The world from my window

As my watch ticked towards six o'clock, we eased off from the pontoon, out through the twin piers and into the open sea. With the glorious, golden sandstone, layer-cake cliffs of West Bay behind us... ...we tore off into a cloudburst sunset and headed for Lyme. And then we saw them. A mercury sea, calm as anything, and a strange sky turned from silver to scarlet as the Red Arrows roared overhead, giving a full-on aerobatic display to the good people of Lyme Regis. In the bay, other boats like ours but with better timekeepers as skippers, had turned off their engines to watch the drama in the skies overhead. At this time of year, there is something of a pilgrimage to Lyme for the annual lifeboat week which raises money for the RNLI , one of the most worthy causes around these parts. Tonight, the town would be packed to the gunnels but here, in these still waters and from this angle, the experience was weird, surreal. They whirled, they spiralled, they parted. I

Once upon a time, when I was fit, I cycled up to the most wonderful place on earth. It's in West Dorset and, when you get to the top, you feel like you're looking out across Narnia. A patchwork of fields, a huddle of houses here and there, ancient hillforts in the distance and then out to the sea, the coastline curling round towards Devon as if Dorset's saying, 'I'll let you into this view, this photo opportunity, but only if you're on your best behaviour.' The spot in question is Eggardon Hill, a magical, mystical, wonderful place owned, in the main, by the National Trust . Years ago, I watched a storm from here, as it circled and brooded its way over Bridport several miles to the south west. The lightning lit up a dark sky and, up on Eggardon where it was as dry and calm as an empty millpond, it was like being in charge of the weather. Twenty years ago, I rode up the long, steep hill to Eggardon on my touring bike without getting off. I was as

Everyone loves a good police drama. And there's one going on right now in the village square outside my window. I'm so excited I've got camera shake and I daren't use the flash in case the spotlight turns on me. At eleven thirty, my husband turns to me in bed and says: 'There's a police car outside.' Ever the Miss Marple, I climb out of bed and peep through the curtains to see two young men in shorts sitting down in the road, propped up against Mr Grigg's car, with a third standing next to a police officer. There's drunken shouting and swearing, and young men's Westcountry belligerence and four policemen talking calmly and persistently until the men are asked to get up. To think, with windows wide open, I nearly slept through all of this. Then I hear the immortal lines that go something like ' you do not have to say anything...anything you do say may be given in evidence.' Crucially, I miss what they are being arrested for

A friend of mine has run into a spot of bother. He's been quoted in a national newspaper article highlighting the negatives of living in rural and coastal areas like this one. Anyone would think he was the Antichrist, the way his comments have been received. But, in broad brush terms, I think he's right. This corner of England, this land, is the closest things to heaven in the world.                We have amazing cliffs and coastline, rolling hills and hinterland, and we're continually featured in the media for this wonderful landscape and the feel-good vibe.        It's what I missed when I was away from it for a year in Corfu. It's what hundreds and thousands of people come to visit each year. It's a rural idyll. But is it? Is it really? Beneath the veneer there is something else. Something you will find in similar places up and down the country. There are drugs, there is poverty, there is heartbreak. The