching up and decided to go for a walk. Just down the lane on the edge of a field lay a hen's egg, completely intact, and a pile of roughly pulled out feathers. We went over to investigate, and saw the rear end of a chicken sticking out from under the hedge. We looked at each other in bafflement, and then touched the hen which was alive but not moving. Had it been attacked, or run over? What to do? We went across to Joan and John who have chickens down the end of their long garden, but they were not in. So we decided to have our walk and then work out what to do when we got back. It was just glorious out in the fields, chilly, windy, dull, faintly drizzly but somehow invigorating as only the beginning of autumn can be. We were dismayed to see that Patrick's wheat has not been harvested and it's looking past its best, to say the least. What could have caused such a delay, and is it now ruined? I'll find out next week when they come to tea. We tramped and tramped up hill and down dale, into the woods and up through the still absent John and Joan's. The hen was there as before, and so we set about trying to find its owner. John, who has the beautiful German shepherd Lucy, came back with us and agreed that popping it in with other hens was probably the best temporary solution, and so saying he lifted the chicken up and plopped it into Olivia's arms. Olivia is hen phobic, and to make matters worse it evacuated its bowels all down her clothes. She blanched, she looked ill, but she stoically carried it down to the hen pen where the others promptly started pecking it while it just sat there blinking. We couldn't leave it, and so we removed it to the compost heap where it crept into the corner again and crouched down. Eventually we found the owners, Ben and Dorothy, who went to retrieve it. I hope they managed to save it and that it's OK now. I'll find out eventually. In the meantime I decided to keep the egg for my troubles. 

Today we took a long walk across Westleton Common and the heath through the back of Minsmere to the sea. It was much nicer today with lots of sunshine and a sea breeze, and we followed the path past the flaming heather, in full bloom at this time of year, and the woods with their many fallen trees, left where they land nowadays to encourage wildlife. We stopped to eat our packed lunch and chat while the sun poured down on us, marvelling at the change in the weather. And we ended up in the coastguard cottages on top of the cliff with a cream tea in the National Trust tearooms. I bought a beautiful soft blue rug, the twin of a green one Kitty bought a few years ago. A wonderfully satisfying day. What a treat.

Pushing the Boundaries

I love reading about people in extremes of circumstances who manage to survive against the odds. Whether they are battling up freezing mountains while suffering from altitude sickness, or staggering across baking deserts with blinding headaches and stomach upsets - and every variation in between - my admiration for such people knows no bounds. Perhaps even more inspiring are those who have not chosen their particular discomfort but are trapped, imprisoned, cast adrift, but who hang on anyway enduring appalling conditions. I don't enjoy reading about them. Whatever the cause, whatever the nature of their trials, I am in utter awe of them. For I believe I don't have that particular gene, and would lie down and wait to die at the first serious obstacle. This may be why I never get into a hot scented bath, never hop into the car for a long or short journey, never climb into my heavenly white bed at night (electric blanket on? then just press a switch), never even turn on the washing machine or dishwasher without thanking my lucky stars for the luxuries at my fingertips, and the gift of choice. And so the Syrian refugees we see every night on TV who are so desperate to get a foothold somewhere they may eventually be able to call home after losing theirs touch me deeply. Can we even begin to imagine losing not only access to a comforting bath or safe place to sleep at night but everything we held dear, everything? It's a harrowing, terrible situation. There but for the grace of god.

For the first time since summer began I closed all of my kitchen blinds this evening. It was quite dark outside when I began cooking supper, and I suddenly craved the cosiness when the black night is shut away. By chance I also had the Rayburn on, unusual for the past few months as I've used my electric hob for cooking casual meals. But tonight I had my whole crop of beetroot to roast, and a gammon joint to bake in its coat of brown sugar and cloves. The warmth from the range filled the kitchen, and the cooking smells wafted deliciously around my head. Summer's great, but winter has its charms too. Who'd prefer to sit outside in the sunshine sipping a cold glass of wine when they could be curled up indoors like this? Um, well .....

