Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

It has been a while since I wrote a blog post - I have been writing books, and keeping a diary, the days and the work aren’t lost, just ticking quietly in a corner. [There’s a little dust in that corner but the shelf is made of strong oak planks, and the light is enchanting. A plant grows in a pot, it spouts leaves. A half candle stands in a china holder.] At Paddock Garden (properly titled Paddock Garden Orchards, I am a lazy typer) a tree corral has been constructed. It contains persimmons which may not have survived the recent cold blasts and heavy rain, along with some happy pepper trees, bladdernuts, and plum yews. We plan to underplant and interplant extensively in this concentrated area. Around the grounds also we have begun some windbreak hedges, mostly of elaeagnus and hazel. We have a line of sapling native oaks edging the spinney. The first of our camping bay areas is growing emerald grass that was seeded last autumn; the second has recently been seeded; the last three need

Dear Readers, Here we are! Not lost, just busy, just tired, just taking a moment to sit with our shared flask of ginger tea, wiping our snotty noses, watching winter and spring swing around in their season-switching dance. Hard frost crackles, soft petals bloom. We had been busy with the old art of hedge laying, busy sorting and tidying the felled trunks, branches, and twigs. There are heaps and stacks and bundles - these boundaries have been untouched for decades - but birds are beginning to gather materials for nests, heralding the end of our hedgework for a while. Our thoughts have turned to The Planting Plan, so we pace around measuring canopy distances before going home to pour over the map, again, again.   Two plum trees wait in pots, they have their spots marked. Everything else is a maybe. Down along the iron fence are lines and lines of daffodils, all in bud. Only one has opened, a miniature narcissus staring bravely up at the big world. We are inspired of course, thoug

On this bitter cold morning we wake, expecting the heavy frost yet no less delighted, no less surprised. Coffee and coats and boots are employed for warmth. We venture outside, we pour up and down the garden, exclaiming each treasure found- Spider webs are made of barbed crystals! The sky above is cornflower blue, the greenery bold as summer but ice edged, bejewelled. The horizon lost in mist. Only here exists. Mr and me, like two oversized children, our fingers stabbed with cold, are easing ice shapes out of containers; we are stacking the shapes into ice sculptures, making oosh noises of hurt, and ahh noises of joy: it’s beautiful! It’s alien! My poor fingers! Because ice melts, we seize the moment. See how impermanence is pain and wonder? See how it drives us into discovery? See how impermanence is the extraordinary in the ordinary? Every day there is something that you will never see again - it’s that, or never hold it in your sight at all. Every day there is something that you w

We had wanted a puppy and while at 10 months old she was not quite that, we saw her in the rescue home and we knew she was right for us. She was a liver and white Springer Spaniel, real name Midi (not too big, not too small) with a slender, tentative form. I respected her privacy so online she was known as Dog- many of you, Dear Readers, have watched her grow up with us, and will be sorry to learn that her adventures have ended now: please read on, come with us, it will be okay. The hesitancy young Midi Spaniel held towards her new home was reserved for indoors. Outdoors she was absurdly reckless, usually clumsy. She pelted over barbed wire, through thorns, jumped five bar gates; she threw herself into the sea, the river, the lake, the muddy puddles, rolled merrily in dung- she hated the bath. She did not much care for the company of other dogs, though with persistence she learned tolerance, and once fell in reciprocal love. She adored children. Children could be trained to play fetch

This year, here, the Equinox has slipped by: not shy, not overlooked, more elegant, understated. This year, here, Autumn steps quietly, her satin gown spun from late summer sun, nut-bronze, gold-stitched. Her jewels are hedge-fruits, her crown is copperleaf. Where she steps the earth is rich with mulch, and tree branches bend, weighted by their crop. She is kind and stern, for all of this should be enough. We are in the garden, licking blackberry juice from purple fingers, picking out thorns, reaching for apples to eat, picking up windfalls to brew, glad to be here, this and every year. In our fields we pluck sloes, and more blackberries. Logs are stacked for longer nights. We feel the sun, smoothly warm, and the crackle of cold in the air: it is more than enough.  It is the seasonal rhythm of life. Dear Autumn, we thank you for this abundance, we honour you by the work of harvest and stores. When winter treads in you will be with us in jars, in hot bubbles of fruit, in the rich f

