The extension starts to become reality.

So much seems to have happened over the last few weeks that my feet have hardly touched the floor, let alone my fingers touch any keyboards. We finally got our planning permission through for the extension and, after a little wrangling with the planners, we haven’t got to “drop” the roofline so that it is subservient to the older part of the house. Hurray! Our architect has been an absolute gem. He is from Kington and has done other work in the village, and he has just taken away all the stress of the negotiations. Wish he could just wave a magic wand so that the extension would be up by tomorrow, but now it all begins in earnest.

As soon as we knew we had permission, I started sourcing some materials (just can’t help myself, I’m afraid) and got our first eBay bargain of the project. We’d set our hearts on flagstone flooring in the new hallway and through into the kitchen but original flagstones would be a) too expensive and b) too thick to match up with current floor levels. The alternative was reproduction flags and there they were on eBay! An over-order at a house not too far off the M4 near Bath and, as luck would have it, we were off down there to visit my uncle for Sunday lunch. The lady was so lovely and took us in to see the finished product laid in her kitchen – all sealed and looking fantastic. They were from Classical Flagstones of Bath originally, so we had a nose on the website and were chuffed to bits when we found that our £100 would have been just over £1,100 if we’d ordered from them!

We’re now trying to sort out the bricks: we need between 5 and 6 thousand red bricks and would prefer reclaimed so that they blend seamlessly with the original part of the cottage. But the problem is quality – so many reclaimed bricks are very rough around the edges and damaged where they have been cleaned. However, reproduction “old” bricks can still look too new, unless the colour match is just right. Oh, what to do! We could probably build the extension just from the samples we’ve got already in the yard! And we need blue highlighting bricks for around the windows, doorways and along the corners, bull nosed, cant bricks and all sorts of things I’ve never heard of! We rummaged around Wye Valley Reclamation on Saturday and came away armed with lists and prices and heads buzzing with ideas.

And then there’s the roof tiles! Same thing all over again, but we’re 99% decided on new “brindle” handmade clay ones as they are such a good match and we had a few new ones mixed in with the originals when we did the roof 4 years ago.

The mess is going to be mind-blowing. I’m psyched up for it but reality is another matter totally. I’m off down to Devon on 20th July with my parents whilst Jimmy knocks down some of the existing structure. We didn’t get our pre-work break together due to unexpected orders for bookmaker’s brollies and so Jimmy insisted I get away to escape the dust and initial mayhem. I found it hard to agree because I know I will hate missing out on anything but I guess this is the boring bit, and at least I’ll be around when the new bits start to go up.

Today is our 9th wedding anniversary - I can't believe how the time has gone. Jimmy came into my life after much heartache had made me very cynical, and he won me over with his easy smile and vast capacity for love. He changed my life the day we met and this morning I lay in bed with my customary cup of tea, curtains and windows wide open to the fresh air and birdsong, and felt the calm and serenity of our home ease me into the new day. Make the most of it, my girl, the builders will be here in a few weeks; there’ll be skip lorries clanking along the lane; concrete mixers whirring; scaffolding and male voices shouting instructions over the radio which will, no doubt, be balanced precariously on a pile of a rubble. We are entering a new phase in our life together : we'll be eating beans on toast as we try to save every penny; we'll be living in chaos, but we'll be doing it together - I can’t wait!

Photo is of the floor as laid in the kitchen of our eBay seller– carefully stored in anticipation in a friend’s barn!

I've been tagged!

I don't know - I go off-line again for a few days and someone tags me!! I've had to sit and concentrate very hard but here goes........

1. In the early 1970's my uncle used to be the roadie for Black Sabbath and the whole group came to my nan's house for tea. Ozzy Osbourne sat me on his knee and played with my farm set to make friends with me because I was scared of these strange men stood in the lounge with long hair........


2. When I was 12 years old, the same uncle was living in New York and was, by now, quite successul in the music industry. He paid for me to go out to visit him for the six weeks summer holiday, and I went with him to the "office" and sorted fan mail for Michael Jackson while he had a meeting.


