The world from my window

On Sunday morning, there are two sheep sauntering in a very confident manner down the street. Unfazed by the local peloton of cyclists zooming past in formation, the sheep look right, look left and then look right again before crossing the main road, heading in the direction of Lyme Regis. They'll be corralled in a garden soon, way before they have the chance to place their towels out on the sand or frolic about with buckets and spades. Their adventure will probably be over within minutes. But they're out there, giving it a go. I am out here too, with two little girls laden with sweets from the village shop, each one far exceeding their £2 allowance, Young children are canny like that. They knew I'd lose count once the liquorice bootlaces and fried egg candies started going in the basket at speed. There were just too many figures to add up in my head. Unlike the sheep or indeed their grandmother, who got a grade three CSE in maths three times (even with private tu...

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 the long, hot summer days are gone, the air is still and the sky is grey. Gardens are looking ragged, fields are tired and crying out to move on to autumn. Up at the village hall, that last hoorah of the season - the annual flower show - opens its doors to the public. There are gasps at the size of the onions, smiles at the vegetable monsters and hurt - real hurt - at winning only a consolation prize in the category for scones. It's been a difficult year for growing, as anyone who has been in England since late winter will tell you. We had two heavy blasts of snow in March, followed by rain and then a heatwave. How can anyone grow runner beans - let alone the longest - in conditions like that? But, despite a drop in exhibits, the show still attracts entries, although it's clear that home winemaking is a thing of the past, with only one bottle vying for honours this year. Maybe we need a new class for cider or elderflower cordial or maybe even flavoured oils...

After a period of blogging, not blogging and blogging again, I'm back, but in a slightly different form. A new year is about to begin and it's time for a new project. I will continue to use this as my website and personal blog. So if I'm in Budapest, as I'm going to be later this month, you can read all about it here. And if I have a book to launch, which I will do in the spring, I'll let you know about it on these pages. And I still have the joy of writing my weekly Maddie's World column for The People's Friend Magazine , who found me through this blog. But for a while now, I've missed writing consistently about the ebb and flow of nature and country life in my neck of the woods. So I'm going to try a little experiment.  It's called A Dorset Year and I hope you're going to like it. That's about it. Love Maddie x