The world from my window

I feel a bit of a sneak because I've pinched the idea from Milla, over at Country Lite. However, if you really do think I'm sexy or, more importantly, you like my blog, please click on Cosmopolitan magazine's link below and cast your vote in the 'lifestyle' section. I'm not usually one for self-promotion but, honestly, your vote really does count. I thank you. (And so I don't feel too guilty, maybe you could consider nominating Milla as well. But not at my expense, obviously). That's about it. Love Maddie x

Colour prejudice isn't something we usually tolerate in The Enchanted Village. The occasional odd remark in Compost Corner might sometimes go unchallenged in the pub. But more often than not the speaker will get the cold shoulder or be left out of the next round of drinks. We’re used to seeing all sorts of people in the square, after Ding Dong Daddy, a purveyor of world music, moved here. In the shop, waiting at the bus stop or going for a walk up Bluebell Hill. Men in turbans and women in saris, children with dreadlocks. It’s all part and parcel of our global village. But The Enchanted Village is beginning to see red. And it’s all to do with the traffic calming scheme, still unfinished after two years. The road has been narrowed and the speed bumps are in, with street lights more like the aliens in War of the Worlds than the lamp posts marking the entrance to Narnia. When the county council threw the light switch, it was as if Dr Frankenstein had breathed life into his monster. Th

A grey mist hangs over The Enchanted Village. It is not unusual, but it feels chilly, like an overcoat left in a cold hallway and then put on bare arms. A tramp is booted out of the church after a lady doing the flowers discovers him relieving himself behind the organ. The incident leaves a blemish both physically and emotionally. It is not very nice. No gentleman of the road is he. But the greyness seems apt for the news that greets me when I come back to the village this afternoon. One of my blog characters has to be removed from the cast list. Poor old Dudley, he of the Grand Marnier, red wine and Guinness, he of the magic musical fingers and beautiful mind, the organiser of jazz concerts in the church and in the hall. Dudley was a troubled soul who everyone knew but no-one really knew very well. He was part and parcel of everyday life in The Enchanted Village, even though he would leave us for weeks on end to get away from it all. The last time I saw him to speak to, he was in good

The wild honesty is going to seed and the rose bay willow herb is losing its spikes of cerise flowers, like a sparkler in reverse. The clouds lie in still layers as the sun goes down, illuminating the witch on a broomstick weather vane on the house down the path. It is the middle of July in The Enchanted Village but it feels much later. The children have almost broken up but it could be the end of August. The parched fields are damp with much-needed rain and in the mornings the mist hangs over Bluebell Hill like a shroud. But hark, what sounds are coming from the village square? A rustle and tinkle, the clash of sticks and a jolly accordion under a colourful umbrella. The Wessex Morris Men are on tour. But there is cacophony in the wings. Never mind morris dancing waking the earth and bringing forth new life. The noise is enough to wake the dead. They've only gone and chosen to perform on the bellringers' weekly practice night. Hankies wave furiously as the church bells ding an

I am home five minutes and I find I have to alter my cast list. Not only is my son no longer a university student, he is a very smart graduate. His degree ceremony was one of the proudest moments of my life. Hundreds of Harry Potter cloaks and a great hall straight out of Hogwarts, just yards from where Number One son studied environmental geoscience at Bristol University. The organ played Bach and the masters in their assorted coloured cloaks and hats took to the stage dresses as Dumbledore and Co. Back in the village, however, something is not quite right. My morning dog walks are usually punctuated by the sound of Russell's Crow across the valley, cocka-doodle-dooing. But not any longer. While I was away, the noisy blighter discovered the invisibility cloak. He is no more. He is a dead bird. He has gone to meet his maker. The end was short and sweet, I am reliably informed. And he went very well with a glass of red wine, apparently. Which is a relief, really, because an a

Back home in the Enchanted Village and a queue snakes around the hall car park. Morris dancers with blacked-out faces wave their hankies and dance gaily around the tarmac. Inside, a sound check is carried out and the beautiful voice of a singing woman soars through the evening air. My friend Tuppence opens the doors - a feat in itself because she's a slip of a thing - and the crowd rushes in, making for the bar and a barrel of Branscombe Brewery's best bitter. At the counter is Nobby Odd Job and Mr Loggins while Pelly, Mr Sheepwash and Mrs Bancroft and I dispense the drinks in the background. Mr Grigg - still sunning himself in faraway lands - would be proud of us. The music acts as a disembodied soundtrack to the pouring of wine and beer. It's like The World from My Window: The Movie . On stage is Ding Dong Daddy, tonight's promoter, with assorted members of his band The Imagined Village . 'He's famous,' my ethnomusicologist cousin said to me a few weeks

Feeling sick as a dog on the boat in Ithaca while Mr Grigg and the Champagne-Charlies are at large in a bar on the quay somewhere. Can someone please either get him a message or help me with my essay? Read more at The World from my Porthole .

Up in the mountains, Mr Grigg and I visit mighty Meteora. Down on the coast we descend into the Underworld after a boat trip to the River Styx.  More on my sister blog, The World from my Porthole.

Hoorah! Today I logged in to The World from My Window to find I now have 800 followers. It's a great feeling, believe me. To think someone might be reading this, even if they're not. And to know that people land on this page - by choice - from all over the world. Now that is amazing. Several new followers have asked me how they, too, can become a Blogger of Note . Well, for the record, I did not sleep with the entire Blogger team, nor did any money change hands. It came out of the blue, it really did, and the only advice I can give you is to keep on blogging. Write regularly and make it personal and interesting, with photos too if you have them. Oh, and it helps if you try out new Blogger features and include web links. My accolade came not long after I started using the new Blogger template, so how ever much I like to think it's the quality of my sparkling prose what done it, it's more to do with playing the game. Anyway, my Greek road trip continues at The

A post from Metsovo, Greece, where the old men gaze fondly at the young women of the past and truffles dry out in the sun. That's about it. Love Maddie x