The Serpent in Eden

Such a lovely morning for a change, and so I walked along the beach at Dunwich where the waves were ginormous as they crashed onto the shingly shore. Funny, because there was almost no wind and the sea itself was calm. The gradient is very steep down there, though, and the incoming tide must have been reacting to the fierce incline. Whatever the scientific explanation, it was exhilarating to dodge the water, and to witness its power. We stomped along for a mile or so a few feet up from the froth, and then settled on the pebbles to enjoy the drama. It was a marked improvement for me after two weeks of feeling unwell. I woke after a nap on Sunday before I left Cambridge and suddenly realised I felt great. And I still do.

The garden is now completely out of control, but luckily Val is available to give me a hand, and I have a man coming in two weeks to cut the beds out according to my plan. I've pretty well finalised it now, and I think the new shape will provide the template for a really good design. If you had told me 18 months ago that I'd still be at this stage of preparation I might have thought twice about buying a house with a donkey paddock for a garden. No I wouldn't. But I'm still a long way off where I want to be. A long way, and an awful lot of work.

After a few rainy intervals during the afternoon the evening ended as the day began - calm, warm, bright and lovely. I wandered around the jungly garden with my secateurs, clipping the dead heads of dahlias, geraniums, lupins and delphiniums, and trying not to look at the lush verdancy all around me. After a while I gave in and set to with my fork and trowel to clear some of the weeds on my little brick path. It was satisfying, but I quickly became engulfed in tiny midges that got into my hair and feasted on my scalp. It's been so long that I'd forgotten the need to wear a hat when the sun is going down. Fathead. That's who I am now. Big Fathead.

Always Prepared

Coming home from Cambridge this evening I noticed that the cricket creases have gone from the playing fields of Framlingham College and have been replaced by rugby goalposts. Says it all really.

There was an end of term feeling too to the production of Macbeth in the Fellows' garden at King's College yesterday evening. We gathered, one and all, with our picnics, our rugs, our comfy chairs, our umbrellas and our excitement, hundreds of us, to enjoy the last production of the open air Shakespeare festival, a highlight of every Cambridge summer. It was a nice evening, but rain had been forecast and, sure enough, it came eventually. Hidden under my baseball cap and covered from top to toe in my car rug as I lay back in my reclining garden chair, I actually didn't realise, and stayed dry throughout. The classy prosciutto and rocket pizza slice and pint bottle of Adnams Blonde helped with the relative oblivion no doubt. The actor playing Macbeth, a hot, fit young man with a terrific stage presence, clearly didn't notice either as he stripped to the waist, face whitened dramatically for the final mad scene, muscles glistening with moisture. He strode around the stage killing anyone he came across until Macduff, not born of woman for he was "pluck'd untimely from his mother's womb", did for him. It was compelling, powerful, quintessentially English, this experiencing Shakespeare in the open where it feels natural and necessary.

The Laings have made a decision that, come the apocalypse, they will head to Suffolk where we will all struggle for survival together or die together. We've often discussed how they will get here if all transport systems fail and there is no petrol, but they will walk, cycle, do whatever it takes. My part of the bargain is to stockpile food and gear to see us through the crisis, and to that effect I bought another two packs of four 2-litres bottles of sparkling water. Every little helps. Actually, I drink so much of the stuff myself it won't last long. Hopefully when the end is nigh there will be a bit of warning so that I can empty Waitrose of its shelves, safe in the knowledge that my John Lewis partnership card will not be demanding repayment. That's probably how I'd like to go out anyway, generously kitted out by the company that I have single-handed kept in such a healthy state for so many decades. It's been a partnership made in heaven.

Hoops and Loops

I was cooking my supper yesterday evening prior to going out early when another roar summoned me to the back door and there were the Red Arrows again, going the other way this time. Two lots of five, not seven. I must have got over-excited last time and exaggerated slightly. An amazing sight, 10 pilots, presumably all young men, whizzing past in perfect harmony with each other. I fancy they may be based in Lincolnshire, which is probably just a few minutes flight from here. But how do they all land? Do 9 circle around, looping the loop, while one puts down, and so on? What if they all want to get home first?