3. I was diagnosed with Scleroderma (systemic sclerosis) in 1991 - a rare disease, similar to Lupus. Alongside of this, most patients (me included) get Raynaud's and, although now classed as "stable", I do have severe lung involvement (ILD-interstertial lung disease) caused by fibrosis and have had 2 lots of chemotherapy over the years when this part of the disease has been "active". But this doesn't stop me from enjoying my garden, DIY, cooking, sewing (a bit!), horse riding, bike riding and walking the dogs, as long as I can do it at my own pace!


4. I met my lovely hubby, J, whilst on a ski-ing holiday with the girls when I was 28 years old. He winked at me in a bar and told me that same night he was going to marry me...... which, of course, he did.


5. I hate liver, stilton cheese, the coffee and orange fondant chocolates and roll mop herrings.


6. Since I was a little girl, Father Christmas has always brought me a Terry's Chocolate Orange at Christmas.


7. I am 40 this year and despite the usual jokes about it, I actually am chuffed to bits to be reaching this milestone. A few years ago, I didn't think I'd make it and now every year is a wonderful achievement and every morning when I wake, I say "Thank you" out loud for another wonderful day.


8. I broke my third toe on my left foot when I was eleven because my younger brother, who was then only 5 years old, dared me I couldn't climb the hall wall. My parents kept an antiques' shop and we lived in the Victorian flat above. There was a long corridor that joined the living and bedroom areas, and it was quite narrow. My darling brother used to put a hand on either side of the wall, level with his head, then jump like a star fish and put his feet on the walls too. Then he would "walk" up to the ceiling. I forgot that he was only half my height, and when I went to star fish my feet, I stubbed my toe and broke it and was too scared to tell my mum because she would have been cross at us climbing the wall.

Phew! Done it........ now do I have to tag someone else? If so, I'm way behind on blogs (again) and don't know who's been done already!! Wail, wail in anguish................

Sunshine, soil and fate

Sunshine and warmth – there really is no better tonic. Two weeks of antibiotics have finally shifted my pleurosy but I am still coughing like I smoke forty a day (which I don’t!) and feel like I am hauling a ball and chain around with me, no matter what I am doing. But then the sun shines down and makes the top of my head hot, and the warmth spreads down my back and I feel the energy start to thread through my veins.

My garden is calling me – it always does on days like these. There is so much to do and I feel frustrated that my energy levels are so low. Strategically placed benches beckon as I pause for breath and it is a good excuse to sit back, gaze around and plan.

There are two beds that need to be completely stripped and started again from scratch. The previous owner of our cottage was a keen gardener but his choice of plants was too formal for a country cottage. I have made many changes but this garden needs time to become my “dream” and patience isn’t one of my finer qualities, I’m afraid to admit.

At the weekend, we hired a turf cutter for the front garden and have stripped out the lawn (clover bed really!) and I am going around the edges with a spade to clear the awkward bits before I rake it over, put a membrane down and cover with gravel. The recent rain made this an easy task for J – we thought we’d have to leave it until later in the year again as the ground had got so hard, and I did much foot stamping in frustration that another spring had gone by without this job being done. So, sorry folks, the recent rain was probably my fault but I REALLY needed to get this job done this year. I have been nurturing my box hedging plants for ten months now and they will go in a rectangular shape, with gaps along the long edges, and then a diamond shape filled with lavender in the middle. I’m not going for fancy shapes, like a Tudor knot garden, but using the box plants as structure and contrast against the gravel and hold the shape for the lavender. I’ve got a picture in my mind’s eye of the look I want to achieve, but it won’t be fully complete until the extension is done, as my porch is still on the “to do” list and there is only a sad bit of trellis, at the moment, for my beautiful rose to ramble on.

Back in the rear garden, I have been edging the lawn around the flower beds and that has given an instant face lift. Two of my Camelot foxgloves have failed this year and so it’s a trip back to the garden centre for replacements, and my white delphiniums have disappeared too. The stronger blue ones are standing proud, though, but I confess to liking softer, paler colours – so much more gentle on the eye in this garden.

I didn’t hear the cuckoo this morning – the first time in weeks. Each morning since the beginning of May, it has been the first bird to start the dawn chorus, and as I have been tending my garden, or sitting and drinking tea at the table, I have heard it moving slowly around between the wood and across the lane to the farms. But today, the thrush is serenading me and the blackbirds are trying to compete, and almost succeeding.

