Farmer, Train Driver, Gardener.

Joe's into gardening. It's amazing. A passion for animals I could understand, especially with the menagerie we  have accumulated after a year and a half, and the ducks and pigs in Seb's garden. But Joe's been caught more than once glancing casually through Your Garden magazine and sliding a sideways glance at the telly when the chefs and gardeners are doing their thing with handfuls of pungent herbs, or trundling their wheelbarrows down wet, cracked paths.

He staggered home the other day under the weight of a stack of pots and seed trays which old Mr Tollit had given him to 'get him started'. He'd been spending a lot of time up there recently but I assumed it was to do with their mutual interest in trains. Martin shrugged and happily handed over a part of the garden which Joe has ardently been digging over ever since (I've heard of double digging but this is something else entirely!). We bought some seeds together and Seb gave him a small seedhouse for his birthday, which is now crammed full of trays of burgeoning new growth.

So what with today being the last day of the holidays, and the wind still being so uncomfortable chill, we turned the kitchen into a potting shed and got stuck into the long and fiddly job of pricking out. Seeing those frail and spindly green shoots in my boy's soil-blackened hands brought a smile to my face. We'll make a gardener of him yet. And a farmer, and a train driver...

Back To It

I've been satying with friends up north, so haven't had much of a chance to write in this diary for a month or so. It's great to flip through its pages again and read my scribbles, each page like an old friend welcoming me back home.

Not that time's been wasted while I've been away: My first surprise was a beautifully arrayed set of shelves set into the understairs cupboard in the kitchen. Instead of the unsteady units we used to balance everything on, we now have properly crafted shelves made by Martin and Joe in my absence. I never knew Martin was such a dab hand with the old hammer and nails, but he's really surpassed himself here. And Joe's learned such a lot from watching his dad. I'm so pleased!

The Dangle of a Promise

Like small animals in hibernation, we in the village of Chittham seem to have been hiding ourselves away for endless months, peeking out over our snowy mufflers from time to time just to see if the worst has yet passed. But every day has brought more snow, more fog, more raw and biting winds, and we've curled up by the fire with a good book and resolved not to look out the window again.

Until today. Despite a keen breeze at daybreak that swirled low-lying fog in a wet dance through the trees, the house now feels distinctly warmer, the floorboards kinder to my feet. There is no condensation round the window frames to be mopped up, but the desire to fling the windows wide and let the new day inside. And now at midday, a determined sun is finally breaking through the clouds and probing the earth with a gentle finger, causing banks of snowdrops and hellebores to lift their heads in greeting.

I sit for a while by the stream, listening to its low trickle through the weeds and stones, my eyes closed, the sun playing with shadows on my face. The green smell of new shoots and wet earth, the dangle of a promise, plays in the air and I dare to think, maybe, this is it. I dare to think, at last, spring might just be around the corner.

Wind

It's been so windy these last few days! The poor chickens roll around their run like soft white tumbleweed until they find the sense to take cover in their house and the sheep huddle together in a tight shield wall under the trees. The trees themselves have been shedding their load all over the garden and out onto the hill beyond; a tangled mass of branches, leaves and woody flotsam strewn far and wide. And the cat doesn't know what to do with himself. He howls continually and takes manic flying leaps from one room to another, scraping at the wind-tossed leaves through the windows.

There's nowhere you can go to escape it. It howls through the vents in the windows, a wild man of the hill seeking entry. It spews dust and leaves under the back door and churns the leaf-clogged stream. The weathermen say it is almost done, that after tonight it will have burnt itself out and be a spent force, but there is no let up so far. So we sit tight and wait. 

A Whole New Year

It's been a long time since I last picked up this diary.

Four months to be exact. The zenith of our English summer, although it seems August is becoming ever more frequently a mash of wind and rain that batters the beautiful blooms of June and July. I remember sitting in our living room looking out at the mud being churned by our small flock of sheep, watching the huddled feathery balls that are our few chickens cowering under their house, and reaching to flick on the light as the room got gloomy and cold. August.