A piece of paper has appeared across the lane, inelegantly pinned to a tree beyond the ditch so that you have to lean right over to read it. I'm waiting for passing cars to career into the hedge as they spot it and try to make it out. It's notice of a planning application from Sarah my neighbour, who wants to build a studio in her grounds. She's had all sorts of obstacles thrown in her way by the council, from the need to protect the great crested newt to bats and some insect that might or might not live in the long grass. You really couldn't make it up. Every search that has to be conducted costs her £500, but that part of her garden is designated agricultural land because once someone kept pigs there, and so she has to climb through one hoop after another, and all to build something not very much bigger than my summerhouse. Have they nothing better to do at town hall?

It's a bank holiday weekend and I'm doing what the rest of the world is doing - getting into my car and going away for a few days. It's good to be at one with my fellow man.

Mules and Other Animals

I was languishing on the sofa in the garden room, half asleep and still feeling unwell, when a sudden great noise filled the room and I came to with a start and fancied I was in Syria about to be blasted to kingdom come. I glanced quickly to my left and through the window could see two sets of Red Arrows flying in perfect formation over the fields. It was such a beautiful sight, so unexpected and thrilling. I wanted to ring my friend nine miles down the lanes in the direction they were flying and say "Outside, fast, Red Arrows," but I trust she'll have heard them anyway. In the wake of the terrible disaster at Shoreham, a stretch of road I know well and an air show I've been to more than once, it's tempting to hate these display aircraft, but there's something about their might and power, as well as a hint of danger attached to their antics, that is compelling.

I must have dozed again because I was aware of intense heat on my legs, and when I opened my eyes the sun was flooding into the room where not an hour previously there had been a downpour of biblical proportions. The grass is tall enough to hide a few medium-sized zoo animals, but I know I'll regret it if I start mowing now, a job that nearly does for me when I'm 100% fit. The weeds around the pond are shooting up too, but I'm being philosophical about the neglect. It will all get done, one of these days. No sense in sweating about it.

Sammy and I could hardly stop ourselves from laughing out loud the other evening when door positions were being allocated for the Snape performance, and the manager called out "Muff, you can be on the west aisle." Muff? We glanced at each other and quickly looked away again. It could have got even more embarrassing. These old nicknames from childhood can reveal a world of innocence that is completely lacking nowadays. Sammy told me later that she once got a birthday card from work colleagues that said "Muffin the Mule is not illegal", but I still haven't completely worked that one out yet. The nuns would have been proud of me.

Perfect Pitch

Courtney Pine, wowsers! I've just seen him at Snape, heard him rather, and he is awesome. What he can do with a bass clarinet has to be witnessed to be believed. He hit the sweetest, highest notes and the deepest, richest lower notes. I'm in awe of the man. And he was accompanied by an amazing jazz pianist, Zoe Rahman, who reminded me of Oscar Peterson but was better. She did more than just support him as he gave her space to do her own thing and man, did she do it. It was a great night, the hall full of yet another different kind of audience. I've been a bit worried about this week as I have a virus, the result of exposing myself to the sun and ending up looking like a horror story. The virus must have crept in when I was weakened, and it's got a hold now. It's not too bad, but I feel generally unwell and have a permanent headache. I'm working three nights at Snape and I want to do them all, so fingers crossed it won't get worse. How I HATE being ill. It wastes so much time.

Yesterday evening I looked up suddenly from my book to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was looking fresh and clear. Immediately I donned shoes and went outside, and it was lovely, as if the earth was as surprised as me to see itself drying after the deluge and had put on an extra bit of sparkle and polish. I've been reading, or re-reading, another Sebastian Barry, this one set in the Wicklow of the 1950s, and so deeply involved in it have I been that I expected to see beyond my cottage the old mud cabins that still housed the poor in those days, and long muddy lanes untouched as yet by tarmac. A passing pony and trap wouldn't have surprised me, and though they are not uncommon in these Suffolk byways, none came past me. It's a very beguiling book, Annie Dunne, full of poetry and embroidered descriptions of the Wicklow hills, and I find myself longing to be there, a romantic wish that would only reveal a harsh world of deprivation and hard work were it to be granted. I soon adjusted to my own world, and halfway down the hill I stopped and gazed and gazed and gazed at the fawny tawny gold fields sweeping in every direction, bereft now of their crops but still unploughed, and I marvelled anew that this is where I live.

