night-night Pud Pud

Today a space the size and shape of a small Labrador has opened up beside me. An empty space that weighs as heavy as my whole world, so heavy I don't think I can bear it.

Though black with just a splodge of white, for nearly thirteen years Holly coloured my life in rainbows, but now summers colour has seeped away, the garden is drained to grey, laughter has been sucked from my throat and sadness bars my way.

As those glorious 13 years we shared open up to me, they block all that went before and cloud all that is yet to come. A constant companion, a confident and a friend, she decided my decisions and lifted my spirits, a dependent that I depended on, a smile when all else failed. Oh how I need her now.

Holly stuck by us in our Gypsy lifestyle (we moved 7 times in London during her life, 8 counting the extended stays at 'grandmas'). The loading of the cars, the long motorway journey's, all done without a hint of bother, however, no matter how short the stay, how brief the visit, three has been the magic number, she made every house our home and no more so than the last 9 years in Belleau.

The cottage has always been hers, no room barred to her, no bed beyond her, never overly cloying she always took herself upstairs to bed in the evening, though in her later years she needed a little help from us. She would stand at the bottom stair and look over her shoulder at us until we carried her up. This summer she had discovered her voice sitting on the bed and barking at the cows in the meadow opposite from as soon as you put her down to as soon as it got light.

This all makes the hurt so much harder, everywhere I look I catch a glimpse of her. She was a creature of habit, though like a bank contract these were always hers to change. The new morning routine was meet me at the treat cupboard pre fuss, wait till we had cooked our breakfast before joining us outside for her share.

Holly was always with us wherever we went and hit with whoever we met, she didn't dislike anyone, especially if they had food, not keen on children but amiable enough.

She wasn't a working dog, but she had a role to play in our life. Not a guide dog but she taught us to see rather than just to look, whichever way she went we gladly followed. She didn't hunt but did love a chase, foxes were her favourite but I realised thankfully that she wasn't a hunter quite early on. I remember walking her in London when she suddenly got the scent of something, my imagination ran wild, what was this creature she was stalking? She traced her quarry to some bushes, before diving in for the kill.  A struggle commenced but her yelps made me come running to her aid, I tore back the foliage to beat off this fearsome prey only to find her unable to get her head back through the railings as she refused to drop the half pizza she had tracked and captured.

As a puppy Holly did have a stint as a model, she kept her looks till the end by the way, she starred in a photo-shoot  for Home Choice, never one to be won over by the bright lights but always professional, she got the shot done and then proceeded to pee all over the bed.

This has all come so quickly, a week ago today she took us on the longest walk we had been on for a very long time, showing us a way through the wood at a pace we couldn't keep up with, maybe she was rewarding us with a memory. What a difference a week makes not able to stand, or sit, a broken machine still with a puppy's face.

She was always my first good morning and my last goodnight and unlike her a habit I will find hard to break.

Sports Days

Well we seem to be on a seasonal seesaw at the moment, summer to winter, spring to autumn - well you get the picture. On those heady days when the sun has shone and the freezing rain has stopped, I’ve been able to work in the garden, which has reached my favourite stage, jungle - and what a jungle it's been.

I'm sure I mentioned before but the draught has brought torrential rain and this, mixed with the short sharp shock of sunny days, managed to create the perfect training environment for a few speedy growers to become tall and athletic. These beefed up bullies got a head start over some of the weaker individuals that missed the starting pistol and proceeded to pin these smaller competitors to the ground.  

I don’t go for minimalist chic in the garden, I’m much more of the maximalist approach, I see enough brown earth in the winter, so any spec of bare soil calls out for me to plant it.

Anyway I believe in a bit of healthy competition and love a good floral fist fight. Like a spiteful child I get a sadistic pleasure from the argy-bargy of the blooms as they wrestle over their little bit of turf, intervening only when the fight gets too dirty. I can almost hear the voice in my head sometimes shouting "fight, fight, pile on, pile on".

Maybe it’s not just the weather that has made the competition so fierce this year, possibly it’s because we are rushing headlong towards the London Olympics, I know this would explain why the lupins have grown tall and twisted like fiery torches.

