Taking the air

I woke feeling a little glum today. Winter in the air, I think. Or tired after one of those weeks. A 7.30 beach walk fixed it for a while.  Chilly, a little thrilling because the murky water hinted at hidden secrets, but wonderful none-the-less. Glum crept up on me an hour or two later. One of those days when nothing does the trick. Hot milky coffee didn't touch it. The need for petrol gave me the excuse to go to the supermarket for three things we did need and some 70% dark chocolate that we didn't. It kind of took the edge off for a while. But then the doorbell rang and the postie delivered me an unexpected package with a foreign postmark. Mystifying. I mentally scrolled through recent evenings that had involved beer and a computer. Shamefully, I've got form on late-night online purchasing. The cat radiator bed. My intention was honourable. The cat, however was not amused. She gave me a look that only mothers and cats can, and made it clear that, without a co...

It became a habit that I'd take the boys over to see Granny on a Sunday morning.  When they were babies, it was a huge solace for me. She'd sit cradling them and talking to them and the baby who'd been noisy all night was calmed. As they grew up, we'd spend our time outside in the garden in which I'd grown up. About 3/4 of an acre of meadow which she had worked tirelessly and stubbornly to tame.  There were trees that had been planted when I was a small girl, now 30 feet high, and my own conker tree which had grown into an enormous beauty bearing conkers of her own.  As the boys grew and did their own campfires (who could forget the paraffin-flavoured drop scones? or the stew into which had accidentally fallen a large clump of grass, only discovered upon serving?), I began get on with jobs elsewhere in the garden. Whilst the boys became more self-sufficient, Granny became more elderly and I took over the garden. Increasingly, I'd head over on...

The trees and hedges are improbably beautiful now. When the October light is fresh, there are trees that could have been dip-dyed, if you didn't know better. Unfeasible branches hold cherry-red leaves next to seasonably-fashionable copper alongside others that seem not yet to have caught on and remain stubbornly green. Autumn's a slow-mo movie Chances are, you won't notice the difference in the scene in a day, but remove your gaze for half a week and you will miss significant action. Suddenly a colour you love has been replaced. Look again, find something just as lovely. Action accelerates when the wind blows. The colour goes and the leaves fall and, if we're not very careful, someone mentions the C word and it's all over. On Monday, I listened patiently as a woman complained to me about her regret of moving to the country. The tiny roads were too dark at night and in the day time, well, too tiny. There were not enough shops and as a result,  no whe...

It feels like a transfer of energy. Eat something that's only just been separated from its plant and you get a hit, not simply a depth of flavour but a ripeness that tastes almost alive. A carrot, lifted from the garden, soil roughed off with a glove, will fill the kitchen with a sweet and orangey scent that's completely absent from supermarket veg. I'm shameless at blagging fruit and veg from nearby friends. Repay them by helping them, baking a crumble, being good company. Be part of the season and autumn becomes a celebration and so much easier to bear.

The pot, once at home with my father-in-law, had been driven half way across the country so that it could find a new home with us. It wasn't of much monetary worth, but it had been a favourite and was an important reminder of his beloved garden. I gave it prominence and planted it with a candy-coloured fuchsia that I hoped would emphasise its turquoise. The pot had been in position for approximately 48 hours when it was run over by a drunken teenager attempting to return a bicycle to the shed. Of course, the drunken teenager attempted to prop it back together, in the hope, presumably, that we wouldn't notice the staggeringly large crack or the scattering of flower heads and compost surrounding it. I'm making the best of the relic with some very forgiving houseleeks (sempervivum) in a quiet spot away from the shed. So far, so just about ok.

The sea was extraordinary this morning. The gentle off-shore breeze made tiny flicks on the surface of the water.  The tide was low, so we walked for a hundred yards before the sand sloped away. When finally I was submerged to my chin, the sea, with thousands of flicks, not big enough to make white horses, looked like the skin of a giant scaly animal, gently breathing.   I love that.  Face away from the land and watch the waves. A cormorant and a gull were mucking around much further out.  There's something about a cormorant that I think looks just like a pterodactyl. It's the angle of the wings, the ungainly elbows, or the length of its neck.  That shore-less view, with the sun just rising, might well have been the same for a million years.