The world from my window

It's England's national day and the St George's Cross is flying high on the church flagpole. Across the road, the brewery has just picked up a load of empty beer barrels from the pub and stocked up its cellar with full ones. In the fields, there are cuckoo flowers. Great drifts of them. The naked ash tree is silhouetted against a bright blue sky and the old shepherd and his dog on my late father's weather vane trudge ever onwards. In the village hall where Mr Grigg and I had our wedding reception many moons ago, they're clearing up the remains of the cider festival. The golden nectar of my grandparents' days, when they made cider from their own orchards and no additives were involved, is now quite rightly enjoying a resurgence. Thomas Hardy loved it, as you can gather in this extract from Great Things : Sweet cyder is a great thing,      A great thing to me, Spinning down to Weymouth town      By Ridgway thirstily, And ma...

We've been promised a heatwave of sorts here in England next week. And about time, too! Spring's been a long time coming. Still, in the words of Louis Armstrong, I don't care what the weatherman says, when the weatherman says its raining, you'll never hear me complaining. Unless it's snowing and I slip and hurt my back.  But that's all in the past. The agony of back pain is forgotten, at least for the moment. Trees are beginning to come out in blossom. I even saw a swallow in Lush Places the week before last! Deep joy. They fill me with such happiness. And the wallflowers too. I love them. And mine are beginning to come out. Their scent is going to fill me with paroxysms of delight, I just know it. While we've been waiting for spring to spring, ITV has been very cleverly spoon-feeding us sunshine ever Sunday night in the shape of The Durrells , the television series loosely based on the Corfu Trilogy by Gerald Durrell. It makes for v...