The world from my window

But for the sound of two crying seagulls, the air is still. There is a coldness to it, a coldness that signifies something is coming. Winter. The gulls career around, circling above The Enchanted Village, far from their coastal home. A car trundles through and then there is quiet again. The shop blinds are down and the pub curtains are drawn. No-one is home. White vapour trails, like the tails of mechanised comets, criss cross in the crisp, blue sky to make the sign of a kiss. There is hope on the horizon. The Village Hall Arms is about to open for business. That's about it. Love Maddie x

They say you should never go back. But for the past few weeks, I've had a yearning to go home, to revisit my roots. I don't know why. It's an odd feeling and I can't explain it. I've had Enchanted Village compassion fatigue for about the same time and I felt like running through a field and yelling at the top of my voice. This weekend, I've done a bit of both but not at the same time. With the fragrant Mrs Putter, I belted out a few negro spirituals at a singing workshop run by my dear friend, Tuppence. I got my voice back. And then today, Mr Grigg and I put the spaniels in the back of the Freeloader and headed across the county border into Somerset. It was only just over thirteen miles away but it felt like the Land Rover was a time machine as we went back to 1979. And there I was, in the top field, the one called Bella's Nose, and then up into the wood with its Scots pine trees and then down again through Corn Close, where I learned to drive, and the

The fragrant Mrs Putter sighs deeply as she inputs data on to a spreadsheet from the parish plan questionnaires. (And this is before she gets to transcribing people's suggestions on alternative uses for village common - 'flood it and turn it into an ice skating rink, grass it over for polo or use it for dogging'). There is an intake of fresh breath as she pores over the forms and reads: Question: What is your age range?  Answer: 0-4 years. Question: How long have you lived here?  Answer: 65 years. For a moment, Mrs Putter has visions of Benjamin Button hunched up in front of a log fire, dressed in a baby sleep suit and muttering scribble talk gibberish in between sucks on his dummy and a smoke on his pipe. The Enchanted Village population is getting younger by the hour. There's youth dew in that parish pump. That's about it. Love Maddie x

I have lots to blog about, but also lots to do, with three 4,000-word essays to write in the next four weeks plus some other university-related tasks that have to be done at the same time. Oh, the joys of being a full-time MA classics and ancient history student when I also have a part-time job. However, that’s my choice, so no feeling sorry for myself here. There’s work to be done. I am grateful, therefore, to Barbara, at the March House Books Blog , for, firstly, giving me an award and, secondly, for making me slow down and think about myself. I’m not usually one for these ‘meme’ things, but sometimes they can make you look at yourself in a slightly different way. The requirements of receiving the Lovely Blog Award are: 1. To thank the giver and link back to his or her site. 2. Provide five random facts that folks may not know about you. 3. Pass this award on to five other lovely blog sites and let them know you're awarding them. 4. Copy the award logo and p

Just when I think there is not much for me to write about if ever I did get round to doing the autobiography, two things happen. After a nice Sunday lunch of local hoggett, we sit down on the expansive Champagne-Charlie sofas and hear the Remembrance Sunday bells ringing outside. 'You have to come outside and listen to these,' I say. 'They're half muffled.' Mr Champagne-Charlie comes out like a shot but his wife, Bubble, and Pelly Sheepwash take a little persuading, until Mr Grigg explains how for years he has been going up in the bell tower, fastening the little leather mufflers to the clappers on the bells each Remembrance Sunday. In deference to his annual bravery, they come out with me to listen. The bells peal in rounds, clittery-clattery loud and then a perfect muffled echo. The bells are yelling to each other and whispering back. It is a conversation worth listening to. And then the ringers get into a sequence called Whittington: ' Turn again Wh

Where are you now, you North Somerset Yeomen, Who came, swift to answer your country's appeal, To pit your raw strength 'gainst the might of the foemen, To give shot for shot, to oppose steel to steel? You came, not for gain, for reward or for glory, And little you heeded where duty's path led; You wrote your full page in our England's proud story, Thanked God for your victories, and mourned for your dead. For some lie near Ypres, beneath the clay sleeping; They suffered, they died, but no inch would they yield, And dull leaden skies up above them are weeping, For them, as they lie 'neath the battle scarred field. And all up and down where the old trench-line wandered, The plain wooden crosses their message proclaim; Yet no man may say that their young lives were squandered- They died for this England; they rest in their fame. Where are you now, you North Somerset Yeomen, Bred to the ploughtail, the desk or the mine?

And at eleven o'clock on the eleventh of the eleventh of the eleventh, Mr Grigg and I stood in silence outside the church. I could hear the cawing of rooks overhead, the sound of gunfire in the towns beyond the hills as everyone else's two-minute silence began and ended at different times. And I thought of my grandfathers, brave old souls, giving it all in the war to end all wars, with my maternal grandfather stopping every now and then to write a poem about it. I thought of my paternal grandfather's best friend, killed in France and lying in the British ceremony at Courcelette, a fact we discovered only through the marvels of internet research a year or so ago. And I thought of Mr Grigg's uncle, killed on HMS Glorious by the German battleship Scharnhorst in World War II, never to know his nephews, one of whom was named after him. Similar stories repeated to this day,widows and orphans made from the Falklands, Northern Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan. And I th

So much to write about, so much to say. But the inclination is not there. Not at the moment. We are a region in mourning after Friday evening's terrible pile-up on the motorway near Taunton, which claimed seven lives in a fireball and left many more injured. It is a junction people around here know very well. It's our pathway to Bristol and beyond. We know the rugby club, too, next door, where it is now being suggested that thick black smoke from a fireworks display descended without warning, blinding drivers and causing this dreadful crash. But we don't know what really happened, it is all speculation. We only know that it is terrible and, with the speed that some people drive at, barely leaving enough stopping space between them and the vehicle in front, we are surprised it doesn't happen more often. Our thoughts go out to all those affected by this horrible, horrible accident. More from me later in the week, when I will describe Mr Grigg's journey throu

November is a strange time of year. We've really said goodbye to the summer and we're on the quick, quick, military two-step march to Christmas. Already, in houses, and possibly mud huts, across the land there are discussions about where each one of us will be spending the festive season. Children far too young are demanding presents that are far-too-old for them and materialistic parents are going along with it. Meanwhile, in far-flung corners of the world, children will be happy to receive a shoe box full of bits and bobs which have been filled for them by their more affluent cousins from the western nations. The true spirit of Christmas, in my humble opinion. Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, I love it to bits. I'm from a big family and I love giving and receiving presents (and giving most of all). But children get far more joy from simple things or time spent with them than the latest must-have toy or gadget they have been conned into wanting by adverts or o

Bored with your job? Hop on over to Real West Dorset for my latest Lush Places blog. It's not all bad. That's about it. Love Maddie x