Martin's mother died that month. It was a shock, she was still young. There was so much to do and suddenly life wasn't the same for any of us, hence this diary got pushed to the back of a drawer. I couldn't talk to anyone, not even to its quiet pages. But I find myself lifting its cover once more and mulling over the next entry which I hope will be full of hope and new life.

It's January 2nd now. A brand new year. Let's move on.

The Fruit of Love

And so, with Joe still poking about in the weed, Martin and I were able to get on with trimming the errant branches from the apple trees. Our 'orchard' is truly bounteous this year. The cookers are particularly fine; shiny and green with a pink blush to their cheeks, that cook to a soft pulp in the pan. Martin favours the russets, but I find them a bit on the rough side.

Ofcourse, even if we never picked another apple, I would still love this wilder part of the garden. The trees have a wonderfully gnarled shape and insist for the main part on growing sideways, and the swing Martin fashioned between them is like something out of a Gainsborough painting. Except maybe better.

A Friend for Joe

What is it with young boys and all things wet and mucky? Actually, that is such a sexist and ageist thing to say, seeing as what has been occupying my son in the garden for the past hour has also prevented my husband from pruning the apple trees and myself from hanging out the washing.

A frog.

I had asked Joe to take a stick and skim the tiny pond that Martin had shaped out from the stream for him. Duckweed clung in long, dripping strands to brown leaves which had drifted in from the masses of trees around, and whiled Joe dredged like a true trawlerman, up came the carcass of a dead mouse which we later had to bury. Nice. But then came all the excitement: Joe shrieked as movement rippled through the water, then a rather large brown head emerged from beneath the weed.

Funny how the metal watering can nearest the backdoor has also got a lot of jellied clumps in it, floating in an inch or two of collected rainwater. Think our little friend's been busy...

More Friends...

Went to Seb's. He rang earlier to say he had something that might interest Joe, which immediately put me on amber alert because anything that Seb possesses generally means we end up with something similar. We already have sheep, a few chickens, a two-year-old cat (found straying in the village), and a puppy to replace dear old Bertie will be with us within days. Although 'replace' is not at all the right word.

So we trotted over to Seb's house after lunch with no clue as to what he had in store. But we heard them before we saw them. Ducks. Large, white gorgeous looking things that waddled about busily like they were auditioning for a Beatrix Potter film.

And yes, Joey loved them. And no, we aren't having any.

And no, I'm not sure I mean that.

Rusty, Old and Perfect!

I am so excited - I have a new bike! Well, when I say a new bike, it's ancient and rusty and falling to bits, but I adore it!

Martin found it on one of his now frequent trips to the tiny, almost forgotten except to the hardened fans (a category my son now falls happily into), old-time railway stations that are still to be found hidden and tucked away amongst the trees and valleys of our English countryside, if you know where to look. Walking along these platforms, one is literally transported back to a time when men would rattle up the lanes on their pushbikes to catch the train and, seeing it just about to pull away from the station, dump their bikes in the hedge until they returned in a few hours to pick them up. Or maybe not, but where the black plumes of steam tend to choke most visitors, they stir my imagination more effectively than the smoking of any substance.

But back to my bicycle! I think, to be honest, it's past being ridden, but I shall keep it in a sheltered spot outside the back door, graced by the inevitable pot plant, then perch on its worn-out old seat when no one's looking, and dream...

Paradise Lost, Paradise Found...

I couldn't stand it any longer. Looking out of my kitchen window at the abject jungle that has sprung up overnight, owing to the steady rains we've been having recently, spurred me into action big time. I needed a scythe just to cut my way to the shed, mind you, where the medlar tree had evidently decided it would not let me in through the doorway any longer. I did consider the window, amassed with cobwebs and a handful of dead woodlice, but decided I was the grown-up here and got nasty with my secateurs, telling myself if it came back to get me next year I'd show it Seb's chainsaw.