The aquilegia have been glorious this year and the penstemons are about to burst forth. And the roses! They all had a hard prune back at the end of last year and are rewarding me with blooms of frothy colour. I thought I’d lost one of my weigelas but it is in flower – just! Even writing the names of these plants is making me want to turn the laptop off and go outside to stand and look and dip my trowel into the earth. Red Herefordshire earth, not dark brown crumbly soil from other areas. But this earth is coloured the colour of blood and I know it flows in my veins now – wherever we have been and we come back home and see the ploughed fields of red earth, it makes my heart lift. And when it has rained, the colour deepens and I love to watch as it dries out and gets lighter and lighter.

We connect with the land if we let ourselves. Our fore-fathers knew so many things that modern man has forgotten as we have become disconnected through technology, urban living and pace of life. But when you take the time to feel the soil as it runs through your fingers, sit back on your heels and listen to the birdsong as the breeze tickles the hair at the base of your neck and along your forearms, close your eyes and breath deeply, the connection is soon repaired and the phrase “life blood” takes on a new meaning.

I have said before that we have put down roots here and this red earth has taken a hold of me and drawn me in tight. This isn’t where I wanted to be originally. No, we were going to move to Ludlow, had found the house around 3 miles outside of town and were set to move. But it wasn’t meant to be – we lost the house and then couldn’t find another one we liked as much in the area. We broadened our search area and ended up on the south Herefordshire/Gloucestershire border – 45 minutes in real time further south. A perfect location for us as we have to get around the country regularly as J is self employed, and we can be on the M5 in twenty minutes.

We go back to Ludlow regularly to visit Dickinson’s Period House Shop and other favourite haunts, to wander around the market and browse the antique shops. It still holds a special place in my heart but I don’t think I could live there now. It’s just that bit too far away from family and friends, that bit too far away for J to commute easily, that bit too hilly, and in the winter that wind blows that bit more coldly. At the time we were hoping to move there, we didn’t yet know these things. Funny how life turns out, isn’t it? For the best, in our case, but at the time we didn’t realize it: we moaned and wailed in frustration. It’s that connection thing again. The earth, the elements, mankind and a melting pot of circumstances - fate, if you like.

Catching up

Well, I feel like I’ve been away forever! The highlight of our month was, of course, the wedding, but then things became a little more mundane as I had to go down to London for my heart tests.

They weren’t anything awful – just a 24 hour tape to monitor my heart beat throughout the day and night, and a little diary to fill in when I did anything to exert myself and send my heart rate up. These days, because of my lung fibrosis, I do get out of breath when I walk either too fast or uphill. And, of course, the walk to and from Belsize Park tube station always leaves me a little ragged, so that was my first diary note.

The journey down on the Wednesday had been a nightmare – the M4 had been surprisingly good, but the good old M25 that takes me to my friend’s house at Orpington, didn’t fail to trap me, as ever. My journey can take anything from 3 hours upwards, and this day it took me 4 and a half. I eventually pulled on to the drive, slightly frazzled, and unloaded the car. It looked like I’d come for a week – I always do this and don’t know why I pack so much. But I’d also come bearing gifts of wine (several bottles!), home produced eggs and chocolates from The Velvet Bean in Ledbury.

That evening we spent catching up and drinking wine and, as always, it felt like only yesterday we last saw one another. This is my Town Mouse friend, I wrote about on the other site, and we are as opposite as two people can be. But we love each other and are friends in the truest sense – accepting each other for what we are and enjoying every second of each other’s company. We don’t see enough of one another since J and I moved here and, hand on heart, she is the only thing I truly miss from my life in the South East. But we text and email, run up extortionate phone bills and see each other whenever we can. And we always pick up where we left off.

The next day saw my journey in to London to get my tape fitted and then we had the afternoon and evening together, as her partner (also a J) was out with work. We cooked together, drank more wine and stayed up too late, but I also got to spend some time with her son, who is two and half and growing up so fast. The time always goes so quickly and I was due to go home the next day after my “stress exercise test”.

