The world from my window

I'm at The Playhouse in Weston-super-Mare, sitting in the stalls and waiting for a tribute band to appear on stage. I must admit, I'm a tribute act virgin, and I'm a little bit sniffy about it, particularly as it's a pretend Queen - I really don't count myself as much of a fan. Still, the tickets are free and I have been taught by my neighbour Mrs Bancroft to never turn down an invitation. "Oh, go on, you'll enjoy it," Randy Munchkin said, when I told her I wouldn't be at the pub's steak night that evening. Even my good friend, Pelly Sheepwash, doesn't turn her nose up at the prospect of seeing a tribute band. "We saw a Pink Floyd tribute once and they were better than the real band." A lookalike Roger Taylor drummer takes to the stage and bashes out an introduction. Rocking up next is the bass player (who was Queen's bass player? I've just looked it up. Of course. John Deacon. Does the tribute one look like ...

Hot cross buns a plenty on A Dorset Year . Have a lovely Easter. That's about it. Love Maddie x

My sister (in the background) going round in circles with her great-nieces When Cathie Sings by W. Percy Withers When Cathie sings – the stars lean down to listen; The song-birds for a while subdue their lay. If sad her theme, then eyes with tears will glisten, But sparkle should her choice of song be gay. Hers is the power to make our loads seem lighter, Our sorrows fly away on silken wings; Our dull, drab world grows happier far, and brighter, When Cathie sings. This poem was written by my late grandfather. It's dedicated to my lovely second sister, who died suddenly, three weeks ago. She was the most caring, adventurous and fair person I have ever known. She is so sadly missed by all the family . That's about it. Love Maddie x

I've been a little bit preoccupied of late so, until I write another post, here's a word from a friend of mine about A Dorset Year , which tells seasonal tales about the countryside in this neck of the woods. I'm really grateful to Nathalie for her lovely pictures. I look forward to the next nine months working with her in charting the story of this special part of England. That's about it. Love Maddie x

It's a bit blowy here in Dorset. Hop on over to A Dorset Year for more. That's about it. Love Maddie x

High up in Funchal, we saw the sled drivers playing cards before the crowds arrived. Their bags and straw boaters hung on the wall. For thirty euros, a couple could slide two kilometers down the hill in old, wicker toboggans. We'd got here by cable car, rising like something out of Where Eagles Dare from Madeira's capital. Up the top, the cart drivers lined up and rubbed their hands together when a tour party arrived.   A van arrived and toboggans were unloaded for yet another trip down the long slope. These rickety contraptions have been charging down the hill for years. Ernest Hemingway (or Uncle Ernie, to those of you who read my last blog post ) is reported in the Lonely Planet guidebook to have found the experience exhilarating. However, further reading suggests he never went on a sled at all, leaving that joy to his wife and the captain of the ship on which the Hemingways were cruising. Which makes me feel...