Honestly though, tidying the garden was like clearing up after an all night party; blowsy, drowsy plants, lolling over each other as if still drunk on the rain and unable to stand. Petals from the roses and sweetpeas had drifted across the grass like abandoned clothes, and wanton poppies, heavy with seed, hung their heads low in shame.

So while Joe was busy raking out excess weed from the small pond he and Martin have created from the stream, and Martin was pottering about totally unconcerned in the veg plot, I was pulling and tugging and fighting an all-out war with the undergrowth, but I think I may have won. Now, when I stand at the kitchen window, I can just glimpse a semblance of the garden I once had, if I look carefully enough.

Paradise Reclaimed.

Here,There, and Gone.

Oh, for more mornings like this one: The curtains were drawn, it was so early, but the light woke me, flooding the room with warmth. It coated the floor and the rumpled quilt on the bed with a surreal honey wash that had dust motes dancing and spinning in its wake. Martin was still slumbering deeply, his head buried in the pillow and his feet jutting like dead things from the tangle of bedclothes. I ached to share the sheer beauty of this moment with him but didn't have it in me to wake him. So I picked up my book and struggled with it for ten minutes, but the glorious start to the day was too much of a distraction. I opened the window to breathe in the air, then slipped downstairs to make an early cup of tea.

And what a perfect time to be up and about. When nobody else is, when nobody else is even conscious! The whole world belongs to you. The day was born solely for you. Opening the back door, the sounds of the stream seemed almost too loud, like they would wake the world, but a solitary blackbird in the overhanging branches saw it as happy competition, and racked up his volume in reply. I wanted to laugh and put my finger to my lips.

Sipping my tea and feeling the breeze on my feet, my cheeks and in my hair, and watching the spangled sun poking its fingers through the tall trees across the grass, I suddenly became aware of movement, then all went still. I lowered my tea slowly and peered across the field: deer. Two of them. Looking my way, aware of my presence, curious but unafraid. Then they were off, a few tentative steps into the sunlight, a magical sight which the World missed completely, followed by a full-blown gallop into the trees. They were gone and all was liquid blackbird song again.

So much in so few minutes. Why would anyone want to sleep through this?

The Burning Question

It was while we were tending our little veg patch that Joe finally opened up about it.

'I want a new dog, Mum. I've asked Bertie, and he doesn't mind.'

I lost complete sight of the baby leaves in front of me for a moment; all I saw was an unfamiliar bundle of fluff and energy racing across the field, barking at the sheep, thundering down the stairs and gruffling in his sleep at the foot of Joey's bed. The image faded and I dug my trowel into the soft earth again.

'What sort would you want?' I asked him, careful how I chose my words.

'The sort that stays for a while,' he replied.

The radish leaves went misty again, but for a different reason this time. I tossed the trowel down and hugged my son. 'Daddy and I'll see what we can do,' I promised. Suddenly it seemed like the most important thing in the world. And Bertie would understand. Bertie, who had died so young.

Joey smiled. Really smiled. And I realised for the first time that the gap between his front teeth was finally being replaced by a brand new sliver of white. He picked up my trowel and began to tickle the carrot tufts.

'And Rufus says he'll give me one of his kittens if we take him with us on the next steam train ride.'

Oh did he? 'That's generous of him,' I mused, with a half smile. 'A cat and a dog now, is it?'

But inside I was thinking, I wonder if any of the kittens are grey...?

Party Animals

The rain stopped - yay!

Joe and I ventured across the field to see the sheep, and were confronted by a mass of slimy straw, oozing mud and all manner of other knee-high crap. Not that Joe cared one iota; he was straight in there, bucket in hand, parcelling out chunks of parsnip and carrot from yesterday's dinner and trying to keep his fingers from being gnawed in the process. God bless the man who invented Wellington boots!

It was also kind of obvious the animals had been busy partying at the far end of the field since the last time we had seen them. I had to laugh; their faces were filthy, and their bodies - still unshorn both because of the weather and the fact that the shearer hopped it to France when we were last expecting him - were strewn from head to hoof in weeds and odd bits of fruit blossom from the damson trees. They looked like they'd just returned from a wild night out. They were fairly easy to clean up, but the stables were a complete disaster area. Joey and I got raking, which took us over two hours (with a tea and Mars Bar break in between, naturally), and now their home is cleaner than my front room.