I leave early for work, to get to the beach. I start each shift tacky with salt, and my head full of sea pictures; the green weed wafting, the crab shell rolling, the sand eels flicker-flicker. If we trek to the land we do that early too. I dunked Old Dog in a bath of rainwater which she calmly tolerated. The next time we brought her, she stood by the bath waiting to be cooled off; not excited by the new trick, just forbearing. Afternoons are for naps and ice cream. If we get it right our brains don’t boil over, they simmer and ferment. Days and nights are like the sand eels, they flicker-flicker. The moon rises tiger-orange, while the sun oozes down. Travelling homewards, sunlight stripes a tree tunnel, lights up trunks like embers like I’m driving down the throat of a fire-breathing beast.  Sleep pulls heavy, stealthy, sneaking in. We dream in silver we dream in gold. Morning arrives in birdsong, settles into a mug of coffee. I leave early for work. I swim. I write: Diamonds are ten

30/6/22, A Thursday. Yesterday’s forecast suggested ‘light rain’ but the clouds clearly had not paid that much attention. Yesterday’s washing is sagging on the line, dripping like it's been dropped in a pond. We did not check the weather this morning; we drank our coffee, listened to the birds shrill, and lest this sound too much of a rural idyll, also scrolled our phones for emails and social media whatevers. We speak to each other too, Mr and I. This morning’s chat ruled out repurposing old carpets for suppressing weeds on the bare-earth areas on our land, due to possible contamination of the soil and transportation cost. We chose terram, a geotextile fabric, instead, which we will buy new but be able to reuse. We tog up for a land trip (which for me includes flower earrings, a pretty hair tie, maybe a polka-dot scarf; this is part of my fun-on-the-land policy, which in turn is part of preventing burnout), taking a tape measure to check how much terram to purchase. At the land

June’s weather has been issued in short spells: sunny-dry, sunny-drizzle, cloudy, downpour, rainbows, humid, might-rain-might-be-blowy. Washing is on the line to dry or to get an extra rinse. Roses bloom, and when I get a chance to check the polytunnel there are tomato plants rising, the strawberries and nasturtiums are zooming over the path, the lovage has doubled. When I get to the land, with Mr, Old Dog, and grandchildren 6 & 7 (aged 4 and 3 respectively) there are tracks through it. This is magic to all of us: we, the adults who instructed this progress and fully expected to see it, and the children to whom this is pure surprise. Knowledge is no impediment to murmuring ‘wow’ and savouring the press of our boots into bare earth as we wander up through the fickle mizzle. I see the levelled area which will become an outdoor kitchen: it’s mud and scraped nettle root and it makes my heart boom YES THIS IS IT! We walk to the top field to admire the yellow digger, the huge blue tra

12/3/22 Saturday Morning: coffee, sunshine, stretches in the warm light, crystal-cast rainbows on the walls. Dog walks stiffly between us and the kitchen, hoping to provoke breakfast. I drive to work, got my sunglasses on. At work: I take a lunchtime walk. As I walk the wind picks up, clouds gather purposefully, the temperature drops- did not feel cold to me as I had set a warm pace. Not as speedy as the woman who runs out of her house in slippers, leaving her front door open, clutching a bunch of flowers. She calls to a lady in a red raincoat who turns and takes the flowers. Slipper lady walks back to her house, smiles awkwardly at me as she passes, her cheeks are flushed. Back at work: YouTube beach scene on TV, about to get some novel writing done, heavy rain splatting on the windows.  13/3/22 Sunday Another lunchtime ramble, to Porthpean where I sat on a ledge and looked out: low deep cloud, green water, waves a-swooshing, seagulls edging in with their eyes on my lunch. Picked up

19/2/22 Saturday Under a blown-fresh sky, I hang on to the lead while the LoveMe labrador bounds ahead. We meet a young spaniel, they have a little sniff and greet. Yesterday’s salad dish is pooped out a brilliant dark green, (by the dog, not me) I regret not photographing it. It is the 2nd most fabulous poo I have ever seen. (Once caught a fox squatting, it left behind a marvel, berry coloured and sculptured.) Drive to work over storm-strewn sticks.   20/2/22 Sunday Another storm squalling, not so severe. LoveMe Labrador and I bounce around the lanes. I talk to her about the snowdrops beginning to unbloom, the primulas peeking up, the daffodils throwing back their heads in the wind, clearly laughing. She looks at me with loving politeness. At work I go on a mission to Trelawney Garden Centre, and Bodmin Garden Centre, stocking up on two chunky cordylines, a tray of primrose, sweet peas seedlings, one variegated ivy, a striking black grass (Ophiopogon planiscapus), and a blue windflowe