Friday dawned and my tape was returned and then I had to wait a little while for my exercise stress test. This just involved having a heart monitor fitted and then lying down for an echo of my heart while I was at rest. The fun bit came next when I was put on a treadmill and the speed was increased, along with the incline, to get my heart up to its maximum rate when I had to quickly jump back on the bed to have another echo of my heart, while it was at full pelt. Easier said than done! I was pleased that it took a while to get my heart to its full rate, but the problem was the technicians were really nice guys and we were talking too much. I have a problem walking really fast AND talking, purely because my lungs don’t function as well as they should and so fast walking and talking don’t mix! By the time they’d got me at full rate, my mouth was drying up and I thought my lungs were going to explode. And then they just stopped the treadmill and the sudden halt (even though they’d warned me) had me careering off the treadmill into two pairs of waiting hands that were waiting to haul me on the bed for my next echo. I was glad to lie down! They then scanned me and monitored my heart beat until the rate slowed to “normal” – which took slightly longer than it did to get to the peak. And that was it – I was free to go and the doctor would be in touch.

Visits down to my friend’s are always such bitter sweet affairs for me: it sounds so awful writing it down, but I really dislike staying down there for more than a couple of nights. I hate the sirens shooting past my window; the airlessness; the bright night sky; traffic noise; hustle and bustle and the crowds on the trains and tubes, with people afraid to make eye contact. I always want to giggle when I am stood on a tube with my head wedged under someone’s armpit and blowing at the corner of a page from The Times to get it away from tickling my nose – it’s so bizarre how we can be so intimately crushed together but if you don’t look someone in the eye or smile at them, it’s okay. I managed to restrain myself this time as the tube headed back towards Charing Cross for my train out to Orpington and my waiting car.

I phoned my friend to say I was on the train and she told me I should stay another night – she said: “you’re barking. You’ll hit all the Friday night traffic heading west and won’t be home ‘til late. Stay and go home in the morning after breakfast”. This is the one thing about me that she can never get her head around. She doesn’t understand my “need” to get home. When I know I’ve got that journey to do, I just want to get on and do it. What’s one more night? An eternity when you just want to get out of the city. And then mum rang to say she hoped I was staying because the traffic was horrendous on the M25 and the M4. Damn! They were right, of course, and then J rang to put his pennyworth in.

And so, I found myself reversing on the drive once more and unloading my car (bags lighter this time!), feeling like the worse friend in the world who wanted to be going home. She was waiting for me in the hall, arms folded and giving me her stern mother look. Well, trying to but a) she's 4 years younger than me and b) she’s not very good at it. But then, her gorgeous boy came and threw his arms around my legs and warmed my heart.

That night, I read him a story and put him to bed and we talked about them coming to visit us. He wanted to know all about the chickens that laid the eggs I’d brought and about the tractors in the field. Could they come soon, he wanted to know. He loves the countryside, my friend told me, and now he is bigger there are so many more things we can show him next time they come.

We went back down to the kitchen and decided on an Indian takeaway. Oh, and the luxury of it was that they delivered!!!!! Heaven. We got the plates in the oven and cracked open a beer and soon we were tucking in. Later, stuffed, we threw ourselves on the sofa and watched Jonathan Ross but my eyes kept getting heavy and I had to make my excuses and say night, night. I hauled myself up to the top floor guest suite and got ready for bed. A blurry conversation with J and then I was fast asleep. Yes, they’d all been right and I was glad I’d stayed. I was glad I’d fought my “flight urge”.

After breakfast on Saturday morning, we hugged and kissed and brushed tears from our eyes. We promised to see more of each other – proper quality time, not bits squeezed in around my trips into London for hospital. My car soon found the M25 and, of course, it was much clearer than the previous evening. I grinned. I missed her already.

A country wedding

Saturday was the day the village had been waiting for – the wedding. Friday had dawned grey and cold and we’d all been a little worried at the prospect of partying in a barn. But as I opened the curtains, the sun was glimmering through the high clouds and the air was distinctively warmer.

We arrived at the church as the bells were peeling, and a crowd of fine hats, posh frocks and smart suits stood outside the village pub, next door. The groom was looking handsome in his kilt suit and soon we were moving to take our seats in the church. And then the bride arrived – a vision of loveliness beaming as she walked down the aisle on the arm of the proudest father in the neighbourhood.

