Country Girl

Just around midnight

2011-08-04T13:23:00.004+01:00

Last night, at midnight, I had to drive to a nearby town. The narrow, country road wound through beech woods; their branches joining above into a canopy. Mine was the only car on the road. The day had been stuffy and there was rain in the air so my windows were wound down - I love the smell of rain. My new radio still wasn't working. I drove for a few minutes in silence, the only sound the drone of my Land Rover's engine. Rounding a bend into a particularly thick patch of wood I slowed down; swirling on top of the tarmac were ribbons of glistening white mist. No more than a couple of feet from the surface of the road, somewhat reminiscent of a scene from Hammer, the mists were dancing and winding in slow motion as if blown by an ethereal wind.

For the next twenty minutes I drove on through this quiet scene; green-black trees, bright white headlights and eddying mists. Locally they used to be called 'will-o-the-wisps', and there is a legend that they heralded the ghostly saviour of a nearby World War II airfield. Others used to say that they were lost spirits, in limbo until judgment. Whether supernatural omens or water vapour condensing after a hot day, the mists made my drive last night almost a spiritual experience, and another reason why I am thankful to call this place home.

Hello there...

2011-07-27T15:28:00.001+01:00

I've been away from this blog for a while, and I thought I'd celebrate my return with one of my favourite poems:

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

A E Houseman

See you again soon...

That's hot!

2008-09-25T21:41:00.012+01:00

I love my Aga. I really do. When I bought my (first!) house four and a half years ago the shopping list was Aga, dishwasher, Dyson. Boy, do I know how to live! My Aga's a two-oven, electric stunner in British Racing Green - same as my fantasy Jag - and I wouldn't be without her. She gently warms my kitchen in winter and turns us all to little puddles of grease in the summer. She provides a cozy napping area for my dogs and cats and a convenient knicker-dryer in the rain.

Now, the thing about Agas that any aficionado will tell you is that you cook everything in the ovens. You start the pan boiling on top then transfer to the oven. You fry in the oven. You grill in the oven. And yes, you bake and roast in the oven. However, putting everything in the ovens has one drawback. Things get hot. Very hot. Including saucepan handles. So, although you would, obviously, take out saucepans using an oven glove (or a specially-designed-for-Aga 'gauntlet') you still need to remember that when you go back five minutes later the pan handles are still hot. Very, very, very hot.

And so it was that, for a few days last week, I sported a saucepan-handle shaped blistery red patch on my palm. But why didn't you just drop the pan? begged my friends. Because, of course, that would mean spilling lots of onion gravy all over the shiny enamel top of the Aga. Oh, and over the three Jack Russells and Springer Spaniel hovering at my feet. But why didn't you put the pan back down, very quickly? they queried. Because, of course, that would mean putting the pan on the shiny stainless steel hotplate cover of the Aga, risking a scratch.

As I type this, sitting next the Aga, gently reheating my shepherd's pie, I find comfort in the fact that, although she's almost five years old, she's as shiny as the day I bought her. What's a little permanent scarring compared to that?

My Main Man

2008-09-25T21:20:00.013+01:00

I fell for Rupert seven years ago. He has the sweetest nature and a good heart, but I think it was his big brown eyes that got me. He's the best listener I've ever met - lets me talk for hours without interruption. Although he steals food, and doesn't bathe that often, he's with me 24/7 (except when I'm at work, obviously, earning the money to pay his keep).

Yes, he has his selfish side, but then who doesn't? He's been my companion through thick and thin, he never leaves the house without me and I always know what he's been up to.

We go hiking in the Cotswolds a few times each year - we love following the miles over hills and streams, and then a stop in the pub to finish and falling asleep on the sofa.

What more can I say - he's gorgeous, affectionate and scatterbrained. He's my main man. My special guy. My spaniel.

Bright lights, big city

2008-09-19T20:59:00.028+01:00

I saw an old friend last week; she was up from London for her boyfriend's birthday. She left her rather dull job at a school in the wilds of Suffolk last year for an exciting career as a PR exec in a small, but racy, firm in the City. Her descriptions of London animation - the fast-paced days and whirlwind nights - made me wonder if I was missing something in my quiet little provincial life. After all, my days are quite routine and invariably spent within a few miles of my house, nestled in a tiny village surrounded by woods and fields.

