The world from my window

We slipped out of the hallway, Martha the dog and me, edging past baskets of logs, boxes of things for a village event, a dog crate and musical instruments. We were heading for Bluebell Hill, which was shrouded in mist. A crow sat on a fence post and coughed rather theatrically as we walked past. 'Ahem,' it said. 'You're up bright and early.' Back home, Mr Grigg was rustling up a cooked breakfast for our guest, talented Canadian singer songwriter Ian Sherwood , who spent the night with us after a gig in Lush Places, part of a tour of south west England. He rocked our village hall. Like a male Joni Mitchell, his many-layered songs dipped and dived, entertained and got us all joining in. This man is going places. Today, he's heading for Dartmoor. The sun's shining, it's squelchy underfoot but the sky is a beautiful pale blue. It's been a busy old weekend. A grandchild's fourth birthday, Harvest Festival, the church smelling of app...

Funny thing, homesickness. Back in Lush Places, the soggy, syrupy mist swoops down all of a sudden and I want to grab hold of it. It's my security blanket, wrapped around me, as I gaze at water droplets on sodden and bare trees and rotten cider apples lying on the ground. I love this place. And the sunlight bounces off the bantams' backs as we pack up and get ready to go back to Corfu. Even in winter, when Dorset's Enchanted Village is up to her neck in fog, in my head it's the theme music to A Summer Place . 'Who do you miss the most?' my friend Tuppence asks. I have to think. My family, my friends? But, no, it isn't a single person. It's the place. For the first three months of living in Corfu, guilt has picked me up and dropped me down again as I fight the urge to go home. Who wouldn't be happy in this lovely place, this lovely island of Corfu, with its beautiful, kind people and wonderful scenery? 'It's just the way yo...