Our next door neighbour is also the village priest and he has watched R grow up to become the beautiful woman she is today. It made the ceremony especially touching as he was able to recall firsthand memories to share with us as he conducted the ceremony with pride. R has three sisters and they made such beautiful bridesmaids, along with flower girls who are nieces and a nephew as ring bearer.

The church was decorated with hand-tied posies of flowers and wicker obelisks hung with wooden hearts and cream lilies. The obelisks had been made by the father of the bride, at home on the farm, and were truly stunning.

Soon, we were back out into the warm sunshine and the bells rang out in celebration as we threw home-dried rose petal confetti, collected from wicker baskets held by the flower girls, and wrapped in individual cones of brown paper, stamped with gold hearts. The photographer was wonderfully swift in his work and we were reversing on our drive before we knew it. The dogs had a quick run around the garden and then, after changing into my more comfy shoes (!) we walked across the lane to the farm.

Pink champagne waited at the gate and we moved though the line-up kissing and hugging and saying our congratulations. We emerged into the courtyard and R’s cousin was playing the keyboard softly in the background as we milled around and chatted. There were old wooden advertising crates filled with packets of our local Tyrell’s crisps and bowls of plump, shiny olives, along with plates of the most delicious home-made cheese straws. The whole atmosphere was relaxed and happy and we brushed past terracotta pots filled with rosemary and lavender.

We were called through into the barn – and what a transformation! Two weeks ago, it had been the cow shed and, as such, looked just like …….. a cow shed. Now, it was white-washed and draped with cream muslin – an indoor marquee. An old wooden farm gate was hung on the wall and decorated with wooden hearts, at each place setting was a brown paper name tag, tied with raffia and decorated with rosemary sprigs and dried rose buds and the table was adorned with terracotta pots of young rosemary plants, alternating with thick, cream church candles. Bottles with crock stoppers of home-made cider and perry, from their own orchards, were placed in groups down the table, along with wine and jugs of water.

The hog-roast was fantastic – Gloucester Old Spot (not their own!), with bowls of salad, potatoes, homemade pickles and chutneys, plus a vegetarian alternative of homemade quiche. Afterwards, there was a wonderful cheeseboard (provided by our neighbour – and, yes, there was Stinking Bishop!) and wedding cake. Not your usual wedding cake either. It was a tier of individual sponge cupcakes, decorated with cream icing and topped with a single rosebud. I really can’t describe how wonderful and different this was – and we each received our own individual cake with our champagne for the toasts.

Speeches were made and we alternated between crying and laughing hysterically – a rollercoaster ride of emotions. The best man was, in fact, a best woman and she did a wonderful job (of course!) and R’s father paid moving tribute to his daughter, the bride, as tears coursed down our faces.

Eventually, it was time for the two of them to leave and we all gathered as the bouquet was thrown and we cheered and waved them off. It was 7.30pm and we said our goodbye’s, hugging and kissing new and old friends, and then we wandered hand in hand back across the lane to our little cottage.

We changed out of our finery, put the kettle on and sat outside as the sun slowly sank down behind the trees. It had been a wonderful day. A true “country wedding” – simply stylish and full of honest, good old fashioned love and laughter. The very best kind of day.

New Life

We had an unexpected phone call on Monday evening, from J’s aunt. It was to tell us that her brother-in-law (J’s last surviving uncle) had passed away last week and the funeral was on Wednesday (yesterday), up in Macclesfield.

Families. Mine is complicated, and has its fair share of skeletons in the cupboard! J’s, on the other hand, is VERY complicated, and his late mother’s paternal side is responsible for this!! That half of the family is not close with the rest of the cousins – they tend to be close to their own immediate units of parents and siblings alone. I suppose, this is quite normal for most families, but I am lucky in that mine is a bit of a “tribe” for want of a better expression. Don’t get me wrong, we are not in each other’s pockets, but there is regular contact, even if it is just by phone or email.

J’s paternal side is also close and in regular contact, but he was a bit taken aback to only find out about this uncle at the last minute. And more than a little sad.

And so, we were up at 5.30am yesterday to make the journey north. Unfortunately, I am NOT an early morning person and so I won’t regale you with tales of how wonderful the morning sunshine felt on my face, nor how uplifting the dawn chorus was. No, I was trying to nap in the front seat without smudging my carefully applied makeup or messing up my hastily blow dried hair. I’d calculated we would be there in 3 hours and so another hour’s kip in the front seat should leave me bright eyed and bushy tailed for giving J directions during the last bit of the journey. That was the theory, but unfortunately the sunshine DID wave its wand over me and so I stayed awake – highly irritating for a girl who needs at least 8 hours!