Gather Ye Rosebuds

The harvesters worked until the early hours of Saturday, but with my earplugs in place I had the window open and heard nothing. I awoke to see them bringing in the hay in the sunshine, and it was timely because by late afternoon there was a deluge. Later in the morning, driving across the country to have lunch with friends, I was surrounded by the fresh gold of newly cut wheat fields, nothing for miles apart from this buttery glow interspersed with hedges and trees. I stopped the car and just soaked it all in, the beauty of it beyond any words I could find. Soon it will all be ploughed up again ready for the next stage in the year's agricultural calendar. Things come, they go, the cycle never ends, a timely reminder if ever there was one.

Lunch and bridge were as much fun as usual, saddened only by the news that Caroline plans to move away next autumn. Our happy little group will dissolve then, but it will have been a great joy while it lasted. Caroline, unsuccessfully stabbing a stuffed olive, drink in hand, marvelled at her lack of skill since she was a world class fencer in her day, and wondered if she'd have more luck with an epee. Judy told us that she and David had been summoned to their old friend Richard's house to say goodbye as he seems not to have much time left. When they left he just missed landing a smacker on her lips as she moved her face in time, and despite his condition managed to grab hold of her bottom as he hugged her. Yup, some things don't change. I regaled them with stories of couples at my two bridge clubs, and their sometimes outrageously rude behaviour towards each other while playing. One partner is often super-critical, usually though not always the man. You can immediately tell who wears the trousers, I concluded. David was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked which of he and Judy I thought wore the trousers. "Oh, I think the trousers are fairly evenly divided between the two of you," I replied, and Caroline roared loudly, saying that the image of them with one leg each in a pair of pants would stay with her forever. We all shared her laughter.

Away With the Birds

It's 10.30pm in the middle of nowhere and it might as well be Piccadilly Circus. Combines with arc lights are ploughing the wheat fields around me, and tractors and lorries are taking the grain across the lane to the barns behind Sarah's house to store. How clever of her to have chosen this weekend to go away! It'll be earplugs for me tonight if they haven't stopped soon. But how wonderful that the day has been hot and dry and the harvest will be brought safely in. The forecast after about 4pm tomorrow is for thunderstorms and maybe tornados. No wonder they are working so late. But how jarring the constant revving of powerful engines and reversing of big wheels on gravel are.

I read in the parish newsletter that a little owl had been trapped in the church and they'd had to leave the doors open for two nights until it made its escape. In the same newsletter Patrick had also written that an intruder had left little messages all over the church, on the pulpit, and the altar, the christening font and the pews. "Who do you think the grafitti artist was?" I asked him over dinner recently. He looked puzzled, and then said: "An owl took up residence for a few nights before we persuaded it to leave." I know, I responded patiently, but who do you think the vandal was? And he looked at me even more patiently and smiled kindly, and said, "There was an owl in the church Denise." And still I persisted, wondering why he was being so uncharacteristically thick. "Denise, it was the owl. The owl left little messages everywhere." And the penny finally dropped, and I wondered how I could have believed that two intruders, an owl and a human, had both entered the church and been destructive at the same time. Coincidence or what! No. Duh.

I've decided to apply to become an adviser with the Citizen's Advice Bureau, and have been sent the application forms. I know the manager of the local branch who often goes to the same concerts and operas as me, always alone. But despite our connection I'm concerned that she may not accept me for training. As can be seen from the above, I'm clearly not very bright.

By Design

Home again from my travels, and now I'm well and truly back in the groove. A walk along the Cam at Grantchester in intense sunshine left me with heatstroke and a lower lip full of cold sores, worse than I've ever had before, but they're nearly healed now. I just can't be outside without a hat and some high factor lip protection, neither of which I had with me on that occasion. Lesson learned? Probably not.

