The world from my window

Christmas is just a week away and that sounds about right as a cough and cold has just descended on me like the Angel Gabriel. I've had the flu jab so it isn't a full-on thing, but it's annoying, nonetheless, and I hope it'll have burnt itself out by this time next week. The village square is looking very sparkly as are all roads leading to it. While walking the dogs just before dusk last night, a five-bar gate across someone's drive suddenly lit up as I went past, flashing and going as if Christmas was about to arrive, which indeed it is. Carol singing in church is done and dusted although, sadly, our vicar was unable to lead the service because she's ill. Still, it was a great way to start the festive season and the last minute choir practice in church accompanied by ringing bells was worthy of The Vicar of Dibley because none of us could hear ourselves think, let alone sing. Thankfully, there were no sniggers from the congregation when I read the sec...

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...

It's Samhain, one of the most important festivals of the pagan year, and I'm up with the sunrise on the hill, hugging a tree, my face buried in the soft lichen enveloping its trunk, before looking out across the valley towards the sea. There's no-one about and the air is still and clear. There are fairies up on this hill, although I've not encountered one as yet. However, it's the best place and time to breathe in the freshness, ever so deeply, and commune with nature. Samhain is the highest holy day of witches. I'm a complete novice when it comes to witchery but I can relate to it far better than I can to Halloween, with its supermarket costumes and gummy sweets and cruel tricks on people who have the audacity not to see the cute side of children at their door demanding treats with menaces.  Mind you, I do like the effect a lit pumpkin can have on a dark night. And that's the point about Samhain. It's about passing from the light into the dar...

It's that time of year again when the genteel seaside resort of Sidmouth opens its doors to folk fans and performers from around the world. There's been a folk festival here in the first week of August every year since 1955. Tens of thousands of visitors flock to this part of Devon for it.  The esplanade is full of morris dancers and solitary buskers. Girls are doing jigs and reels. The pubs are full of musicians just picking up their instruments and going with the flow. There are ceilidhs in halls and pub patios, workshops in community halls and vocalists in the gardens. And much ale and cider is consumed. And then there's the paid-for gigs all through the week, with artists on the multi-faceted bill including  Show of Hands , Oysterband , Ralph McTell , Seth Lakeman and his father, Geoff (who I remember from the days when he was the Daily Mirror's man on the spot in the West Country).  And much ale and cider is consumed. Still, we're here...

I t's a strange day today. Black as the inside of a bag and raining like billio. I don't like it. We had snow last week. Just five minutes of it, but snow nonetheless. It's as if the natural world is protesting at what's going on in the unnatural world. Refugee crisis, terrorism, Trump... Don't get me started. And since my Brexit heartbreak , the landscape has been changing. Literally. Here's a couple of trees whose progress I've been following since the summer. (Excuse the quality of the photos, they were taken on my phone. I blame Brexit). Indulge my flight of fancy, but I think they look like the British Isles. I am always seeing symbolism in nature. This is what the trees looked like in the early summer. Scotland was a big dodgy and the west and south east coasts of Ireland weren't quite right, but you can see what I mean, can't you? Fast forward to the late summer/early autumn. Wales has dropped off but Scotland, surprisi...

We're walking down a wooded lane, Arty the dog and I. There's a high estate wall on one side, a long bank on the other. We crunch through leaves and step on chestnut husks. She's on the extendable lead as a yappy little dog roars up around the corner. Arty bounces, a bit, to one side, an incomer in a new place. The other dog sniffs his approval and then trots back to his owner. 'It's a lovely morning,' the woman says. 'There's no-one about. You can let her off the lead.' I explain that as we're only staying here a couple of days, I want to see the lie of the land first before allowing the girl to explore unfettered. We leave the lane and enter a large, sheep-free field. A short walk through the grass, around the bend and then there's this... Wow. We meet another friendly dog walker, who directs us up some steps and through a wood. We emerge onto a quay and I can look at the viaduct from a different direction. ...

Far, far, far from Dorset's madding crowd is Bluebell Hill. The views from up here are stunning.  Nature provides the most beautiful frames. They're everywhere you look. Inside the wood, the boughs of the beech trees, with their newly-emerged leaves, sway ever-so-gently, casting rippling shadows in the undergrowth.   These are old woods. And down at our feet, the bluebells are in full battle cry.   They march across the clearings, finding a foothold where they can. We're passed by a young mother with two small girls who are still in school uniform. They've been collected from the playground and whisked up to Bluebell Hill while the flowers are at their best. A panting, black Labrador shoots by and our dog, Arty, chases after him. And then she's back, pounding along the pathway and enjoying the spring in her step. It's at times like these that I am so glad I made the decision to work for myself and be based at home. ...

And the cats patrol the rubbish skips on the corner of our road. In among the poo bags, the vegetable peelings and a fluorescent tube a kitten could use as a lightsaber, they might find a fish head or two. At every skip and wheelie bin, there is a cat, guarding its territory. A large ginger one, a tortoiseshell which is surprisingly fluffy given the climate, copious black and white ones and the odd fat tabby.  One with a stubby tail, another with a weird eye. Nobody wants them. And in the valley, the dogs bark, setting off a chain reaction among hounds and mongrels chained up outside what look more like shacks  than houses. The geese start to honk and turkeys scuttle through the olive groves. In the village square, a cheeky golden Labrador is young, footloose and fancy-free. His Alsatian-cross-collie paramour, with looks only a mother could love, waggles her tail at him in flirtatious abandon as they weave in and out of each other through the na...

I have just been down the Other End of the Village delivering cards and party invites. Never one to waste an opportunity if it means saving time, I thought I would walk the dogs as well. Big mistake. It is not easy struggling along a muddy lane with a bag, a torch, cards, a sensible dog and a stupid five-month-old puppy that will not stop pulling. I ended up shoving cards through letterboxes using my mouth (sorry if yours is wet in the corner) and then got completely tangled with dog leads when the puppy decided to do a Christmas jig around my legs. I was in danger of falling over completely. My arms were wrapped around my torso as if in a loving embrace. The more the dogs pulled, the worse it became. But my knight in shining armour arrived in the shape of a helpful farmer who pulled up in his Land Rover as I struggled to break free from my shackles. He pondered for a bit and then untangled me as if he were sorting out a bit of binder twine. It was rather like a weird version of Maypol...