 I make no apologies by the way, for the blatant Olympic analogy, especially considering the telly is full of the most tentative links by brands to this sporting event. Personally I'd be a little more excited if it was more like school sports days, imagine the branding opportunities then: the sack race with special limited addition running bags by Louis Vuitton, the egg & spoon race brought to by Tesco's finest free range eggs with silver spoons supplied by Tiffany & Co and of course, the 3 legged race in association with Hermes scarves.

Just like with any competitions these days, there seemed to be some cheating going on, the rabbits helped the Lupins by munching on all their neighbours, while the slugs favoured the lupins by devouring the delphiniums. I don't believe in chemical stimulants so artificial aids to this pest problem have been avoided no matter how tempting, but this has meant me mooching around the garden with head torch and rubber gloves late in the evening, picking slugs off  pampered plants and running around the lawn in the morning shouting at the rabbits like some sort of crazed referee.

However, no matter who was winning and how they managed it, the garden was looking fabulous, even if I do say so myself. More or less healthy, surviving the unwanted attention and rewarding all my hard work and training with a display that was medal worthy, that was until the weather threw another curve ball.

The downside of growing tall, lithe and finely tuned is that it is easy to be hamstrung by testing conditions, in this case the wind.

'Talk about your level playing field' arriving back from London yesterday I found the tearful sight of my main team lying limp, exhausted and broken in defeat where they had once stood tall and proud in victory.

Well onwards and upwards I guess it gives the B team a chance to shine.

Rainy days, and Sundays

So May has been with us for a week now, issuing in the idea of summer but with none of the traditional accoutrement's of the season. Warm weather has been lost somewhere between the UK and the arctic, while drought has been signified by the deluge and flooding that we've had ever since the hose pipe ban was announced a month ago. An announcement by the way, that had me purchasing water butts by the lorry load meaning the side of the extension now looks like an oil refinery. All this to preserve my precious plants from being parched even though they are now looking more like they could do with a towel and a sun bed.


There's a saying that goes 'it's great weather for ducks' which I can confirm is true and add to that 'for geese too', as there are great honking flocks of them noisily strutting their stuff on the many ponds that have appeared in the meadow opposite.


Other wildlife that are enjoying the daily downpours are the slugs and snails, slimy assassins that have proven to be immune to the nematodes, coffee grounds, and any other treatment I've used to keep them at bay this year and are now in competition with the rabbits to see who can be first to nosh every weary waterlogged plant down to the ground.


These particular young furry felons spend their days flaunting their fur coats against this unseasonal cold, caring not a jot as I bang on the window at them, instead simply staring back at me with their big doe eyes and bits of my beautiful garden hanging from the sides of their mouths, giving them the appearance of old fashioned country bumpkins.


They have also chosen to diversify their already expansive diet and eat my lupins, aquilegias, crocosmias, in fact anything they fancy. This feasting has forced me to take the drastic action of surrounding everything in green mesh and this coupled with the multitude of land mine like slug traps dotting the borders, means the gardens starting to resemble some sort of floral prison camp.


Not all the fauna are fairing as well as the aforementioned, usually there is a reassuring buzz in the air by this time as bees busy themselves among the blooms, but now they are silent and those that have dared to venture out and survived the daily bombing of raindrops are to be found sleepy and sad on the green but flowerless flora. I heard that they are starving at the moment because the rain is preventing them from leaving their hives which is hard to imagine a more sorrowful story.


The other creature that is not fairing so well is me, bad weather and bad news battle to bereft me of any  hope of a sunny disposition. This is usually my favourite time of the year when the light nights lift my mood and the garden gifts me with happiness but as the rain and temperature keeps falling, suspending the garden in frozen flowerless green, it becomes difficult not to let ones mood become as soggy as the surroundings.


Anyway sometimes we are so sad we forget to see and actually the gardens not just green, its luminescent, the rivers running fast and deep and the ponds and pits that were dry and desolate a few months ago are full to the brim with water and life so things aren't so bad.


I'm still escaping to Spain next week though for some sun.