Poppies, poppies everywhere

I've been occupied with the satisfying task of collecting seeds from dried poppyheads, especially the wonderful large pink variety that appeared everywhere this year and splashed the garden with vibrant colour. I've got trillions already, but it's a bit addictive and so I continue to shake the old brown heads and fill envelopes. I've had several requests for them, but I think I already have enough to start a seed business. I'm kind of looking forward to the autumn so that I can get back in control of the garden again. Today my neighbours and friends Mike and Phil, they who watered my garden when I was away, came to tea. We sat in the shade of the umbrella and chatted about the village, other neighbours, the church, the countryside, the usual things, but mostly about my garden. They have a fabulous one of their own, an absolute gem hidden behind a high hedge that made my jaw collapse and stay collapsed when I first set eyes on it. He was the designer while she potters around gently, and I could see at once that he was the man to give me ideas for my own. Every time he's been here before he's assured me that it would be a gradual process, but today, after two slices of cake and two cups of tea, his creative juices started flowing. I couldn't believe it! He paced around, waving his arms, making shapes in the air, and then he called for paper and pencil. He hadn't told me he was an artist. And suddenly I had it, my new template. Curves, not geometric lines; the house and outbuildings provide enough of those. Big sweeps of beds towards the centre of the lawn, opening out towards the pond and view, a bit like a funnel. Only yesterday I had sketched something like it over my scale plan, but not so radical. A balustrade in front of the summerhouse, maybe an arch or pergola hung with laburnum. He was flowing with ideas. All I have to do now is decide on my new design and start achieving it. That'll keep me busy!

Caught Out

So, I was sitting in the kitchen in my underwear just after lunch, trying to cool off as the heat and humidity rose. Nobody ever just drops by unannounced, I assured myself, so I'll be fine like this. Suddenly there were two men coming through the gate just feet away from the open door, and I tore through the house the long way round and then zipped upstairs to the safety of some clothes. It was Brian and George, Ashton's stepfather and younger brother, come to measure up the concrete where my old stable and tackroom once stood. Brian and Shirley bought it off me hook, line and sinker a year ago to use as a playroom and a workshop. They dismantled it bit by bit and hauled the lot off in a trailer, paying me £500. It took them a few goes to get it all away, but now they were ready to erect it again in their garden. They are a remarkable pair, both rather limited by their various injuries and health problems but strong and game as hell. It didn't look as if George was going to be much help. He had trouble holding his end of the tape measure, and looked as if just standing was a bit of an effort. He's looking for holiday and weekend work, Brian told me with a laugh, so I said if he ever gets his strength up to his brother's level I would always find him jobs to do. George struggled to find his smile muscles but it was just clearly beyond him.

Sammy and I ate quite a lot of cake when she came to tea today, so I walked it off up to the top of the hill and down again. Nearly home, I was accosted in the friendliest way by the most beautiful German shepherd dog I've ever seen. Her eyes were gentle and true, and her tail thumped around in her pleasure at seeing me. Her coat was something else. Lucy, she's called, and her mother is Rachel who is something big in the Green Party in these parts. What with one thing and another it was 9pm before I sat down to eat, a very simple supper of fussili, broccoli, olive oil and Parmesan, well seasoned. Deelicious. But thankfully with my nose in my bowl I didn't miss the sky. It was sensational, and I'm glad to say that my new camera is much better at taking these sorts of shots than my old one. Red sky at night shepherd's delight? It doesn't seem to work these days. Those old boys would be scratching their heads in bewilderment if they were alive today.

In the Dark

My supper tonight was so delicious, so perfect, I have to describe it. A Hereford rib-eye steak, pan-fried for 7 minutes to the consistency of cheese, soft cheese, Mozzarella maybe. I had it with new potatoes, and fried mushrooms and tomatoes, plus some cabbage in a separate bowl because my plate was so packed. I washed it all down with a small bottle of beer, and ate it in the garden room. When I'd cleaned the plate I stayed where I was in the fading light gazing out over the fields. I tried to imagine living in a town, or even a busy village, and I knew I'd shrivel up and die if I had to. I sound like a drama queen, I know, but I can't help it being true.

