Mirror Mirror ...

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

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

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

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

Parliamo Italiano?

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

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

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

Human Frailties

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

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

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

Shocks and Sparks

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

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

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

Back to Normal

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

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

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

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

Priorities

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

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

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

And Then There Was One

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vunderbar

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

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

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

Carpe Diem

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

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The new shrubs planted

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

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

Losing Things

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

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

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

Out of Control

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

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

Silence

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

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

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

Tail-end Charlie

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

Paddy

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

The turret where the rear gunner sat

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

Chewing on her favourite piece of rawhide

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

The Furies Cometh

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

The new fence, and the new path

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

First vegetable bed, nearly ready

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

Drive from the lane

 

 

 

 

Newly-painted garage, nearly finished

And the side, all done

Jungle

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

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

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

The last of the wheat harvest, from my study window

Piccadilly Circus

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

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

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

Back Again

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

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

Look how long I am

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

Ruth and Sasha vying for length

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

Red in Tooth and Claw

I finally met the old man through whose garden one of our favourite footpaths meanders. What a poppet. His brown face shone with smiles, and he was eager to chat. He told me that the plantation of newish trees and the large wheat field - 26 acres in all - belong to "Mr" Grieves at the Old Rectory. That's Patrick to most people, but the caste system prevails long into the 21st century in rural Suffolk, and while the old man would be "Old John" to Patrick, he will always be "Mr" Grieves to John. Ah well. Things be slow to change in them thar country places.

He told me there was a fox problem locally, that he used to have 20-odd hens but they were all taken in one night. He never used to lock them up, but now he and his wife have four rescue hens which have fattened up nicely in six weeks, and they are shut away before it gets dark. The cock is a useless guard: he waits until we have passed by before crowing warningly at the top of his voice. In Sweffling someone lost all their geese to M Reynard, and the lady across the fields who breeds pigs has had enough since some of her piglets were taken in broad daylight. She took her gun to them, watching at 2am while the rest of us slept, and killed four in one night. It's her new hobby apparently. There'll be no foxes left. And then there are the deer which came into John's garden (it IS a public right of way) and stripped the 5-year-old Bramley apple tree that his son had given him. Oh bad wildlife, how could you? I've noticed this garden is overrun with moles: nervous laughter.

I have a problem with the new lawn. It's been colonised by meadow grass and is covered in the stuff with seed heads popping all the time. The man from Sovereign Turf came out this afternoon, and agreed it is a problem. His solution is to kill off the meadow grass, leaving yellow patches until the proper lawn takes over, and failing that to lay an entirely new lawn. Once upon a time I'd have been quite upset about this, but it's not the end of the world. Life is never straightforward so you may just as well get used to it. The end.

Tops and Tails

Val, my new gardener, had some great ideas and advice about planting my back garden. She pointed out that only the "thug" plants like crocosmia and hemerocallis will thrive in the long border adjoining the hedge because of the existing root system. She named a few others which luckily I like, and I'd add dahlias to the mix as well. Where to put my blue and white perennial bed then, with its delphiniums and lupins, its blues and whites and pinks? We decided that the side of the garage would be perfect. Against the garage itself I'll plant climbing roses. maybe some clematis, to cover the wood. I've bought the black stain to make a start on that wall. To the left where the fence runs parallel to the lane will go some shrubs which will grow tall enough to screen the garden. And in the rectangle indicated by these two adjacent sides will go the perennials. She advised me to buy a couple of strong lavender bushes and take several cuttings from them for the small hedge around the summerhouse, but I think I'll just buy several small ones and wait for them to grow. And where the chopped down hazel is will go more shrubs to create a frame for the view at the bottom of the garden. The vegetable bed will be extended by several feet, and I'll clear out the existing bed to grow more veg, peas and beans as well as herbs etc. It's all coming together. All I have to do is make it happen.

Our morning walk yesterday ended in gruesome style. Sasha found a dead vole or something, black and a few inches long, and decided to pocket it, which in her case means mouth it. The sight of her trotting along beside me with a small pointed tail and two tiny feet flapping around her lips was almost too much to bear. I tried to get her to drop it, something I do several times a day with stones, sloes, poo, but she'd clamped her jaw so tightly I couldn't shift it. I tried not to look but it was horribly evident. Eventually, much to my relief, she dropped it. Ugh. Please, please don't let her catch or find anything bigger or, worse still, alive.

Puppy class was great. She was much calmer, and I was given a lot of tips to help me control her. Laughably, when one of the celestial beings showed me how to hold her by the collar facing away when she misbehaves, Sasha didn't even try to struggle! Not the real world at all. I can't believe I haven't even had her for a month yet. We've both come a long way.

Changes

Came back from a weekend away through harvested field of wheat, the stubble glowing in the late afternoon sun. But what is this? I thought the harvest didn't happen until late August, and find I am unprepared for this new development. I felt shock register in my body as scalped field after scalped field passed through my vision, the valuable ears whisked away, the farmers presumably already planning the ploughing. I dreaded getting back to my own territory, but so far only the barley has gone. This is bad enough as I had planned several more forays through their midst, my hands sweeping sensuously across their silky waving beards, my eyes following the wind's progress through their swaying path. At least the wheat is still intact. I want to be around when it is mechanically scythed, and judging by my reaction yesterday I think there will be grief at its passing. For me it signals more clearly than anything else the changing of the seasons, and the sadness this brings. Oh well. All things etc.