A spring of consciousness

I have a smile on my verge at the moment if not on my face, a sunny grin that spreads across the  cottage, a yellow sigh that I share with birds, insects and animals alike. Its handover time for the seasons, the daffs are in full bloom and the clocks have gone forward.  

I love the rag tag look of early Spring, full of promise like a bad haircut that's finally growing out. The wet fields that sucked your wellies from your feet, have dried, the roadsides are dotted with ready made bunches of daffodils, like jolly hair plugs on a balding celebrity. 

Custard coloured  primrose nestle in the dikes and hedgerows, taking over from those early risers the snow drops who have nodded off ready for a well deserved rest. Dandelions burn like little Suns in the grass and lost looking hyacinth add a dash of pastel colour in the sea of green and yellow.

While some trees wear pink frothy perms of blossom others are still seemingly bare until closer inspection reveals designer stubble, leaf buds waiting to burst out of the end of every branch and twig.

The lambs are in the field cutting a fine dash compared to the shaggy unkempt look of their hardworking mothers and best of all the days are long and light.

I'd never say that I was well read but probably well watched, I think this comes from my interest, or is that panic about time, trying to preserve a moment in the library of the mind, find words that fix an image to the page. I want to enjoy every moment of the light nights, feeling a guilt if I go in before its dark.

The garden beckons 

The Wild West End

London, what the Dickens?

I’ve been witness to a media gunfight; compliments shot with the violence of bullets ricocheted off a members club wall, while the war cries of good jobs and success echoed around the room.

It all started as I sat in a Soho members club, I was a little too involved in what I was doing to notice that the afternoon was giving way to early evening and I’d missed my window of escape.

The relative quiet was shattered by the tell tale clip clop of the PR ponies as they made their way up the wooden stairs, neighing in competition for conversational space just as they compete for column inches.

I could hear the swish of the their blond manes and the snorts of derision getting closer, the first shot was fired at an unsuspecting waitress, ‘TABLE’, luckily as no eye contact was made the shot went wide.

The table next to me was free but just as I was trying to decide whether to get under mine or push it over for defence the clunk of bags and phones signalled their arrival. I just had to hunker down and hope for the best.

A few more shots were fired at the waitress to make her dance ‘WINE’ ‘VODKA & TONIC’ ‘STRAWBERRY MARTINI’

There was a moment of calm whilst the gunslingers eyed each other, suspicious and supercilious, their smiling faces giving nothing away. Pistols cocked the shooting began; "But darling you're amazing"... "imagine heading up the global division of the agency" ... "what about you, creative director,"... "head of strategy"... "soooooo important"... "queens of the world"..."we’re just the best"..."can you imagine, he asked if I shopped at ASDA, the cheek". 

Spent rounds littered the table and the air hung heavy with bluster and bullshit.  The only breaks from the action were when they were forced to reload with important work messages from their Blackberries and funny face book ones from their iPhones

Expense accounts rattled while I shook in the cross fire, this was a saloon bar fight, loud conversation of cash and demanding clients may have replaced bottles and chairs but it was no less dangerous. This definitely wasn’t a recession session that was just something that happened to the other folk.

I needed to make an escape so as the whoosh of wine tossed heads slowed and the aim of the slurred speech became more ragged, I made a run for the door passing the guest list girl and her coral of cocksure cowpokes, a real case of ‘I’m not a celebrity get me into here’

I made it to the street and gulped the barely fresh air, feeling happy my hide was intact and my  morals in order. 

This post is brought to you by the number 2

I went for a walk on Friday which was two days ago, down the track and along the river to Claythorpe, by the little cottage in the field and onto the road and back to Belleau, a journey of roughly two miles.

Whilst enjoying this evening constitutional I thought to myself what a difference two weeks make. It was only a fortnight or so ago when winter had finally whispered its first quilt of snow, leaving the land freshly laundered, its lumps and bumps softened and smoothed, ready for the child in me to snuggle down into it and mess it up.

Belleau is always beautiful in the snow, but when the blizzards finally blew themselves out and the freeze took hold, throwing glitter over everything, it was breathtaking.

Moles had been taking advantage of the mellow winter up to this point to cover the meadow opposite in what looked like some sort of brown acne. These surprisingly large mounds now looked like sparkling iced buns, the barbwire fences that offend me a little, hung with crystal hair and the trees held delicate blades of snow on every branch. 