Last night I went to a proper "put on some make-up and get into some decent clothes, for god's sake" dinner party. There were seven of us, me the odd one out but I didn't mind. We sat in the garden sipping drinks and chatting for a good while on one of the hottest nights of the year, and then we all trooped inside to a huge round dining table lit by two large candlesticks. Our hostess had a seating plan, and we took our chairs as indicated, this adding to the theatre of the occasion. Then the food started coming. I'd noted the lines of cutlery beside my placemat with amazement, but I wasn't really prepared for the cooking. Keith Floyd and Elizabeth David and Albert Roux were all represented, suffice it to say. I can't describe two meals in the same blog. Many hours later I took my leave with the other guests, and staggered across the road in near pitch darkness. "Do you want a lift?" someone merrily asked, and I laughed back, an easy No thanks, I'm fine! But I could see nothing. It was a complete shock. I imagined falling into the ditch and having the rat for company all night, but I managed to find the lane and then my house. I'm going to have to get into the habit of carrying a torch when I go out at night. There is no lighting anywhere in the country unless the sky is light, and when it's dark you might as well be blind.

Power-ful

I know it's a bit perverse but, despite often feeling lonely and wishing for company, I love being alone, and this week I've relished what still feels like the luxury of empty days ahead in which I can get done all the things I want to do, at my leisure. Empty days are hardly a luxury, and yet when I have projects on I still view them as such. And so after all my visitors had gone I started on the summerhouse, cleaning the windows - there are no fewer than 16 - and the floor, polishing the tables, dusting the lamps and hoovering the rug. It all looked lovely afterwards, and so I had not only my lunch in there but my supper too. And then I lingered so long over my book that it was quite dark before I returned to the house. When I went back to turn off the two table lamps it looked so lovely at the end of the garden that I took a couple of photos.

The next day it was the turn of the shed, and then today the garage. Each took a full day, but how satisfying it was to hang all my tools up properly, tidy the shelves and remove mud and dried grass from the floor of the shed, plus what looked like a few thousand mice droppings. I don't mind them being in there in the winter. They are tiny little field mice, and if they need a warm, dry spot then that's fine by me. The garage was a different matter when it came to cleaning. I had only swept the floor once since moving in at the end of January last year, and there was more than ample evidence of its former use as a hay barn for the three miniature donkeys. Bits of straw clung to the rafters, the walls, the builders' paper that lines the walls. There was enough hay to fill a wain, I swear. I thought of collecting it. Someone might have wanted to paint it, you never know.

It was a dirty job. Spiders as big as a child's hand ran everywhere. One appeared on my sleeve causing me to rip my shirt off in a sudden panic. Cobwebs hung off the roof and beams in ropes, in hanks, in skeins. They clung to my brush, and fell heavily to the ground in thick grey lumps. Horrible, horrible. When I'd cleared everything except the floor, I collected the worst of it up in a dustpan and brush and then set the powerhose to work. Oh, that was satisfying. I drove pools of clotted grey water ahead of me towards the door until not a speck of dust was left. And then I turned the hose on the table tennis table, the two bikes, the car, the terrace and then the summerhouse base.

Earlier I had put up four shelves in the garage. I was making heavy weather of it and had screwed in four of the required sixteen narrow three-inchers with agonising slowness when I suddenly remembered my power screwdriver. Out I fished it from its hiding place, and despite not having used it for years, it worked! Like a knife through butter each long screw slipped into place, and the job took seconds, no more than a couple of minutes anyway, and I laughed out loud, really guffawed, so happy was I. I'm still laughing now, just thinking about it. How could I have forgotten an electric screwdriver? My house is awash with power tools, including three Kenwood things, a Chef, a juicer, and another one. I don't use them much. There are labour-saving appliances and devices aplenty indoors, same as every other house, but the ones I like best are for outside. There's the Karcher jetwash, one of my all-time favourites. Dirt vanishes just like that under its beam of water. Then there's the electric hedgecutter which makes mincemeat of out-of-control growth, slicing through smaller branches, twigs and leaves with ease. I love the Gardenvac which sucks up leaves, grass, anything lying around that has to go, and its sister the Garden Blower which does the opposite, blasting the leaves in one direction to make a neat pile. One of my first acquisitions was an electric drill which I still have. Bliss is making the right holes in the right place, finding the correct rawlplug, and everything joining up. I could never get on with a strimmer though, it made my back ache and it had to go. But I do have three electric lawnmowers. Enough said on that subject.

