The world from my window

This is a first for me, a video of the place I love, captured by a friend of mine, who, on the blog, is known as Ding Dong Daddy. It's through the eyes of his springer spaniel, Spice, who very nearly became Mrs Spice-Grigg after a meeting on Bluebell Hill with my springer spaniel some while ago. Thankfully for Spice, it did not happen. I could not be held responsible for the dodgy hips the puppies might have had. The music is original, and so is the landscape. This is the world from my window. If you've ever wondered why I wax lyrical about this place, click the video and you'll see. That's about it. Love Maddie x

I look out from my window today, over the rooftops, the school field, the allotments and across the patchwork squares of Dorset fields into Somerset, the county where I was born. Today is Oak Apple Day, which was created to celebrate the restoration of the British monarchy in 1660. It was the birthday of King Charles II, who famously hid in an oak tree when he was on the run from the Roundheads after the Battle of Worcester in 1651. In his desperate bid to escape, he took cover in all sorts of places, including The Enchanted Village and, more specifically, the house where Mr Grigg and I now live. I will tell you about that one day. But today is also Rogation Sunday, a day when countryside folk ask for a good harvest, when the clergymen bless the fields and the communities whose lives are intertwined with the land. The day always reminds me of a childhood role in the church choir, along with my sisters and brother, in our farming village. In our purple and white robes, we would gather i

The sky is a bright blue and then grey and then black and then white as clouds scuttle across overhead so very quickly. The cockerel and hen on the weather vane swing back and forth from south to west. The cord on the church tower's flagpole flips and flaps to a regular beat, like the mast of a yacht trapped in a blustery harbour or the sound of eggs being whisked professionally in a metal bowl. There are high winds today in The Enchanted Village. There is an edge to the air. You are a witness to the wind's power, the roar, the rush. You can hear it, you can feel it. You can even smell it. But you cannot see it. The beech trees break out into rapturous applause. A laurel bush waves frantically, the ash tree whooshes and rushes, its branches dancing, the yew moans as if to tell the world this breeze is far too strong for its ancient bones. The oak tree - solid, dependable - takes it all in its stride. In my head I am a child, my mother reading me this poem by Christina Rosetti:

I've lost my way a bit lately. Seeing the bigger picture but missing out on the detail. And it's the detail I love. In my haste to walk the dogs in the mornings before rushing off to work, I've been head down, getting on with it. No time to stop and stare. I've forgotten to write things in my writer's notebook, phrases I hear, nature notes and things of beauty. I've not bothered to take my camera and missed all the beautiful, wonderful things around me. I've idled away down-time, mucking about on the computer, reading books I'm not that interested in. I've started to write a blog post and then abandoned it. I've been unsettled. Yesterday, though, the old Maddie came back. I noticed a skinny fly landing on a hairy nettle leaf. I heard the coo-coo of a wood pigeon overhead, a great big thing sitting on a telephone wire. I saw what looked like the beginnings of a tipi encampment on the allotments, five cane wigwams marching across the soil ready to

Twenty two years ago, I was digging a hole in the garden for some nicotianas. A little while later, I sat down in the house and had some leftover spaghetti bolognese at six o'clock. It must have been off, I thought, because I got indigestion pretty soon afterwards. I rang my friend and said: 'I think I'm all right but I feel a bit weird. I wonder if you ought to come over?' She was round like a shot. Because, you see, I was a week away from my 'expected date of confinement'. 'I'm sure sure it's nothing,' I said to my friend. 'You idiot,' she said. 'You're in labour.' So we flew over the top road, up and down, past the glorious views of the sea, the grassy knolls, the tree-topped hills and the patchwork blanket of fields, the Devil's Nine Stones, the old radio station and a roundabout called Monkey's Jump. I walked about a bit in hospital but nothing much happened, until I opened a magazine with a full page,

Tomorrow is rubbish day. The day when all our bin bags full of village detritus get put out for all to see, seven days of life safely encased in a black plastic sack. Tomorrow is also recycling day, although we get confused in The Enchanted Village as to which fortnight is which. If Mrs Bancroft has put hers out, we know it's the wrong week. She may be wise and regal, but she is useless when it comes to knowing which week is recycling week. Pelly, oh-Girl-Guide-wise-one, always gets it right but her lane is a little bit far for us to check every week. She is also the kind of person to make her recycled goods into a wholesome Christmas present so there is never much evidence of her every-day folk life. Jamie Lee and Ted Moult usually know recycling week from their elbow. Pelly has often counted their bottles of Becks and Chardonnay when passing by in the morning. 'They've had a party and we weren't invited,' she'll say, as she crosses the road and goes on t

High up on Bluebell Hill, you can forget the world around you. You wouldn't know the United Kingdom had voted yesterday on a new electoral system. You wouldn't know the shooting of the world's most wanted man was causing a furore around the globe. Dorset's highest point is a peaceful place for an early morning walk. It makes you feel good to be alive and proud to be English, as a soundtrack of Vaughan Williams plays through your head. As the day progresses, you can sometimes meet Tuppence here, trilling like a canary, or Ding Dong Daddy recording birdsong in Lush Places, or Mr Sheepwash out with binoculars looking for ravens. On the way up, the gypsy lace gently nods in the lane, in contrast to its furious movements earlier this week when the wind whipped through these parts. The pink campions and the buttercups clamour for sunlight and jostle for space along the verge, like the crowds lining the streets for a royal wedding. Dead nettles, when upturned, showing two perf