The world from my window

Up on the hill early one morning this week, I was walking quietly around, minding my own business, when I noticed a billycan hanging from a tree trunk. 'Ooh, that's nice,' I thought. 'Someone's been up here with the children during half term and had a barbecue. But they've forgotten to take their rubbish home with them.' I was just about unhook it off the tree when I turned the corner and noticed a tent in the shadows. And then a solitary, male figure emerged from inside, stretching his arms up to the sky as if he'd just got up. I'd only that moment been thinking about an idea for a short story which had come to me after its fantastic title was kindly provided by the dictation facility on my phone's WhatsApp. This had completely misheard me when I said 'cattle escaped'. I'm not going to tell you what it typed, as I don't want you to use that as as the title for a short story which goes on to be the basis of a bestselling n...

It's a squishy kind of day here in The Enchanted Village. The rain wafts in sheets across the fields. And the trees on faraway Bluebell Hill roar as if their branch-lungs might burst. Cow tracks become rivulets, with water charging down the hill to meet the stream far, far in the distance, each droplet declaring the last one there is a sissy. Wellington boots are a must. And this is not the time of year to discover you're got a leak. Wellies just ain't what they used to be. Rainy mist covers the village where the workmen's vans jostle for space as the days of their owners are spent building, renovating, plumbing and scaffolding. Yesterday, the cattle moved through the Lush Places village square to pastures new. It was a fair old feat, this, the farming family providing an escort at the front, back and sides of this skittish procession. "What you doing up there? shouted the patriarch from his 4x4 as I struggled to open the upstairs window to ...

There's not a soul to be seen up on the hill on All Souls Day. It's a fine November morning here on Bluebell Hill, with the leaves in the trees rustling louder and louder and transforming into a mighty roar. The chain on the gate goes clink, clink, clink as the ravens caw and circle overhead. The dog disturbs a pheasant which takes off with a mechanical screech into the woods. Grey skies, but I can see the sea on the distant horizon. There is an old hollow beech tree up here with its own cold tub for the fairies to bathe in as part of their morning and nightly rituals. There's a swing with a view, mushy brown leaves scattered on the grass. There are penny buns here if you know where to look, and magic mushrooms a-plenty. Back through the time portal gateway and a new day is dawning. Down below, the village wakes as, on All Souls Day, I pause for a few moments to think of the souls of the people I have loved. They mingle around the trees...

Well, the good news is that the lump on Arty's head is nothing to worry about. However, tests show she has major problems with her immune system. The future doesn't look bright for her, although we might be able to keep it at bay with the correct medication. These are difficult times. I love my girl and I want what's best for her but I don't want her to be in pain. Some days she's fine, other times she isn't. This morning, though, you wouldn't know there was anything wrong with her. It was only the second time she'd been allowed off the lead following last week's operation. Yesterday, she ran through the field to her favourite patch of badger poo. And she just rolled, rolled and rolled in it. It took two washes to get it off. I can still smell it. This morning we walked to our favourite field, and the grass has just been cut. We made our way down to  the middle to say hello  to the ash tree.  And then Arty found something dead in the cu...

'Isn't it lovely?' I said, smiling to a young girl. She was going back home to get into warmer and waterproof clothes, ready for a bit of sledging down the hill with her friend. By the time we got there, Arty and I, most of the sledgers had gone. My dear dog ran around in it, never having see snow before, and then met her old friend, Ted, for a quick swoosh around the slopes.  She looked like a woolly mammoth without the trunk and tusks. 'It's great, isn't it?' said one of my neighbours, coming up the hill to find his daughter. 'Everyone's talking to each other and smiling.' It was true. This long-awaited snow reached us on Thursday afternoon. We'd had plenty of warning and were ready and waiting. We'd be snowed in for about two days, we reckoned, and that blitz spirit would see us through until the weekend. The red of the village phone box stood out against the blizzard, a beacon of Englishness in the village square. ...

We slipped out of the hallway, Martha the dog and me, edging past baskets of logs, boxes of things for a village event, a dog crate and musical instruments. We were heading for Bluebell Hill, which was shrouded in mist. A crow sat on a fence post and coughed rather theatrically as we walked past. 'Ahem,' it said. 'You're up bright and early.' Back home, Mr Grigg was rustling up a cooked breakfast for our guest, talented Canadian singer songwriter Ian Sherwood , who spent the night with us after a gig in Lush Places, part of a tour of south west England. He rocked our village hall. Like a male Joni Mitchell, his many-layered songs dipped and dived, entertained and got us all joining in. This man is going places. Today, he's heading for Dartmoor. The sun's shining, it's squelchy underfoot but the sky is a beautiful pale blue. It's been a busy old weekend. A grandchild's fourth birthday, Harvest Festival, the church smelling of app...