Visitor flowers still going strong

In between times I've been reading Sebastian Barry's On Canaan's Side. His prose is beautiful, always, but I think he's surpassed himself in this one. Three times I read one long page, so stunningly lovely I breathed it in and held it in my mind. One sentence struck me: "We as little children would smell it (the Wicklow heather), pull on its scent with our noses gratefully," and I thought yes, that's what I do! I don't just take in a scent I literally, literally PULL it in and savour it in my nose, in my brain, letting my synapses absorb it, know it, remember it. It's Irish writing, and the use of language is always different from English prose, richer, more real somehow, more appropriate. Honest. Different anyway. I love it, and I feel myself connecting with it naturally.

So, it's been a week of gifts which have far outweighed any lingering sadness. And now I'm off to collect a takeaway Indian meal, for we have those too in the depths of the Suffolk countryside, and though I'm alone tonight, I'm perfectly content.

Stone the ... Seagulls

A great cloud of birds took to the air behind my garden this morning. It was like a confrontation out of West Side Story. On my left, a huge flock of seagulls, and on my right, a huge flock of crows, rooks, what you will. They screamed at each other, flew past each other, flew into each other, and then they were just one glorious crowd of birds, black and white, flying together and then settling on the field to feed. It was really amazing to see them en masse in the air and then peacefully eating together.

Today I went to see the ride-on lawnmower that a local dealer said I could have for £150 plus the price of a new battery. It had been his mother's, and when he took it out of it's shroud of dust and cobwebs and tried it out he said it started first time and cut the lawn very well. But what I saw was a heap of rust. What did I expect for that price? Well, something old, yes, but something cared for too, and it was only the former. I tried out a few new petrol mowers while I was there, but they were unwieldy to turn, and frankly I'm done with pushing and pulling heavy things that I don't need to manhandle. Regretfully I left empty handed. There's still Did and his old one once he finds a replacement, but after the mess he made of my lawn, is that a bit of pie in the sky?

Nothing daunted, I went shopping. Not for clothes, like my friend Helen would, but hardware. I needed a rubber gasket for the water butt in my front garden which has been leaking. The gasket fitted around the tap which I had to take off. But it wasn't that easy. Inside was the other half of the tap fixture holding it in place, and I had to unscrew it to get the tap off. Hanging inside the butt, my arms were just not long enough to both hold the tap on the outside and undo the back inside. It's a big butt. Turning the tap on its own just turned the back too. I stretched, I flicked my right boob inside to get closer, and slowly, slowly, I inched it off. God, it was hard. At the hardware shop I bought other lovely things too: some more fabric to lay on my path to stop weeds growing through; four shelves cut to measure for the garage where I plan to put everythging currently on the ground; 30 metres of hose to be divided between all three butts the better to drain them when they get too full in the winter. Two will fill the pond, and the third, the one with the lovely new gasket, will drain into the field; and a smart length of very nice wood which will straddle the two elder trees behind the pond to make a seat. The trees have to be chopped down to size first, but that won't happen for a few weeks. I was very chuffed with my purchases. Helen would have been appalled.

No Pleasing

I worked at the Snape Proms last night, a Billy Bragg gig. It was good, I enjoyed it. But the woman next to me decided she was allergic to me and I had to move. At first I thought she was taking photos - strictly forbidden by Billy - but it was not a camera but her nebuliser that she held dramatically in front of her. "Are you wearing an A & A?" I thought she whispered loudly at me. It took a few tries as I had no idea what she was talking about, but eventually I admitted I'd applied a small amount of Coco Chanel after my bath. "I'm allergic to perfume," she told me, sweet smile but eyes like flint, and so I swapped places with my colleague. We exchanged looks, raised eyebrows, wry smiles. What are these people like? She goes into a packed auditorium and expects that nobody around her will be wearing perfume? Now removed from her proximity, I saw her stand at various points to ease the discomfort in her back, stretch out her arms, glug from a bottle, shake some pills out into her hand, and bring out that nebuliser from time to time. She could hardly get out of her seat at the end, so firmly wedged was her bulk. How grateful I was to Chanel for my lucky escape.