One of our walks, behind the house

For now it's still July, and I'm trying to plan my garden. The lawn is fine, but I'm stuck at the next stage. I've got plenty of inspiration, from gardening books and programmes, but I still don't know what to plant and where. Delphiniums there will be aplenty, ranging from near purple to near white, in huge clumps. White and pink I want in the same bed, though what I don't yet know. Then there must be another bed for the shocking shades of dahlias and hellenium and phlox; also lupins, lavender. My mouth drools at the thought. For now it's all a blur.

New lawn, unwitting but not unwelcome stripes

And so to bed. Last night Sasha was worn out by her hectic weekend and fell asleep in my arms as I carried her to her cage at 8.30pm. When I tried to coax her out for a last minute pee two hours later she refused to budge. And so I snapped her, curled up against her heart cushion looking tiny in her new house cage (the smaller one lives in the car). So cute when she's sleepy. Even her curly tail is relaxed.

Down to Basics

This morning we startled a huge stag and doe which were sheltering in the uncut rape field. They leapt across the field, jumping high to clear the scratchy rape. Sasha was beside herself, and pulled so much on the lead that we had to turn back. It was an amazing sight, the great antlers disappearing and reappearing in agitated haste followed by the gentler bounces of the doe's soft head. It's lovely to think they are all out there doing their theng, though their world is shrinking as the harvesting continues.

Helen had invited both of us down to her place in Saxmundham in the afternoon, I thought for a cup of tea. Two hours later a bottle of prosecco had been drained, and Sasha had her head in an extra large size empty packet of Waitrose crisps. Somehow in eleven minutes I drove like a crazy thing to the vets in Fram to get the puppy checked over. In my unbalanced state I quite forgot to get him to clip her nails, and now I'm going to have to do it myself. The good news is that she is very healthy, a good weight and size, and with a confident temperament, as if I didn't know.

On our final walk through the old man's garden, the woods, the wheat fields, the plantation of young trees and the lane Sasha managed to eat a poo which she then threw up along with an assortment of pebbles, or they might have been sloe stones. But not before I'd wrestled most of it from her mouth, and despite scrubbing with "all the perfumes of Arabia" the smell lingers. Poor Lady Macbeth. She had death on her hands, but what I had on mine was much worse.

From Field to Frozen

The peas have all gone. Where there were stout little pods bulging with fat seeds across a many-acred field there is now only desolation. They came in the night, three huge machines eerily lit up by powerful arc beams, with smaller support vehicles around the periphery. And all night they toiled, and in the morning they left by the exit next to my house and trundled huge clods of earth all along the lane's surface. I slept through it all: ear plugs saw to that. But on a trip to the loo I watched them crawling up and down under a starry sky, chewing up the plants and spitting out what they didn't want. I remember the TV jingle from years ago: "Bird's Eye peas, sweet as the moment, sweet as the moment when the pod went POP!" And so I imagined Romanian workers cramped inside the machines carefully podding and placing the peas into little plastic bags ready for the freezer. It's a relief that they have gone. Such temptation for both Sasha and me, and as her obsession with them grew she grabbed great clumps of plant and pods and crammed them into her mouth at regular intervals on our walks. She ate far more than me.

The rape is being harvested too, and that's another relief because rotting rape plants are not pretty and they don't smell very nice. On our walk this afternoon we watched as another huge machine scythed through the last strip in a field along the lane, and we waited to see what would run out at the last minute. There were several hares in the devastated pea field this morning looking at a loose end, but nothing escaped the last of the rape as we looked on. I can still hear machines at work. The weather is perfect for all this harvesting.

Today I met a friend for lunch in a nearby pub, only she didn't turn up. And so I had a large glass of Sauvignon, lambs' liver and bacon with mashed potatoes and rich gravy, and the best sticky toffee pudding I've ever had. The food was on the OAP Monday-Thursday £8.95-for-2-courses lunch menu at the White Horse at Badingham. Pity Caroline went to the Queen's Head at Denington. She was quite distraught when we worked out what had happened, so we're going again next week. When I got home, on a whim and slightly inebriated, I let Sasha out into the garden and busied myself doing something else while watching what she did. No mad antics, no digging, no peeing. She just pottered about and enjoyed herself, and later she came into the garden room and sat at my feet while I finished my book. She's calmer and happier too, and came every time I called her. Another stage in our development. And such a relief, because keeping her on a tight rein was horrible for both of us. We've moved into another chapter. Turn the page.