The journey ended up being a delight. We didn’t go on the motorway after we reached Lichfield. No, we headed to Ashbourne and Leek, rising ever higher and snaking through the beautiful Staffordshire and Derbyshire countryside, the fields edged with dry stone walls (unlike the hedgerows and trees of Herefordshire). And then we arrived in Macclesfield with an hour to spare. Enough time for a mug of tea and bacon sarnie at a café on the outskirts of town. Replenished and revitalized, we met up with J’s middle brother and his wife, and went on to the crem. You know how these things go so, again, I won’t go into it, but suffice to say it was a humanist ceremony and I have only been to one other in my life. Different, but still incredibly moving.

Afterwards, it was back to J’s cousin’s house and we sat in the garden, soaking up the sunshine. Stronger bonds were forged that afternoon between this younger generation – our generation. Maybe things will be a little different for the family now. Enough business cards/telephone numbers and email addresses were exchanged; shy glances became forthright smiles; there was laughter in the air and many hugs were given and received when we left.

I drove home as J sat quietly reflecting next to me. Eleven years have taught me when to leave him be with his thoughts. This man of mine is many sided. He is the joker in the pack; the one everyone relies on to lighten an atmosphere and who can make anyone feel instantly at ease. He is also highly intelligent – not in an academic, certificates out of every orifice kind of way: his knowledge of social and political history astounds me. I am proud when I see someone do a double take at this man they have “judged” as a jack-the-lad. One minute he has been telling jokes or laughing with someone, and then he can turn and seriously debate this country’s history. His mind has soaked up names and dates for almost every event of importance (or not, as is often the case, when he can sprint to the finish line in a pop quiz!). I am frequently bemused that he can tell me who was prime minister in 1854 or who the lead singer of Blah, blah, blah band was and what their 2nd number 1 was, but can’t remember that I have asked him to hang the washing out!

And then there is his heart. The biggest and softest I have ever known. When you receive the key to the lock, it opens and enfolds you into its protective world, just as his arms wrap you in his bear hug. His quietness on our journey home spoke to me louder than he could know: he feels keenly the divide in his family and I know he hopes with all of his heart that those times are now gone. He WILL pick up the phone and reach out to these cousins who have been distant for too long.

As our journey entered its final stages, the Malvern Hills appeared to our right on the M5. Wherever we have been, we know we’re nearly home when they come into view. Our hearts lift and shoulders relax as they keep us company along the final fifteen minutes before they slip out of view as we turn towards the village. “It’s good to be home, love,” he said and he squeezed my hand. I glanced at him and smiled as I scanned his face. He looked tired and his brown eyes held a hint of sadness. I pulled in.

“Are you okay?” I asked him, concern making me frown. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sad. He was mum’s last brother – only auntie R left now and then the siblings are all gone. It’s just us lot then. I hope we do a better job of it. You, know, the family thing. It doesn’t seem so important when you’re kids – you’re just concerned with your mates and all that. Family stuff is just………. well, family. But now, you realize how important it is to keep it going. To get along. You know……” He shrugged his shoulders and looked a little embarrassed.

“Yes, I DO know,” I said and squeezed his hand tight back. He loves my family. I know he does. But Christmas and Easter………. all the major occasions, in fact, it’s always my tribe that gets together. “Let’s get home and put the kettle on,” I said as I let in the clutch and pulled off.

As we sat drinking our tea, watching the sun go down over the trees, I played the answer phone messages. It was my brother. Usual stuff, then an “oh, by the way, sis”…….. He’s going to be a dad again. Another new life is beginning.

An evening walk

J came home late last night, after a successful London Golf Show. He launched his Caddy Cover umbrellas there in 2006 and decided, last minute, to go again this year. Within minutes of him coming home, there were three pairs of shoes abandoned in the hall, dirty washing in a pile on the landing and opened post littering the kitchen table. Oh, I have missed him!