Billy was funny about Snape. He wanted to know if Benjamin Button had deliberately chosen wicker seating when he designed the concert hall so that we'd all go home with numb bums and 'kettering', apparently the official term for those tiny marks you get on your thighs after sitting on wicker. Anyway, the Snape management sitting across the aisle from me thought it was hilarious and laughed uproariously with the rest of them. Walking out to the car afterwards with a "naice" Snape lady, I was surprised when she agreed with me that his left wing lyrics and comments could hardly be decried in all decency. Equality, fairness, respect - what's to object to? But who were all those people who voted that dreadful man in, she wondered aloud in her Knightsbridge accent. Nobody in the audience, that was for sure. We laughed in the soft dark night, and went our separate ways. It's been a long time since I was at a gig of protest songs, and it was good to be surrounded by politically aware people, just telling it how it is.

All Change

It's been like Eastenders, Casualty, Open Book, Mad Men and Wolf Hall rolled into one for the past eight days: high drama, changed plans, knife edge negotiations, deals made, numbers crunched. Happily no one perished and we've all survived, tougher and more determined: some of us are on track to make a lot of money. But where did it all begin? Guest rooms were primed with clean bedding and fresh flowers by Tuesday morning, which was just as well because the first visitor came a day early, just as the local farmers decided the barley was ripe and ready to harvest. It took several days for the combine to get to me, but within the space of 72 hours my near outlook had gone from golden seed heads to bright yellow stubble to bare brown earth plastered, and I mean plastered, in seagulls. It's a shock to the system, this instant transformation, though it took a whole day to turn the stubble to slices of rich red-brown soil, the first stage in the preparation for the next crop. Please don't let it be ugly muddy sugar beet.

In between the farm machinations I've been tormented by Love and Mercy, the film about Beach Boys Brian Wilson's mental deterioration and sadistic imprisonment by his so-called psychiatrist, and shattered by the story of the tragic downfall of poor, brilliant Amy Winehouse. The first film ended happily, the second didn't. Both were wonderful and terrible in equal measures, almost unwatchable at times but gripping in their handling of these two extraordinary people. Each left its own indelible mark. I've also been to a French operatic masterclass which blew me away, spent a day on the beach with a picnic and the sudden appearance of a bewildered baby grey seal, wandered around a beautiful garden, had a cream tea in a hotel, been on a hare hunt, played table tenis, done some target practice until the gun became jammed, and enjoyed some wonderful meals chez moi. The front of the garage was blacked, the wandering wisteria was tamed, and the lawn mowed, twice. I've played cards over a pint in a pub with no bar (my local), winner of CAMRA 2015 Best Pub, walked the lanes, and talked, talked, talked. It's been momentous, wonderful, stressful and traumatic. Mostly wonderful.

Younger daughter negotiated on speaker phone in the car on the way to Aldeburgh, about a valuable TV contract with a high-flying celeb. We listened in awe and admiration as she schmoozed her way to the lucrative deal, talking money levels that made our jaws drop. It's another world she inhabits. Respect. Incredulity. Meanwhile older daughter decided to turn down a fellowship at an American university - yes, the one most of the presidents have been do - in favour of touring and promoting her new book, out next March. Something had to give, and it was never going to be the three years of hard work that went into its creation. More negotiations, more hard talking, and eventually the decision not to go. Never mind about my plans to visit her, and catch up on old friends in the US and Canada. She's done the right thing, and in the space that followed the universe rewarded her with work offers and communications she could only have dreamed of. Respect. Incredulity.

It's not normally like this here. No celebrities, no household names, no high-powered deals. But the excitement hasn't ended, oh no. I have a ride-on lawn mower to go and check out which could mean the end of my twice-weekly struggles up the hill, I'm planning to spring clean the summerhouse, and there's still the land around the pond to transform. The farmer spent all day yesterday, until 7pm, ploughing up the stubble yesterday. At first I thought it must be quite a calming job, going up and down in regular strips while the seagulls sallied and screamed all around him. But imagine ten hours in a small tractor, not one of the big luxurious ones, carefully planting the wheels so that the shares missed nothing, up and down, up and down. I felt sorry for him in the end. I watched a rat go back and forth from my ditch to feed on the gleanings, and even took a photo of him. He seemed very chilled. And in the sudden silence left by the departed tractor and seagulls, so did I.