The world from my window

How’s your World Cup going? I’m not even a football fan. For years I thought Baddiel and Skinner were singing about  Three Lines . But I got well and truly sucked into it last night. The England games are being shown on a big screen in the village hall, thanks to my soccer-mad husband, who took no persuading in setting it up after learning that the pub was going to be a footie-free zone during the tournament. Last night, the chip van in the village square was doing a roaring trade. “But it’s funny,” said the young woman in between battering cod and haddock. “I’ve never seen so many ladies queuing up. Obviously the men have something better to do.” Up at the hall, the smell of testosterone on a warm, sunny night hit me as I walked in at half-time with our supper. “Just in time,” said my husband behind the makeshift bar, before he was inundated with requests for ice-cold pints of Thatchers and Branscombe beer straight from the barrel. “You couldn’t...

Back in The Shire, the weather has been Corfu-like in its warmth and sunshine. West Bay - known to millions of television viewers as Broadchurch - is sparkling, with people chilling out, enjoying picnics and barbecues on the beach and the kiosks doing a roaring trade. There are plenty of boats in the harbour and skippers pottering around in slow motion. There's not much mackerel about - yet. But give it time, they'll be back. From the sea, the sandstone cliffs look more beautiful than ever. Just don't stand on the edge or underneath them. Inland, the young men who work for agricultural contractors are roaring through the narrow lanes of Lush Places at breakneck speed on tractors towing machinery the size of the Channel Islands. Time is money, so they try to do it as quickly as possible. I'm a farmer's daughter. I appreciate work needs to be done. I live in the countryside and farming life goes on, just as it should do. But these contra...

The sound of ladders being extended against stone walls fills the square this morning as the bunting is taken down from The Enchanted Village. It coincides with a lull in the football, a realisation that England will not win the World Cup, no matter how many times Mr Grigg wears his football shirt without washing it in between matches. Last night, my blog characters did a little conga through the night. At a party to celebrate three 55th birthdays and a 65th, the hall was full of people eating, drinking and dancing to a very well thought-out playlist. There was Posh Totty strutting to Uptown Girl , Jamie Lee sashaying to Lady Gaga and Mr Sheepwash sliding around the floor in sandals. I was feeling rather delicate after an excess of wine the night before but got into my stride by the time Mambo Number Five blared through the speakers. All day, I had avoided being sick but that very nearly changed when the nauseating Lady in Red came on at the end. As we sat outside in the balmy...

It is Bunting Day in the Enchanted Village, a Saturday in early June when our menfolk crowd around the bottom of a ladder with copious cups of coffee while one brave soul climbs to the top and puts the flags out. The annual village fete will soon be upon us and so will the football. Oh yes, the football. In the Grigg household, rather like during the election, we will sit on opposite sides of the fence. Mr Grigg is passionate about the game. Me? I neither understand the offside rule nor do I care. But I do like the house and the street being decorated, which it is every year whether the football is on or not. Six men turn out this morning to put the bunting up while my neighbour flits in and out of her front door with a tray of coffee and biscuits. A short man stands on the phone box while a taller man balances precariously on the litter bin next to the village green in an attempt to tie a string of bunting on to a signpost. Mr Grigg is up a ladder in fake Crocs and Mr Sheepwash swings...