Oh, and we have more wonderful manure for our vegetable patch. Two guesses what we'll be doing tomorrow...

Bertie's in Heaven, and so were we...

So, after the driest April on record, we were confronted by the wettest May, and, so far, June is a continuation of the same. Joe and I got fed up staring out at the grey skies and dank grass, so we decided to go check out our secret stream, which, whatever the weather, would, I'm sure, take us straight into Heaven if we only cared to follow it far enough.

And there it was, choked and spluttering, stumbling over the rocks and semi-submerged logs, gathering what debris it could as it floundered past us, swirling round Joe's wellie as he dug his toe into the stream-bed, sending up a small cloud of dust and silt that got washed away in the foamy waters. His mind was far away. I knew where he had gone, only it was somewhere so intensely private I knew I could not follow. He was remembering Bertie, and how that animal used to adore splashing in these shallows, his coat sparkling with sunlit drops of water. Bertie, who died so suddenly.

Later, trudging through the woods, we found trees covered in fans of fungus that gave them funny faces like old men. The Old Men of the Woods, we called them. I took this picture to show Martin while Joe stuffed his pockets with bits of bark, stones, feathers and moss. He even snatched up half a bird's egg, saving it from the crushing fate of my undiscerning wellie.

I can't remember a more bitter-sweet time spent with my son. He tries to smile, and won't admit that he's missing his dog, trying to be the happy boy we all expect him to be. Is it time to get a new dog, I wonder? A cat? Why not both? God knows I would buy a herd of cows if it meant seeing Joey smile again.

Donkeys and Chips

It seemed we were doomed to a quiet and uneventful Saturday, what with Martin working overtime, so imagine how chuffed we were when we received a phone call from Joe's friend, Rufus's mum, asking us if we would like to accompany her and her two children to the seaside for the day! Turns out it was Rufus's birthday, and he was adamant that, of all his school chums, it was Joe he wanted to take with him on the train.

More train rides! But just your everyday diesel from town this time, although Joe couldn't have been happier in light of recent events. I haven't been to Weston-Super-Mare since I was a teenager, but very little had changed. Three-year-old Ottilie was scared stiff of the donkeys, but was successfully diverted by a plastic windmill and a wisp of candyfloss while the boys trotted up and down the sand at least three times on Caroline and Bootsie. It was about then that Laura and I began to feel chilly as the wind was picking up from the sea, but it didn't stop the boys from stuffing chips and ice cream, and feeding the seagulls that drifted in like a tidal wave.


And would you believe it ... the tide was in!

Young and Old, Now and Never Gone

There's an old chap who lives up the lane from us, who we used to see occasionally leaning over his gate when we took Bertie for long rambles. We were only ever on waving terms (which is more than we were with any of the other neighbours) and never knew a thing about him until Seb (who knows everyone) told us that Old Bob Tollit, over at The Cabbage House, used to be a train manager many years ago on the old Dorset railways. The next thing we knew, Joe and I were ushered into a small and slightly stuffy sitting room, crawling with chintz and paintings of the sea, to view Mr Tollit's memorabilia from those bygone days.

If I suspected Joe of falling under the magic spell of steam before, I saw him well and truly bewitched today as he knelt on the floor surrounded by brown and curling tickets, timetables, fliers and photographs, each one with a particular odour of their own; the scent of age, and dust, and memories. Old Mr Tollit seemed to regress for an hour, taking my son with him into a time I couldn't quite share, but just to watch them - young and old - sharing the same dream, was good enough for me.

I've always loved this village, but I'm just beginning to realise there is still so much I don't know about its residents. I never used to care; well, people don't, do they? But, like Joe with his trains, I think I have caught the bug to find out more.

