The world from my window

Tonight, a big old Dyad Moon is suspended low in the sky. It is a deep rusty orange, with wisps of clouds like chiffon around its neck. It is nearly midnight in The Enchanted Village and there is a constant, low hum - the sound of British motorbikes trundling through on a late night Whitsun bank holiday rally. Down the road, the lane to Bluebill Hill is strewn with homemade patchwork bunting, hung between the lilac trees, May blossom hedges and Narnia lamp posts. Tomorrow, there is to be a village wedding and a sneak preview of the marriage venue promises something akin to when Jane Austen met Thomas Hardy. And still the British bikes hum through the Enchanted Village, as the wedding guests snuggle down into unfamilar beds and the bride tries to get to sleep after a Baileys or two, remembering that this time tomorow she will have a completely different name. And 350 years ago tomorrow, on Oak Apple Day, King Charles II was restored to the English throne. An auspicious date for a weddin

There is a place not far from me where the bluebells are known throughout Dorset. The woods are filled with heady aromas and a dazzling array of bright colours. It is a time when the ground and sky are wearing matching outfits in a deep and lovely, glorious blue. Next weekend, there will be a bluebell picnic up here to celebrate the marriage on Oak Apple Day of my friend Pelly's Number One Sheepwashlet. The whole village is invited. The beech trees are in shimmering coats of lime green. The pine trees overlook the vale with its patchwork of fields and the sea beyond. They sway in a Mediterranean-style breeze. Everything is beautiful. This is the place where I have stipulated my ashes are to be scattered. And, I have since discovered, Pelly has requested exactly the same thing. Even in the afterlife we will be gossiping among the trees, whispering through the bluebells, the beech leaves and the penny bun toadstools. We will probably be joined by lots of other villagers who, unbekno

In the Enchanted Village this morning, there is a broken pint glass on the pavement where the children walk to school. I clear it up at 6.45am. It is nothing to do with me but I would feel pretty bad if a child cut their foot on it. The dog seizes my newly-planted nicotianas and spreads them all over the patio and then my hairdryer packs up just before I am about to go to work. At the new office job, the head honcho writes all over my work in big red pen and it is emailed back to me without even a 'thank you' or 'kind regards'. Another director delivers my work to his team and then comes out, smiling, rips up the paper and says: 'Well, here's what they thought of that.' I am tempted to pick up the pieces of paper and shove it into his smiling mouth. But I don't, because I am actually enjoying the job and, if I really get paid at the end of the month, the money will be handy too. After a hard day at the office, it is good to go with Mr Grigg to the pub fo

For the benefit of my new followers, I'd like to introduce you to my other blog, Manor from Heaven . If you long for a slice of an English country estate, then look no further. Mapperton House and Gardens is truly enchanting. And to my old followers, please excuse me. I'm planning to blog about croquet soon but rain stopped play. That's about it. Love Maddie x

Today, the Daily Telegraph stood up and shouted from the rooftops about the excellence of a local restaurant. I could hear the noise, because the restaurant is just over the hill from me. And, now that we are missing part of our roof while the builders are working on the Grigg hovel, we can hear absolutely everything. Congratulations to chef Mat Follas, a nicer man you couldn't meet (although I actually haven't because we keep missing each other). His food is pretty good too. Anyway, for your delectation, here's the link to the Telegraph's piece. And for all my new blog followers, I'm posting a review of The Wild Garlic I prepared earlier - from August 2009. Mat actually responded to the piece when I posted it originally and I understand staffing issues have now been resolved. I'm looking forward to a return visit. The Wild Garlic Earlier this year, an IT engineer called Mat Follas won the UK television competition MasterChef . It is a gruelling contes

Oh my giddy aunt. I feel like I'm on a cloud, floating high above my hovel, looking down on the scaffolding-encrusted west wing and down through the conservatory roof where I can see myself frantically typing on a tiny netbook. Mr Grigg is down on Tom Tiddler's Ground, rearranging bits of wood with Mr Loggins. Oh, those boys and logs. I don't understand the appeal, personally, but it's better than ogling at girls. They go into raptures over the log store, they really do. If they were crafty, they would postion a few logs at jaunty angles and put the whole lot in for the Turner Prize. And talking of prizes, yes, more about that great big fluffy cloud on which I am sitting. The World from My Window was chosen as yesterday's Blog of Note - 'interesting and noteworthy Blogger-powered blogs, compiled by the Blogger Team'. And I wouldn't have known if my follower list hadn't suddenly shot up to 150. And to think I was going to pack in blogging for good a

