The world from my window

I'm up bright and early on Dorset's highest hill, looking out across the vale to a hazy coast, at around about twenty past seven. This is a 'no filter' photo from my phone. It's wonderful up here this morning, with no-one else about. On the top of the world, looking down on creation. It's Lady Day today, and also my only brother's birthday. Two important events in my family's calendar over the years: the latter because he is the Golden Child, the only male in a gaggle of females, and the former because it's the traditional day for farm tenancies to change. As children, we were brought up on a county council smallholding in Somerset, so Lady Day has always been part of my inner make up. It's the first of the four traditional English quarter days (the others being Midsummer, Michaelmas and Christmas Day). It's called Lady Day because it marks the Feast of the Annunciation, which celebrates the Angel Gabriel's announcement to the ...

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

They say you should never go back. But for the past few weeks, I've had a yearning to go home, to revisit my roots. I don't know why. It's an odd feeling and I can't explain it. I've had Enchanted Village compassion fatigue for about the same time and I felt like running through a field and yelling at the top of my voice. This weekend, I've done a bit of both but not at the same time. With the fragrant Mrs Putter, I belted out a few negro spirituals at a singing workshop run by my dear friend, Tuppence. I got my voice back. And then today, Mr Grigg and I put the spaniels in the back of the Freeloader and headed across the county border into Somerset. It was only just over thirteen miles away but it felt like the Land Rover was a time machine as we went back to 1979. And there I was, in the top field, the one called Bella's Nose, and then up into the wood with its Scots pine trees and then down again through Corn Close, where I learned to drive, and the...

I look out from my window today, over the rooftops, the school field, the allotments and across the patchwork squares of Dorset fields into Somerset, the county where I was born. Today is Oak Apple Day, which was created to celebrate the restoration of the British monarchy in 1660. It was the birthday of King Charles II, who famously hid in an oak tree when he was on the run from the Roundheads after the Battle of Worcester in 1651. In his desperate bid to escape, he took cover in all sorts of places, including The Enchanted Village and, more specifically, the house where Mr Grigg and I now live. I will tell you about that one day. But today is also Rogation Sunday, a day when countryside folk ask for a good harvest, when the clergymen bless the fields and the communities whose lives are intertwined with the land. The day always reminds me of a childhood role in the church choir, along with my sisters and brother, in our farming village. In our purple and white robes, we would gather i...

In the migration museum of Adelaide, there is a verse by Mary Thomas, an emigrant in the 1800s: Yes, England, I have fled from thee Fast fades thy beauteous shore then flow my tears, for I shall see my native land no more In 1964, my father's brother took advantage of the assisted passage scheme and left Somerset for the heat of Adelaide, South Australia, as a Ten Pound Pom. He has returned several times since - for holidays - and the last time I saw him was twelve years ago. It is a hugely emotional experience for me to meet him and his family on the other side of the world. He walks out on to the pavement from his front door and playfully asks: 'Who's this then?' I hug him. I can feel the tears running down my cheeks. After 45 years or more, he hasn't lost that lovely and soft Westcountry burr. He tells me about my grandfather, who was an ANZAC and fought at Gallipoli in the First World War. He tells me about my great uncle, who left in the 1920s and never came ba...