Moth Magic

It's always hard to follow up a really good day out with anything remotely decent, but I think Joe and I managed it today.

While hanging out a couple of freshly laundered sheets, I heard a shriek of delight, only to discover Joe bent over double at the bottom of the house wall, his stubby fingers itching to pick and pull at something attached there, but with the overiding good sense to leave it well alone. With a peg still gripped between my teeth, I bent down beside him to find a broken cocoon, the butterfly having emerged neatly from it and now residing magestically next to it, drying its wings in the sun.

We found it again an hour later. Joe tried to sketch it while I took the sheets off the line and folded them into the laundry basket. It was quicker to take a photo, which I did while he wasn't looking.

I'll show it to him later, only I'm sure his sketch will be far better.

I Often Dream of Trains...

Oh God, it's beautiful here! We arrived to the sound of bells from the village , and light splots of rain soaking quickly into the dust on my shoes as we approached the station house, where a huge locomotive presided over the scene like some mechanical matriarch from the 1800s. Joe doesn't know which way to look first. His little face is bemused and awestruck, loving the acrid billows of steam but not understanding them.

We managed to find a coach all to ourselves, and slammed the door on the outside world. Nestled into our seats, Martin and I, with Seb and Joe opposite, grinned inanely at each other as the haunting, flutey voice of the train floated over the carriage and the guard blew his whistle to begin our journey.

The train monopolized all conversation. We sat there, jolting and bouncing, hypnotized by the chugs and clangs, the rumbles and rattles, imagining a world not too long ago when life was always this perfect - as near as dammit, before people wrecked it with cars and Thomas the Tank Engine. A time when trees and bushes and cows were all there was. When women's dresses rustled aainst the narrow doorframes. When men pulled their bicycles out from beneath a hedge and wobbled their way home.

I think Joe has caught the disease. His eyes were dancing as he drank his hot chocolate later in the cafe. Seb bought him a flag, and Martin took some great pictures. I think today has been one of the happiest I can remember for a very long time. I want more.

The promise of steam

You'll be relieved to know I didn't burn the dinner, although I did chuck more wine into the Bourgignon than I should have. I figured it would calm my nerves while I ate. That's debatable, of course, but it certainly gave the beef an indescribable colour.

I was so nervous, I let the men do the talking while I concentrated all my efforts into serving the food without tipping half of it over the cloth (or down myself), but quite honestly, nobody was watching anything I did, as it soon transpired that our good friend and neighbour, Seb Lancashire, had a passion for trains that could only be equalled by my dear Martin's; a subject that bewitched the pair of them and kept their focus away from me and firmly fixed on ashpans and bogies for the rest of the evening.

Before we knew it, we were sitting on garden chairs outside the back door, watching the bats swooping in from the trees and listening to the gurgling of the stream, while we cooked up our own plans for a turn 'on the chuffers'.

As the boys continued in their animated style, I sat back with a glass of wine, feeling the lightest of breezes on my face, and smiled happily into the gloaming.

Seb's back.

That was him on the phone, talking to Martin in the kitchen while I craned my neck to hear from behind a magazine in the sitting room. It's all a bit startling really. So much time has passed since he was last here, stomping across our grass, crunching the gravel with the wheels of his Land Rover, making my little boy laugh. While he's been away on that copywriting course I've been ill, Bertie the dog's died and all work on the pigsty's ground to a halt because Martin smashed his thumb with a hammer which understandably left us all in limbo for a little while. My poor diary has been neglected, but then, what could I have written in those sad few months that would have made entertaining reading?

Still, it's May now. Bertie's snowdrops have been replaced by the odd, forgotten daffodil, and the lower banks of the Mound have the remains of the primroses and dog violets that emblazoned it not so long ago. Now it's the turn of the lilacs to grace the kitchen table. The table that is set for four; Martin, Joe, Seb and me. He's coming for dinner. Joe's excited and Martin's whistling, despite his thumb.

And I don't know why my mouth keeps twitching at the corners. Anyone would think I was vaguely thrilled.