Today, we spent a lazy morning together and then he took me out to lunch. It was such a glorious day that we made a drive of it and ended up at a country pub near Pershore, serving traditional "Pub Grub".

Afterwards, with full stomachs, we took a leisurely drive home, via "Posterity", a reclamation yard between Ledbury and Malvern, to price up some of the things we'll need when we get planning permission through (!!) for our extension. We made copious notes and fell in love with a few things we'd need to live in a manor house to own, and then carried on home to our waiting hounds.

We quickly changed into our walking clobber and took the JRTs over the field at the bottom of our garden. On the "other site", I took you for this walk and have added some pictures as it has been such a gorgeous day today.

At the bottom of the garden, we have our own private stile into the field. Alfie hurdles it in one, the girls scuttle under the wire and we clamber over fairly gingerly as it is homemade by the previous owners and fairly ancient. We turn immediately right and follow the hedge line as it snakes along towards the farm; a traditional hedgerow interspersed with mature trees. Sometimes after high winds, I come along and collect fallen branches for the fire, and in the autumn sweet chestnuts can be gathered by the bag load.

The hounds races ahead, a blur of white as they snuffle along, scenting out the rabbits. Alfie makes me laugh as he often misses one and then, when he sees it out of the corner of his eye, he’ll turn his head and another one will run just out of sight. It’s like watching a game of tennis! I’m sure the rabbits are laughing at him!

This field is often left to pasture and when haymaking time arrives, the huge rounds of hay become personal look-out points for our mad JRTs. Occasionally we still get the big rectangular bales too, and these are more fun to climb as they are stacked higher. J and I have climbed them too and lain down at the top, soaking up the warm harvest sunshine and breathing in the smell of freshly cut hay. It is one of my favourite smells of the countryside, along with wood smoke curling up from the chimneys in the village, so distinctive from coal.

The field starts to dip down slightly and we come past a natural pond with moorhens and ducks, tucked away and surrounded by trees. Often, the buzzards and crows are flying around here and the crows pick on a lone buzzard, diving at it and calling out in their attack. The path starts to turn upwards once more and the hedgerow is littered with rabbit holes; some disused and swathed in cobwebs, others clearly in use. We come up to the top of the incline again and on the right is a field gate down to the farmhouse, but we go onwards and over another stile towards the trig point.

We have to walk through the middle of the next field, but countless years of ploughing cannot remove that permanent groove of the footpath, walked by so many. Whatever is planted there, be it crops or grass, there is always the mark of the footpath. This year it is rape - NOT my favourite! The farmer does clear the way through when cereal crops grow high, but they are always patchy in this area as if the land is denying them the right to grow on this foot trodden path. Sometimes we find broken pieces of pottery and clay pipe ends; remnants of another era when many hands toiled in the fields.

At the next stile, we usually stop for a breather and to admire the glorious view. Another of our local “big” houses can be seen, surrounded by its own land, sprawling and grey and slightly forbidding. This is The Hall, and when we moved in, it used to be a race horse stable too. We used to love to watch the horses on their daily walk out through the village to open riding, but they moved on shortly after. It is now a private residence once more and horses still graze the fields but not in the same number as before.

We cross the next field, again through the middle, along the mysterious, permanently marked footpath and there is an old abandoned water pump-house over to the right, near the edge of the field. It makes me sad to see it in such disrepair – the old quarry floor tiles are still there, many are cracked, and remnants of rusty machinery.

We enter the final field of our journey. Here there are large, old oak trees standing tall in the middle of the field: three of them in a line. The footpath goes to the left of the first tree, then to the right of the second and then the left of the third; snaking in between them. Here, I lean against the rough old bark and look up through the canopy to the sky. I would love to know just what these trees have seen over the years; how many labourers rested here to drink their cider from crock jugs; to see the teams of oxen or shires ploughing the field. From here we either turn back and return the way we have come, or carry on to the coppice at the end, over the next stile, along a thin wooden bridge (more of a raised walkway actually) and out onto the lane. Directly in front of us is a beautiful old house, dating back to the 1600’s. Local rumour has it that the steps down to the cellar are made from old tomb stones from the nearby church! They grow the most amazing display of sweet peas, which can be seen from the lane in the summer.

But today, we turn around and come home, to a nice chilled glass of wine and bowl of Tyrells crisps!