The world from my window

With November comes the fog and Lush Places becomes Slush Places once more. It's muddy underfoot and the dog has a field day gobbling up all the sheep's poo and getting filthy on harvested ground. But that's the way I like it. Halloween is the day of days; bright, cheerful and sunny. Yet my portal into another world - the mirror in the village square where the ley lines cross - foretells of darker days ahead: red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning. October, a rare month for boys . And for girls, too, Mr Bradbury. “Oh, what strange wonderful clocks women are. They nest in Time. They make the flesh that holds fast and binds eternity. They live inside the gift, know power, accept, and need not mention it. Why speak of time when you are Time, and shape the universal moments, as they pass, into warmth and action? How men envy and often hate these warm clocks, these wives, who know they will live forever.” Imbibed with the power of the sisterhood and  Sa...

We're back in Greece now after a few weeks in England where we caught up with family, friends, Dorset and a book signing or two.   After a bit of a party in Lush Places, no sooner had we disrobed from our Poseidon and Medusa chitons (the Greek forerunner of the Roman toga), with a trail of wigs, rubber snakes and seaweed in our wake, then it was up in an aeroplane and a turbulent landing at Athens before a six-hour wait for a plane to Corfu. Back in Agios Magikades, one of dear friends had put in a few welcoming touches to the house.   Freshly picked clementines and Christmas decorations. Lovely. We had a coffee with our neighbour who showed us his new fire and then settled down to a roaring log fire and The Lincoln Lawyer, an American film on television with Greek subtitles. This morning, the sun takes its time to climb up over the mountain. There is a chill in the air and a strip of mist poised at the bottom of the valley. The sound of dogs barking rico...

The wind roars through the beech trees, buffeting and tossing everything in its path. Those trees, those old, old trees sway like ancient dancers at a primeval feast. In the early morning darkness, only the lights of the housing association houses and a smattering of others - including ours - are on, as I make my way around the field with two dogs and a torch before getting ready for work. Elsewhere, the newly-retired and long-retired slumber in their beds. A solitary figure in a dressing gown tiptoes out of a door, looking left and right before the clattering of bottles put out for the recycling is heard across the street. It is Mrs Bancroft, and she's going back to bed. My two reluctant spaniels perk up when they pick up the scent of a short-sighted badger which snuffles and snorts across the field and bangs into a fence post as it makes its getaway. On the road, there might be trees fallen down and plenty of surface water as white van man and commuters like me make for t...