High above the square, an enormous steel structure has appeared, blocking out the sun and, what's worse, the signal to the satellite dish. But it is not an art installation, it's serving a practical purpose. The builders will be using it to get on with our new extension over the next few weeks, whatever the weather. Just as well I started a new job this week. I'm missing all the fun. However, I think there could be mileage in getting together with local musician and record producer Ding Dong Daddy and putting on a mini-Glastonbury Festival. I mean, you can even see the sun rising over the Enchanted Village's very own Pyramid Stage. That's about it. Love Maddie x

On a cold May day that seems more like March, Mr Grigg saunters up to the playing field in rolled-up shorts and fake Crocs. You would think his team had won the cup rather than the general election. Fortunately for The Enchanted Village, he is wearing a T-shirt and an old fleece. With Mr Loggins giving him coaching tips from the sidelines, he walks away from the coconut shy with two coconuts from three balls, narrowly missing the six-year-old ball girl behind the net. As a consolation, she is given a share of his winnings, and then Mr Grigg promptly backs the winner in the snail race, which crosses the line first despite an obvious handicap. On the way home, with me and Pelly Sheepwash in thick coats and gloves, Mr Grigg declares he might just have to light the fire this evening. Mr Loggins then wails: "At least you've got a fire." Mr Loggins, you may remember, has just demolished the Love Shack to make way for a new house made of logs which might be finished som

I'm a bit tired but our election here in West Dorset is over. Just to say that Mr Grigg is cock-a-hoop. Our MP, Oliver Letwin, retained his seat. He's a very nice man, even if I didn't vote for him. I will let Mr Grigg have his moment of glory, just like he didn't allow me in 1997. But I don't forget easily. Whatever the result, the big story of the day will be the hundreds of people turned away from the polling stations. If the same thing had happened in the Third World, we would have been banging on about corruption. Anyway, the posters are being taken down from the window and I'm having a lie-in. That's about it. Love Maddie x

An old black dog cocks its leg up against the tulips next to the village pump. A woodpecker drills into a tree trunk down on the common. The dandelions stay firmly closed in the cold morning air. Grey skies and drizzle in Lush Places. A perfect day for an election. At the Grigg hovel today, the two party political signs in the window look quite attractive against the purple door. The orange of Sue Farrant, the blue of Oliver Letwin. But close inspection reveals the windows could do with a new coat of paint. And, bizarrely, attempts have been made to alter the names to read Sue Farright and Oliver Leftwing . A few folks make their way up to the polling station, but things are pretty quiet. You could hear a hat-pin drop. Outside the door, a teller with a blue rosette chomps on an apple and asks for my number. She smiles a thank you and reveals a ghastly, gaping tunnel of masticated apple, edged with violent mauve lipstick seemingly applied by Bette Davies in What Ever Happe

Election day in The Enchanted Village and things are deadly quiet. People wearing blue rosettes are stalking the village. I am invited in for coffee by my district councillor who tells me it doesn't matter what my politics are and do I take sugar. I have sort of nailed my colours to the mast this time around, making a statement in a sea of blue. I am voting tactically, even if the Prime Minister says I shouldn't, because to do anything else around here would be a waste of a vote In the Grigg household, there is a good-natured split, with posters for two political parties up in the window. The blue and orange - complimentary colours - look good against the purple door and profusion of wallflowers and pink and black tulips. Although I have a sneaking admiration for the man up the road who has Labour posters all over his house and garden, in a village that is a sea of blue. When I saw him in the pub, I walked across the bar to congratulate him. 'I thought you were going to

It's a day to be stuck indoors. Outside, it's grey and drizzling. Inside, though, it's deep joy. Mr Grigg is clearing out the attic before the builders arrive later in the week. So I am going back in time thanks to a treasure chest of vinyl he's just discovered in the attic. John Martyn, XTC, Talking Heads, Lou Reed, Kraftwerk, Joan Armatrading and Steely Dan. Hell, even David Cassidy sounds good forty years on. Didn't we have ourselves some kind of a summer ? We sure did David. But Richard Clayderman? How on earth did he slip into my collection? Must be Mr Grigg's. That's about it. Love Maddie x

The bronze nymph has disappeared. Her plinth at the eastern end of The Enchanted Village is bare, just days after I wrote about us waiting with bated breath for her to take off her poncho for the real rite of spring.  Everyone was looking forward to seeing her nakedness again, like Botticelli's Venus rising from her slumber. Now only emptiness welcomes visitors. It could be that she has been taken in for some routine maintenance. I fear, however, it might be propriety. Someone, somewhere, is obviously fearful for our moral souls. Because this morning, a very large people carrier dropped off a gaggle of Jehovah's Witnesses at the top of the village. They were sent forth in pairs in various directions. The ones at my door were very nice, giving me a leaflet and then asking me if it was OK to smell my wallflowers, which I thought perhaps might be code for 'this one's going to burn in hell'. But their appearance made a change from all the political callers we