The world from my window

There seem to be an overkill of ravens croaking high above the fields in this part of Dorset right now. Has anyone checked the Tower of London lately, to see if the ravens are still there? The story goes that if the Tower’s ravens are lost or fly away, the Crown will fall and Britain with it. Whereas I used to hear the ravens’ call only up on Bluebell Hill, they’re now lower down, closer to the village although flying high, solitary, in the sky on their way to somewhere. Their call is so distinctive. Unmistakable. Swifts have returned to the village square, nesting under the eaves of a house down the road, undisturbed by building work going on. To see these birds swooping in and out, well, they’re a joy to behold. It’s great to have them back, even just a few of them. It makes a change from the blessed jackdaws, although I suppose everyone has to live somewhere. But preferably not as close to me as this lot have been of late. The swifts seem to have such fun and they’re so ...

No sooner is the cherry blossom out then down comes the wind, swooping off the mist-encrusted top of Bluebell Hill, down, down into The Enchanted Village. At the front of Monty Chocs-Away's house, the blossom forms a carpet of pink, blown up like confetti by the breeze, swirling around in ever decreasing circles. Down the road, Bellows Packman's goats bleat and the sheep in the field call out. A woodpecker rat-a-tats and a jackdaw dives down Champagne-Charlie's chimney with a large twig in its beak. Past Tuppence's house there is an exotic smell of patchouli. In the Sheepwash pond the frog spawn is holding its breath before bursting into life. The village is a tableau, poised, ready and waiting for something to happen. That's about it. Love Maddie x

It feels like the first morning of spring. The sky is clear and blue, the sun is glinting on the golden stone walls of the garden and the church bells are ringing. But this is Griggsville, where the man on number three bell is like Jonesy from Dad's Army and always several beats behind everyone else. Clive Dunn as Corporal Jones in Dads Army This morning, Mr Grigg threw the bedroom window open to let the day in. The songbirds were going full pelt, the jackdaws were cawing as they prepared themselves for bedding down in a suitable chimney when the time comes to nest. A dove cooed from the rooftops as the village folk ambled to the shop across the Square for the Sunday papers. A motorycle chugged by, with that reassuring, low bubbling throaty sound only British bikes make. In the distance we could hear the faint sound of drum and bass from a boy racer's car going around the one-way system. I looked at the map of the south west yesterday, on the wall of Hugh Fearlessly-Eats-It-All...