The world from my window

It's a squishy kind of day here in The Enchanted Village. The rain wafts in sheets across the fields. And the trees on faraway Bluebell Hill roar as if their branch-lungs might burst. Cow tracks become rivulets, with water charging down the hill to meet the stream far, far in the distance, each droplet declaring the last one there is a sissy. Wellington boots are a must. And this is not the time of year to discover you're got a leak. Wellies just ain't what they used to be. Rainy mist covers the village where the workmen's vans jostle for space as the days of their owners are spent building, renovating, plumbing and scaffolding. Yesterday, the cattle moved through the Lush Places village square to pastures new. It was a fair old feat, this, the farming family providing an escort at the front, back and sides of this skittish procession. "What you doing up there? shouted the patriarch from his 4x4 as I struggled to open the upstairs window to

The skies are darkening but there has to be hope on the horizon. There just has to be. In Dorset as elsewhere, November brings the beautiful sunsets of October along for the ride. At Portland Bill, the clouds gather around the lighthouse, a beacon in a darkening world. Brexit is breaking apart, which it was always going to do. The only sure thing is that the sun will come up in the morning. Probably. Away from it all, from the television, radio and social media, there is such gorgeous beauty. I love it. Down at the Bay, the lights are on to announce the arrival of a new cafe bar, Rise . It looks very tempting, as does the Bull Hotel courtyard this time of year. Cut quinces sit like an art installation on my kitchen worktop. The resulting membrillo from a recipe by my old colleague and friend Liz Crow, the Baking Bird , is just divine. There's lots going on locally, for those who want it. I shall be booking tickets for this. I e

Halfway up the hill, the heavens open.  Should I stay or should I go? Should I walk back home or climb up to the summit of Bluebell Hill as planned? It's a field-and-a-bit to the shelter of the wood beyond the time portal gate. It's half-past seven in the morning and Mr Grigg is doing a shift at the community shop. He won't be back until ten o'clock. I stand in the middle of the field in the pouring rain and think to myself, well, I can't get any wetter. The rain has soaked through the shoulders of my coat and is running down the inside of my sleeves. I've got a hole in my left boot, despite having bought them only about six months ago. I don't have much luck with wellies. They don't make them like they used to. I figure I'm going to get as wet going down the hill as if I go up so I plod on through the mud and aim for the gate. Arty shoots on ahead, looking for pheasants to torment, and I trudge on regardless, my woolly hat pulled down over

There's not a soul to be seen up on the hill on All Souls Day. It's a fine November morning here on Bluebell Hill, with the leaves in the trees rustling louder and louder and transforming into a mighty roar. The chain on the gate goes clink, clink, clink as the ravens caw and circle overhead. The dog disturbs a pheasant which takes off with a mechanical screech into the woods. Grey skies, but I can see the sea on the distant horizon. There is an old hollow beech tree up here with its own cold tub for the fairies to bathe in as part of their morning and nightly rituals. There's a swing with a view, mushy brown leaves scattered on the grass. There are penny buns here if you know where to look, and magic mushrooms a-plenty. Back through the time portal gateway and a new day is dawning. Down below, the village wakes as, on All Souls Day, I pause for a few moments to think of the souls of the people I have loved. They mingle around the trees