I lived for a few years in America, first in small-town Georgia and then in Virginia. Northern Virginia is regarded by most Southerners as a northern outpost of the East-Coast liberal intelligentsia - occupied as it is by federal workers and military employees attracted by its proximity to Washington DC - yet it is only half an hour from the beautiful farms and plantation houses of the Old South.

I rented a flat in a quaint little harbour town, Alexandria, full of 18th century terraces and grand houses. George Washington's home at Mount Vernon was a forty-minute bicycle ride along the wooded river cliffs, and the White House dome could be seen from the very end of the pier. I worked at the Pentagon, and, even after a few years, still got a thrill driving up to that huge building every day. On my afternoons off I would take the Metro underground train into DC, where I would lay on the grass of the Mall and gaze at the White House or the Washington Monument, and then perhaps visit a museum or the Smithsonian (entry was free!)

Being a history buff, as well as an amateur politico, I loved Washington, but I was still happiest when out in the country - hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains or lazing near a secluded cove in Maryland. When I moved back to England it was, of course, to sleepy Suffolk and my parents. Some of my friends encouraged me to work in London, but it never appealed to me. I had my life planned out - a nice cottage with a big garden; dogs; cats; horses - and this didn't fit with a twelve-hour a day job in the city. I am happy with my mediocre, low-paid nine-to-five; it leaves me the time and energy to devote to me and mine.

So, although I sometimes miss my Washington life, and need to occasionally get my ‘London fix’ - enjoying the rush of being around lots of people (as opposed to horses and dogs) - I am always eager to return to the green landscapes and clear skies of Suffolk. I suppose, then, that I am definitely a Country Girl - and although my life is quiet, it is surrounded by beauty, and I am at peace with it.

"Early one morning, just as the sun was rising..."

2008-09-18T13:28:00.012+01:00

I woke up today to the perfect Autumn morning. There was a dewy frost on the grass and the sparrows in the hedge were fluffed-up to protect themselves from the chill. The spiderwebs were covered in shining beads and my breath misted in the air. The line of poplars on the horizon was draped in a pale haze that was yellowing as the sun rose.

At times like these that I realise how very lucky I am to live in such a beautiful place. It's almost as if Mother Nature reminds us every now and then, with a morning such as this, that we need to forget about the everyday worries of work and home, and just enjoy the world around us in all its splendour.

It's a dog's life

2008-09-17T21:04:00.008+01:00

So, here it is, the first of many (I hope!) blogs to interest, deprecate and mildly amuse.

I have a large-ish kitchen and, a few months ago, my mother suggested that I put a spare armchair she had next to the Aga so I could doze off, comfortably, to NCIS repeats on FX. The chair is a wingback type with ridiculously large arms and it took several attempts to actually get it into the kitchen, squeezing past the dresser and the baby-gate. Finally, after about an hour's huffing and puffing and enough swearing to turn the air blue, the chair was resting peacefully next to the sideboard. Not the Aga. It doesn't fit next to the Aga. So, I will be dozing off looking at a wall and the corner of the washing machine. Or so I thought.

The youngest of my three Jack Russells, who is very affectionate and very much a mummy's boy (or so I thought), has taken over the armchair. Completely. He used to spend every evening on my lap, snoozing away happily, but now he has abandoned me for the questionable comforts of the old, badly-proportioned chair. If I call him to me he ignores me. If I pick him up he jumps right back down and heads for the chair, forcing out whichever dog had craftily taken his place.

This behaviour has got me thinking. Do our dogs love us, or do they look at us merely as objects to be used for their convenience? Are the wagging tails saying 'I missed you', or, 'it's about time you're home, now feed me'! Do they put up with the cuddling and patting because there's a walk and a treat in the offing? And why, after you cradled them for hours as a shivering, skinny eight-week-old puppy, do they abandon you a year later for a thirty-year-old chintzy foam cushion?