The world from my window

It's a blazing hot, autumn day and I'm out here in the sunshine, my best man by my side, and we're laying a hedge. A hedge . Me laying a hedge. My farming dad and grandfathers would be proud of me. Well, maybe not proud of the way I'm struggling to swing a billhook into the stem of this hazel. But perhaps proud of me for trying. Each year, the Melplash Agricultural Society puts on the annual hedging and ploughing match . Next Sunday, it's at Chideock. It's a great day out for all the family.  I'm taking part in a free, hedgelaying taster day at Mangerton Lane, near Bridport, where groups of up to four are being instructed in this age-old art by experts in the field. It's a lovely part of Dorset, bordered by a line of beautiful, rounded hills running from Loders to Powerstock. It's an enchanted landscape where the swallows and swifts gather for the last hurrah before the long journey south. A quick demonstration on the roadside hedgerow ...

It's only part-way through my birthday weekend and I've been completely spoiled and I'm thoroughly knackered. First, the Melplash Show. My favourite day of the year. So good of them to organise it for my birthday. And so good of Celebrity Farmer to almost spill the beans about my birthday surprise. 'I've been told you've booked a room at The Riverside,' he said to me and Mr Grigg, who promptly stood rather heavily on the toe of his wellington boot. 'Um, but then you decided to go somewhere else,' Celebrity Farmer said, in rather too much of a hurry. The hole just got bigger and bigger until even I wished I could jump in it with him After the show, instead of going home, we ended up at West Bay, my favourite seaside place. 'That's the one with the gurt hole in the middle,' my father usually says, referring to the harbour. You can just make out the pink house here, the old home of my mentor, the late David Martin . A...

  My ears are still ringing. The gig of the year, my Weymouth friend says. I wouldn't argue with that. 'Not a bit poptastic, then?' asks Pelly 'I-grew-up-with-prog-rock' Sheepwash this morning. 'No, slaptastic,' I say, beaming. I went back twenty-odd years last night to see Level 42 and, do you know? They're better now than they were then. Mind you, I was only a few months away from giving birth to Number One Son and spent all night standing on a cold, concrete floor in the Showering Pavilion at Shepton Mallet. Now that I'm nearly fifty, the comfy seats of Weymouth Pavilion came in handy. But the pounding bass of Mark King and those lovely harmonising vocals of keyboard player Mike Lindup got me out of my seat. Music to my ageing ears. No wonder I've got tinnitus. A misspent youth of disco music, punk rock, jazz funk and chillout. And a bit of folk interspersed. And what's more, even Mr Grigg enjoyed the gig, despite thinking...

Today as I walk the dogs, there is a real what I call ‘a Melplash Show morning’ feel to the air. Our local agricultural show is always at the end of August and it coincides with the slight chill and morning dew that signals the onset of autumn. The hedges are damp and smell of vegetation, decaying yet fruiting all at the same time. There are muddy puddles that sparkle with a splash of anticipation as the sun comes up. A hot air balloon drifts slowly, noiselessly, effortlessly across the Enchanted Village. It is a Ray Bradbury story, but not Something Wicked This Way Comes . It’s called Something Very Good Is About To Happen . I love the summer but I don’t mourn its passing. I embrace the autumn, the change in the seasons, the constant life cycle that reminds us it’s good to be alive. We are here only fleetingly but we are stardust. We are golden. Tonight and tomorrow I will be trying to persuade Mr Grigg to come with me for an evening of adventure that will start just after midnight. ...