The world from my window

It's my birthday and I wake up today with the words of Tina Turner rasping in my ears: "Women of a certain age..." I get up later than usual, because of the occasion and because I can, and take the dog out on a long walk across the fields, to a hamlet where I often think I'd like to live, because it's got a tucked-away church, a farmyard full of stuff and the smell of cow dung is never far from my nostrils. The sky is a beautiful blue, made even more blue by my camera's new polarising filter, and I am loving the light, the definition in the landscape Thankfully, Tina Turner has wandered off stage and out of my head (and I say, bloody good riddance, I like you Tina and all that, but, frankly, I'm more of a Nutbush City Limits -type of girl and I Don't Wanna Lose You gets on my nerves). And Leonard Bernstein, with whom I share a birthday, don't you know, floats by on a low, wispy cloud and I hear him singing the words 'there's a plac...

And so the countdown really begins as we start to pack up, throw out and generally sort through the house. With gifts of English provisions such as Jacobs Cream Crackers and Marmite from Darling Loggins, Manuka honey hand cream from Pelly Sheepwash and four pairs of silky and lacy knickers from the fragrant Mrs Putter (what was she thinking of?), I am almost ready for my Big Fat Greek Gap Year. But tonight we celebrate The Enchanted Village and its special people, the people who worked for weeks to put on four fun-filled days over the Diamond Jubilee weekend. It is our annual thank you party and people have brought enough loaves and fishes to feed the five thousand.  There is dancing to The Macarena and Cha-Cha Slide , led by Randy Munchkin and The Loveliest Lady in the Village. And then there is a lull when my iPod freezes on Born to Be Wild , giving Mr Loggins the chance to step in and say a few words. 'We're going to miss you two,' he says. 'But if anyon...

In September there is a village outing - two nights in a rambling, old fashioned hotel in Woolacombe. Parlour games, communal meals and swimming. Blog heaven. But for the second year running, we are going to miss it. Last year we were on holiday and this year it's Number One Daughter's wedding. If I were paranoid, I could be forgiven for thinking the timing was deliberate. But I am not paranoid, which is just as well because two sets of neighbours either side of us have 'sold' signs like bookends on their houses. Is it us? Mr Loggins thinks not. He turned sage on Sunday when he said: 'The fact they've both sold means there are people who actually want to come and live next to you.' We are pleased our neighbours have sold in a so-called bad housing market but sorry they are leaving. They are village 'lifeblood' people and the square and our community will miss them. They will be a hard act to follow. Our elderly neighbour Gandalf is the wisest man I ...

Underneath the clock at Waterloo Station, the gateway to my Western world, weary women in pink leg warmers, trainers and bras over tee-shirts walk by, survivors from the London Moonwalk. I am on my way home from The City Where No-one Ever Speaks To Strangers and the camaraderie and sense of achievement emanating from these women is humbling. I have left my old friend out in the suburbs in a Brief Encounter-like moment on a station platform. Yesterday I did my pitch at the travel writing workshop. I was buoyed up by euphoria after being told by the trainer Dea Birkett that my notes in an exercise about using all the senses sounded like poetry. But when it came to pitching an idea to Dan Linstead, the editor of Wanderlust , my heart was knocking so hard against my chest I thought I might have to let it out and shake hands with everyone round the table. Rather bravely, I went straight in with my first paragraph about the wind turbines in Puglia, encircling me like a sinister army , an...

The village has been full of shiny, happy people this weekend as the sun beat down on walkers, gardeners and people just going to and from the shop. My wallflowers are just about to come out, although obscured by orange brick dust created by builder (with shirt on). Yesterday, Mr Grigg, still bathing in the glow of organising a very successful work-related event on Friday, used his bartering skills to great effect, swapping stone for bricks with Packman. The latter's garden is taken over by long-haired guinea pigs, goats and children's toys, which is just how a family lawn should be. Further down the lane, Mr Sheepwash was digging out the foundations for a hen house and run. As Mr Grigg and I wandered down with a bucket to get some tadpoles from the pond, we saw Mr Sheepwash through the trees, digging furiously with his shirt off and listening to his iPod. He spotted us, sucked in his stomach and quickly put his shirt back on. Pelly says I can keep two hens on their patch of gr...