The world from my window

A squashed adder, flat, like a toy shop snake, lies in the road, its curving wiggle preserved for all time, or at least until natural decay and car tyres wear it away completely. There are horse flies bothering the horses and humans. Mares stand under the shade of leafy trees, tails swishing. My friend's dog, Martha, sniffs and trots through the fields, heading for Bluebell Hill. In Dorset, we're having a heatwave. In the Ionian islands, there's been sun and rain and twisters. One hundred people speak silently over telegraph wires. Vapour trails glide listlessly through the morning sky in dreamy white lines. Sheep graze, the sun glowing on their backs. And then a lost lamb calls to its mother. From the other side of the hedge, Mother answers: where are you, little one? And in a clear, Greek-flag blue sky, a solitary, wispy cloud, like a washed-out tide mark, stops for a while to take in the view. It's the Pastoral Symphony without the music. And the...

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

There is a power struggle going on in this house, hence the long time since my last blog. We have just taken in a springer spaniel from a rescue centre in Devon to keep our howling dog company, only to find the old dog hates the new one. It's getting better, but there have been fights every now and then, whenever the old dog thinks the new one is getting attention and he isn't. And when I say old dog I don't mean my man. My man is surprisingly stress-free, although he starts to swear when he has to clear up the crap from the patio. I have cleared up several bloodstains from the kitchen floor but lately the two dogs have been cuddling in to each other. It's only when a familiar human comes on the horizon the fur starts to fly. We have been told new dog has a wonderful pedigree, so we're hoping its field trials ancestry will come to the fore when we go beating in the autumn. Until then, I am doing my damndest to keep the bloody thing under control on a lead. I cannot...

One of our nearest towns is Chard, the birthplace of powered fight and home to the cooked meat factory, whose smells envelop my vegetarian sister's house like cling film wrapped around a cucumber. In the Seventies Chard was reputed to have the highest crime rate for a town of its size, second only to Glasgow. The highest town in Somerset, where the water in the gutters on each side of the street ends up in different places - one goes south to the English Channel and the other turns left and goes to the Bristol Channel. The town is full of Chard Hards, who tend to go sleeveless in the coldest weather to prove their masculinity. And that's just the women. Several people I went to school with ended up being murdered or turned out to be murderers themselves. One went out in a blaze of glory in an armed police siege in a lane high above the town. One of the best bits about Chard these days is Lidl. There are special deals all the time but I'm not surprised there are lots of fr...