The world from my window

It's the last night of the year and it's already dark out there. It's only just past four o'clock. I am useless with dark nights and dark mornings. My days become so truncated, I am at my least-efficient-worst. By four o'clock it's time to take the dog out and, once we've come back, well, it's time to get the supper ready. The mornings are probably worse. I'm an early riser but it's not much fun walking the dog in the dark. This was our view of Lush Places early on Boxing Day from Bluebell Hill. By the time we approached the top, the sun was rising. The air was still, the odd bird was stirring and water droplets fell from rain-soaked leaves with a strange popping sound onto the beech nut floor. It was a magical experience, this solitude. I closed my eyes and breathed in my surroundings. The dog and I walked around the top, pretending to be ancient Britons, with not a soul in sight, and then back down again, slurping through the m...

And with Advent comes Christmas skies. You couldn't wish for a better sight to greet you in the morning. This morning, the trees were on fire in a purple haze. Up on the hill, the trees are clad in warm lichen as they sway in the cold wind. It may be cold outside but, oh, isn't it gorgeous? Welcome to nature's temple. It's glorious up here. That's about it. Love Maddie x

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...

It's a beautiful morning as I find my way to the central path up through the maize field. We've not been up here for weeks, the dog and I, what with cattle, sheep and then, before that, lots of mud. But today we're up on the highest hill in Dorset and it's only eight o'clock. It's like a cathedral to nature up here, with the rising sun peeping through the branches to illuminate the trees, elevating them into something even more special than they already are. We soak up the hazy view from the top before meandering around the summit, taking in the sights, sounds and smells and feel of this lovely rural spot. There's a rope swing in front of me. It's pretty low on the ground but no-one's looking. So I lift my leg over and swing through the morning. The dog thinks I'm mad. The sun throws a spotlight on my antics and then it's down the hill again, before anyone spots me. The scornful look on the dog's face is...

It's Mr Grigg's birthday and I've splashed out and bought us joint membership to  The National Trust . It wasn't that expensive and we should have joined years ago. We're surrounded by beautiful stately homes and are regular visitors to this place, just up the road from us in Lush Places. It's the highest point in Dorset (one of my  friends  got deliciously lost here, which she recounts in this blog post  on Totally Dorset ). Lewesdon looks down on  The Enchanted Village  like a protective parent. But joining the Trust was always something we were going to do when we had more time. And, besides, it's what old people do, and we're not that old. Yet. And then my work changed (hey, if there is anyone who needs a writer, please get in touch!) and I suddenly had more time. And, after a conversation with my young stonemason nephew (who has worked on the glorious Tyntesfield , which I am saving up to visit on a metaphorical rainy day), I dec...

We're walking along an ancient track towards the summit of what many local people consider the highest hill in Dorset. Pilsdon Pen. But in recent years, this flat-topped landmark has been usurped by its tree-clad neighbour, Lewesdon Hill. Ordnance Survey insists Pilsdon is 909ft, some six inches shorter than Lewesdon (below).   Despite the evidence to the contrary, people who have lived here all their lives will tell you Pilsdon is the taller of the two. The Cow to Lewesdon's Calf, as sailors used to call them. Whatever the truth, in the grand scheme of things, neither is very tall. But the two ancient hillforts stand like sentinels over the Marshwood Vale. From this side of Pilsdon, we look out across to Somerset.     On a clear day, we can see Glastonbury Tor and the Mendips. There are Bronze Age burial mounds at Pilsdon Pen. And on the trackway on its north west flank, something much more recent. That's about it. Love Maddie x