The world from my window

Just close to Halloween, the time of year when the threshold between our world and the next is oh-so- thin, there is a new addition to the Lush Places square. In between the plaque for the children's play area, in memory of two Bernards who were killed in two World Wars, the sign announcing and sponsoring the village fireworks, the notice campaigning for a 20mph limit through the village and a board pointing to the community shop, a circular mirror has appeared. It's been installed to help motorists easing out of the junction, which, at times, can seem like the starting grid for Wacky Races. I swear I've just seen the Creepy Coupe with the Gruesome Twosome just heading the wrong way up the one-way street. Everybody is talking about the new mirror (conversation can be limited in these parts). It's large, it's orange and it's even more clutter in the middle of the village. But it works. You can see what's coming when previously you couldn'...

So much to write about, so much to say. But the inclination is not there. Not at the moment. We are a region in mourning after Friday evening's terrible pile-up on the motorway near Taunton, which claimed seven lives in a fireball and left many more injured. It is a junction people around here know very well. It's our pathway to Bristol and beyond. We know the rugby club, too, next door, where it is now being suggested that thick black smoke from a fireworks display descended without warning, blinding drivers and causing this dreadful crash. But we don't know what really happened, it is all speculation. We only know that it is terrible and, with the speed that some people drive at, barely leaving enough stopping space between them and the vehicle in front, we are surprised it doesn't happen more often. Our thoughts go out to all those affected by this horrible, horrible accident. More from me later in the week, when I will describe Mr Grigg's journey throu...

The winds roared through the night, as the window were lashed with heavy rain. This morning there are puddles everywhere. A thick, brown gilet of sycamore and beech leaves lines the windscreen and bonnet of a parked car, keeping the vehicle warm until it awakes. The weather held out for bonfire night and the skies around The Enchanted Village were a riot of colour as Mr Grigg set off rockets with names like 'Explorer' and 'Goliath'. As well as our own village do, the posh people up the road pitched in, with fireworks even bigger and better than we commoners could afford. Over the hill, the sky lit up from north to south, from east to west, with flashes of light accompanied by loud booms. For one night only, World War Three had been declared. And in the pub and several pints of cider later, Mr Putter led a small table in a singsong, starting with Donald Where’s Yer Troosers . Mr Grigg lowered the tone, with a cheeky rendition of Adge Cutler and The Wurzels' Twi...

A tattered St George’s flag ripples on top of the church. It is early morning and a regiment of rooks descends on the stays of the flagpole, sinister, like something from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds . The pink-tinged clouds signal the arrival of Homer’s rosy fingered dawn and The Enchanted Village awakes, twinkling lights coming on up and along the valley to a theme of The Planet Suite on my iPod. Autumn has well and truly arrived. At Halloween, candelit pumpkins grin in the windows while children dressed as vampires, skeletons and ghosts tour the village in packs, pouncing on sweets thrown from the doorways like pigeons after crumbs. At Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie’s, a bumper parcel arrives, stashed with fireworks. These are the ones Mr Grigg and his pals will be setting off on Friday evening to celebrate Bonfire Night. The crowds will be thronging the square, queuing up for burgers and hot dogs, going ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ in all the right places when Nobby Odd-Job and Mr Sheepwash ligh...

On a wet autumn day, Handel's Music for the Royal Fireworks plays on my stereo. Which is appropriate really, as we have just celebrated Bonfire Night a few days late with the village fireworks. The composer is the right choice but it really ought to be Handel's Water Music, as the rain it raineth, and raineth all the night. We should have known; the forecasters and village soothsayers were all saying the same, as they waved printouts from the BBC website. Beware the rain. But we live in such a strange place, the weather can be completely different from locations just a few miles away. When the sun is shining on the coast just down the road, up here we're in fog land. However, despite the forecast we decided to go for it because of our wise old neighbour next door. In our house, he is known as Gandalf because we are convinced he is a wizard. He does not come and go out of his front door any more, like the little man and woman who lived in the weather house on my grandparents...