Leaps and Bounds

I hate to admit this, but I think Sasha has gone back to being the puppy she was before I got my tremulous, anxious, expectant paws on her. That's not to say we haven't worked wonders together, and that I haven't been there and back in my doggie education. But I feel sure that she had been really well trained and well cared for before I ever met her, and being uprooted so peremptorily and transposed into my unprepared life must have been traumatic in the extreme (for both of us). Thanks to the help of the dog training women, the internet, friends and family I have learned how to be with her, and she's been able to relax and become who she already was. Crazy, but true. She's still a monkey at times, but a calm, gentle approach is what she responds to, and I no longer overreact when she misbehaves. This morning after a long walk and a vigorous play session she left me alone to write some emails. Out of the corner of my eye I watched her drag the dirty washing on the floor over to her basket, and start licking a shirt. She was watching me the whole time, and so I just said "No", very quietly, and she let go of the shirt and licked her paw instead. "Good girl" was then enough. She knew it was wrong, but no fuss was made by either of us. It's FABULOUS to be getting the hang of this. I no longer dread starting a new day with her.

Yesterday we went a tad too far in the baking sunshine, exploring a new footpath with Ruth who was staying. When we left the house it was cool and overcast, but within minutes the humidity had returned and the sun was overbright in the sky. We trekked along beside a nearly ripe wheat field, then crossed a ditch on a bridge made from two sturdy sleepers. We should have returned the way we came, but on we plodded, all of us wilting in the intense heat. Suffice it to say a large puddle from the previous night's downpour appeared on the lane in the nick of time, but one very tired puppy gave up the ghost and had to be carried. Heavy lump she is, so we took it in turns. Back home after a cool drink I left her in her cage in a cool room to recover.

With Sasha safely tucked away we took our wine down to the summerhouse. And that's when it really rained. For over an hour we sat there lamenting the absence of the bottle, cringing as thunder and lightening thrashed around above us and water spouted exuberantly from roofs and pipes. The good news is that the summerhouse doesn't leak, but the bad news is that, with the back door and study window open, the house definitely does. Today is warm and sunny again, and now the lawn needs cutting. Dare I ask for a breather in the stormy weather so that it can dry out?

Getting There

I realise I just have to hold my nerve with this munchkin, and today was a real boost to my confidence. It's all so up and down - she grizzles and I don't know what to do (don't do anything unless it's a call for the loo, which it sometimes is); she seems bored after we've played for 15 minutes, and I think I'm going to have to think up constant entertainment for her. But everything passes, and when she's calm and happy she'll just sit or play by herself. She gets plenty of interaction from me - walks, play, fun. Today we did lots of training which she loves, and which results in lots and lots of way over the top praise. But it makes her calmer, and I suppose more confident too. Result: a great day.

And that was before puppy training class! Oh, they tell it how it is there. Down to earth women both. No idea what their names are, but Wonder Woman and Superwoman are my best guess. Apparently I over-verbalise: "Just say it once, she can hear you!" We did "Heel!", we did "Wait!", we did "Down!". Well, Sasha and I had been practising the latter two today, and did we ever shine? Ah ha. Then there was the foot on the lead trick to stop her barking at the other dogs and trying to disrupt them. That worked brilliantly, although the blood supply to my foot (don't wear sandals again) was cut off for 10 minutes. With her head nearly pinned to the ground she gave in and settled quietly ay my feet. Nice one. And the hand-in-the-back-of-the-collar dominant treatment when she refused to let SW (or was it WW?) examine her claws was another eye-opener. They make it all look so easy, but by the end of the evening Sasha was the best at Play (following a long red sausage around and grabbing it while I said excitedly "Good girl!!!" - "No need to speak, just play" from WW/SW). She was really so good, so responsive and obedient that by the end of the evening I only had to look at her and she sat down.

Such wonderful behaviour needed a reward, so I stopped off in Fram and had a takeaway Indian. I'm well and truly knackered. And the dog? She's snoring in her basket.

Mummmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Very satisfying: loads of people have recommended, liked and responded positively to my comment re. an article on Esther Rantzen in the Times. You'd think we were living in the 1960s with no awareness of gender inequality at all. Written by a woman too. I reproved her soundly, and a lot of people agreed with me.

Otherwise today has been taken up with cutting the hedge all along the side of the garden, to halfway up the drive, before the hedgecutter gave up the ghost. I probably exhausted it. If it's not working tomorrow I'll get another one. I wish I could photograph the result including the mounds of hedging and brambles lying on the ground, but, wouldn't you know, the camera battery has also given up the ghost after 10 years of being used and charged, so I've ordered another one. No more pics for a while. Anyway, I had to negotiate with the dog for the time to do this: it was a long strip of rawhide for the first half hour, then into the kitchen with an ice cube for the second half hour. She wasn't impressed, but given that I'm Top Dog, she didn't get to choose. Ha!

Another, larger, cage has arrived today. Sasha thought the colourful box was the enemy and barked her head off at it. But the new one gives her lots of room to manoeuvre in the night, and the smaller one will live in the car. Hell, I'm really trying here, but it's not all a piece of cake! After a year on my own having company all the time is a bit trying sometimes. I can't just go and do what I want to do when I want to, but I'm working hard to get used to this. A couple of lovely walks today helped, though the crazy behaviour re-emerged this afternoon when I sat down briefly on the edge of a field. She'd had water, but racing around makes her so excited, and maybe I let her run free for too long. I keep forgetting I have to make all the decisions for her and me. It's a long, long time since I was mummmmmieeeeeeeeeeee!!!