As beautiful and chilly as the days were, minus 2 and falling, the nights were crisp and frozen, skies so clear and cold even the stars seemed to shiver. A full moon so big and bright it sent frosty blue shadows running for warmth.

This winter weather had surprised me and everything else for that matter, as all the tell tale signs were that Spring was already with us; the daffodils weren't in flower but they were already in formation ready for their seasonal assault, the snowdrops had massed and the Lupins in my garden had sent out a scout party. Birds were everywhere, sheep were in the field and scarves were already optional.

Anyway, after what seemed like a seasonal false start, we were back on track and I'm back to my two mile walk. It was late afternoon/early evening, the time when the animals are usually changing shift, but everything seemed to be taking advantage of the lighter nights and hanging around. Spring was springing and romance seemed to be in the air. 

In the space of these two miles I saw two Kestrels sitting side-by-side on a telephone wire staring at the horizon as if waiting to view the sunset, two swans on the river looking like 18^th century dancers as they circled each other in the current and two barn owls that floated bashfully close to each other before landing on two fence posts to share furtive glances.

Well here we are two days later and what started as a wet miserable day has now turned into a cold snowy one. So as I watch the flurries of snow whirling about my window, I feel the visit to the garden centre was a bit premature and thoughts of mowing the lawn today more than a little optimistic. 

Lets hope this isn't Spring's false start number 2.  

Six for Gold

Apologies, its been a while since I put pen to paper or fingers to keypad for that matter, so here's a quick round up of the last month or so.

Christmas slipped by more mild than merry, no frost, no snow but instead a dose of festive flu that as it happened wasn't just for Christmas it was for New year too.

Flowers bloomed, plants grew and my mood got bluer as my nose got redder. The seasonal spirit wasn't helped as spite and gossip flew in the face of goodwill and cheer.

The weirdly warm weather did gift us with a breathtaking sky though, thick fiery pink impasto clouds daubed onto a bright blue canvas.

The new year wafted in with a whimper but then the wind came with a shriek and a howl. It wrestled the air and battled the land, like a blustering bully it pushed the trees and pulled the plants, it rattled the latches and tossed the trash, its tantrum was terrible to behold.

The morning light revealed the fallen, broken bodies and amputated limbs scattered the ground, while the survivors bowed their boughs in respect. In some sort of gruesome luxury the victims will provide fuel for the fire, very opportune if the forecast of a Russian winter is to be believed.

I have to admit I quite enjoyed the drama of the gale, it blew the blandness of the holiday weather away and reminded me of being a child, when I would whirl around in the field on blustery days, letting the wind steal my voice as I shouted and laughed at the sky.

Some of the flora and fauna as mentioned have never really gone away, so it may be a shock to their systems if the freeze that is forecast arrives, however, splodges of snowdrops now dot the verges and daffodils are yawning into the air, I've even seen a dusting of blossom on some trees, and like these optimistic chaps, I'm ready for Spring too.

There seems to be so many birds at the moment from the robins that look like they are nesting in my new woodpile, to the sparrows, tits and thrushes that are making so much noise in the bushes at the front of the cottage.  When there not chasing the tractors the seagulls are slicing through the sky over the meadow like deftly thrown boomerangs competing with the jackdaws for airspace.

On Saturday I saw a gang of six magpies, (thats gold I think), hopping and buzzing with electric calls, a white heron of some sort that floated down to earth not far away from me, gave a derisory look and snaked away through the long grass, a barn owl, but so blessed are we with these that they almost seem common as they float around the meadow.  Similarly with the Buzzards, they seem to be loosing their shyness and secret ways as I managed to get up close and personal with one, before it leisurely took to the air. I do have a question regarding these majestic birds, why do these fearsome looking raptors have such camp cries?

Anyway, to top off this ornithological tour was a treat - a bird that looked as incongruous as I feel in most situations, a splash of glitter in a slippery brown ploughed sea, a glam rocker of bird - a golden pheasant. Maybe there's something to be said for magpie folklore after all.