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 ...

Ancient folklore features in my latest posts for the website  A Dorset Year . For the first one, in which we ponder the fate of the 2,000 year old yew tree  in Lush Places, I'm joined by my new neighbour, the lovely Natamagat, who is helping me with photographs. You can tell which ones are hers. They're much better than mine, but then she is a photographer. In the second post, I'm surrounded by rooks and a solitary raven . Nevermore. That's about it. Love Maddie x

High up on Bluebell Hill, you can forget the world around you. You wouldn't know the United Kingdom had voted yesterday on a new electoral system. You wouldn't know the shooting of the world's most wanted man was causing a furore around the globe. Dorset's highest point is a peaceful place for an early morning walk. It makes you feel good to be alive and proud to be English, as a soundtrack of Vaughan Williams plays through your head. As the day progresses, you can sometimes meet Tuppence here, trilling like a canary, or Ding Dong Daddy recording birdsong in Lush Places, or Mr Sheepwash out with binoculars looking for ravens. On the way up, the gypsy lace gently nods in the lane, in contrast to its furious movements earlier this week when the wind whipped through these parts. The pink campions and the buttercups clamour for sunlight and jostle for space along the verge, like the crowds lining the streets for a royal wedding. Dead nettles, when upturned, showing two perf...

The ravens were circling above The Hill. Cawing 'Nevermore' or whatever it is they say, flying like buzzards over our heads. Mr Sheepwash was terribly excited. His twitching would have made Bill Oddie envious. Up until now the ravens had taken on mythical significance for Mr Sheepwash, rather like the big black cat no-one believes in until they actually see it. Celebrity Farmer's mother once told me the ravens were the bane of their lives. Protected by law, the birds have carte blanche to cause terror among the sheep, ripping out their eyes without fear of persecution. Pelly Sheepwash says she was told by another farmer's wife that the ravens would move in on a ewe as it gave birth, helping to pull the lamb out and then spiriting it away in their beaks. I find this rather hard to believe. But, who knows, anything is possible in this village. It's a bit like a dark, reverse version of the stork as midwife. I once saw the black beast making its way across a field....

Our usual Sunday lie-in has been rudely interrupted. Something was going on downstairs. I thought it might have been Mr Loggins. We have seen a lot of him this weekend. Maybe he couldn't sleep. I looked out from the window but there was no-one at the door. There was just this tap-tap-tapping and Mr Grigg suddenly leapt out of bed like Sher Khan the Tiger with a flaming branch attached to his tail. Naked, he tiptoed down the stairs and thrust open the door to the front room. Two beady eyes gazed at him. Mr Grigg glared back. It was a crow sitting on the radiator. They squared up to each other as if in a staring contest. It was a bit like Sumo TV. They did a little dance around the room, not taking their eyes off each other. Mr Grigg went for the window, undid the latch and threw it open. The crow looked one way and then the other. Should it fly out the window, risking the wrath of Grigg or back up the chimney? It didn't take long. It made a break for the window, looked over its ...