The world from my window

I went on the march yesterday. It was an early start, driving into Bridport accompanied by Tony Blackburn on Radio 2 to catch the seven o'clock bus to London, and then back home again at ten at night to Craig Charles's House Party. In the interim, my friend won a 'I'm one of the Liberal Elite (apparently)' T-shirt in the raffle on the coach and I acquired a Union Jack-meets-the-EU-stars flag as we waited for the march to set off. It was the first time I've been on a mass protest since 1983. In a country torn apart by Brexit, it was the most positive many have felt in a long time. Surrounded by people of all faiths, colours, creed, all united for a common cause. We, the forty-eight percent, others who have changed their minds in the last three-and-half years and those who, in June 2016, had been too young to vote. There were teenagers, old people, the middle-aged, millennials and children. There were dogs and unicorns, masses of drums and big, bold ...

It was the bagpipes that did it. I was feeling pretty emotional in any case, as the cavalcade trundled by, its Europeans theme reflected in some of the floats and marching bands. It was a balmy summer’s night in a small town in France, the swallows flitting overhead, laughing at and weaving in and out of the tremendous shifting shapes of sparrows roosting in the trees. A hound on a lead was howling like it belonged to the Family Baskerville. People dangled their feet in a fountain. It was gone ten-thirty and the bridge over the Aveyron was still too hot to sit on. This canacule (my newest French word) was going on for far too long. It was time the heatwave turned to dust before we did. The day before, I had melted in forty-two degrees. The carnival queen and her attendants were ultra cool, though, dancing on their tiny float and surrounded by the flags of Europe, including our own Union Flag, all fluttering alongside each other. And then there were fun...

Over the past few years, I've avoided talking about Brexit, either online or in person. The referendum nearly three years ago ended up with me being carted off in an ambulance to hospital with a heart attack. Which ever way you voted (and I'm firmly in the 'Remain' camp), this whole debacle and the politicians' terrible handling of it has left everyone fuming. And still it goes on, and it will do for years and years to come, whatever the outcome. We are a divided nation, although we have more in common than we think. People are angry and intolerant and quick to take offence about everything, particularly online. It's as if being respectful and kind have been consigned into the bin of history, along with the Sinclair C5 and clackers. I'm in Sir Oliver Letwin's West Dorset constituency. I had hoped his intervention in the Brexit pantomime might have sorted things out once and for all. Oh no, it didn't. And, look, behind him are a bunch of l...

In a poor imitation of Harry Secombe, I’m walking down through the field singing If I Ruled The World . It's just as well no-one else is about. It's not a very good imitation, especially the high bits. Even the dog is cowering. But the song just popped into my head. And this has nothing to do with Brexit, Bercow or people jostling for positions in the forthcoming local government reorganisation here in Dorset. It'st because the second line is ‘every day would be the first day of spring’. It’s feeling very spring-like this morning, despite ribbons of mist in the valley and grey skies overpowering the blue. Despite natural and man-made disasters around the world, despite climate change, plastic pollution and our materialistic culture. Despite bickering politicians, sleaze and crime. In my world, there are woodpeckers drilling for England, pigeons cooing their plaintive call and grey squirrels scampering through the skeletal branches of beech. Up on...

There seem to be an overkill of ravens croaking high above the fields in this part of Dorset right now. Has anyone checked the Tower of London lately, to see if the ravens are still there? The story goes that if the Tower’s ravens are lost or fly away, the Crown will fall and Britain with it. Whereas I used to hear the ravens’ call only up on Bluebell Hill, they’re now lower down, closer to the village although flying high, solitary, in the sky on their way to somewhere. Their call is so distinctive. Unmistakable. Swifts have returned to the village square, nesting under the eaves of a house down the road, undisturbed by building work going on. To see these birds swooping in and out, well, they’re a joy to behold. It’s great to have them back, even just a few of them. It makes a change from the blessed jackdaws, although I suppose everyone has to live somewhere. But preferably not as close to me as this lot have been of late. The swifts seem to have such fun and they’re so ...

It's the General Election tomorrow and I've made it my business to be out in the evening. After suffering a heart attack on Brexit eve  while watching the television coverage, there is only so much I can take. So I'm off with friends to see The Bristol Old Vic Theatre School perform Under Milk Wood in Bridport . Says the blurb:  Set in the fictitious fishing village of Llareggub, this twenty four hour peek into the lives and loves of the likes of Captain Cat, Polly Garter and Willy Nilly has continued to enthral its audiences ever since. With its canvas of nonsense gossip, feuds, affairs, fights, frauds and practical jokes, the play pulses with the vitality and relish of real life characters re-living their dreams and desires. “Using Thomas’ delightful descriptions, the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School students have turned this feast for the ears into a hearty beano for the eyes.”  Robin Markell, BBC Captain Cat gets my vote every time, even if he's got a...

Back from Colombia, weary, jet lagged and minus a suitcase, we pay a fleeting visit to North India, courtesy of a Bollywood Night at  Bridport Electric Palace with the mighty Dhol Foundation . It's the launch of the town's first-ever Winter Solstice Festival, which I've helped to organise. Tonight, it's Billy Bragg with Grace Petrie and Whatever Happened to the Protest Song?  It's sold out, so I hope I can get in. The loud and joyous music of The Dhol Foundation is a tonic to the ears and tired bones. There is nothing to do but smile and dance and show off a henna tattoo I had done on my hand by a very beautiful and gracious young lady in the foyer. I'm fifty-five and have never had a tattoo, henna or otherwise, in my life. I like it. Mr Grigg and I must visit India next. And get tattoos. It's been a busy old year, travel-wise, with trips to Budapest, Madeira, Iceland, Dublin, Corfu, Sicily and Colombia. Phew. In hindsight, it was too much rea...

I t's a strange day today. Black as the inside of a bag and raining like billio. I don't like it. We had snow last week. Just five minutes of it, but snow nonetheless. It's as if the natural world is protesting at what's going on in the unnatural world. Refugee crisis, terrorism, Trump... Don't get me started. And since my Brexit heartbreak , the landscape has been changing. Literally. Here's a couple of trees whose progress I've been following since the summer. (Excuse the quality of the photos, they were taken on my phone. I blame Brexit). Indulge my flight of fancy, but I think they look like the British Isles. I am always seeing symbolism in nature. This is what the trees looked like in the early summer. Scotland was a big dodgy and the west and south east coasts of Ireland weren't quite right, but you can see what I mean, can't you? Fast forward to the late summer/early autumn. Wales has dropped off but Scotland, surprisi...

Down in the depths, Boris and his sirens have slunk into the shadows. 'There is no plan,' they say in unison, sniggering behind jagged and yellowed teeth. 'Now you're down here, you just have to be bottom feeders along with the rest of us.' There's something nasty on the seabed. It's pulling at my ankle and I'm out of here. Millions more rise in a mass of bubbles towards the light and up to the surface to await rescue. But no-one comes so we band together to make a human raft. It is what it is and we have to jettison hate and anger and reach dry land, by paddling together. On the morning the referendum results came through, I was attached to a heart monitor in A&E. The hospital was full of it, the staff had been listening to the news all night. As I was wheeled up to the coronary care unit, the nurse in charge was upbeat. 'I voted for out,' she told all the patients, as if we should be thanking her personally for taking us to t...