New writing directions

the ebook from the blog

Dear Reader – I’ve decided to put these posts together, edit, reformat, etc and to create an ebook. The title of the ebook is ‘A Year of Going Nowhere’ and it will be published on 26th March 2021.

Simone Mansell Broome, Author of A Year of Going Nowhere
Sample or purchase A Year of Going Nowhere: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1074776

You might be interested….

My new writing website, under development now, is www.simonemansellbroome.com

Stay safe, sane and positive!

March and here we are again.

flowers for my 2021 birthday

It was my birthday yesterday. March 12th. My sister sent flowers, as did an old schoolfriend. My son delivered a mauve-pink hellebore in a pot – a Lenten rose. In the morning, there were freshly picked daffodils on the table at breakfast. I’ve been feeling as spoilt as it’s possible to feel in these odd times.

The last time I stayed away from home was for just one night, the night of March 11th 2020, in a hotel near Haverfordwest. A few things jump out from my memories of that jaunt – driving with the radio on, listening to the Budget on Radio 4. Marvelling at the Chancellor’s total focus on trying to minimise the effects of the pandemic on the economy and on business. To be honest, we weren’t yet taking the situation seriously. We hadn’t grasped the impact the pandemic would have on our lives. We were still optimistic, still naïve.

The hotel stay was unremarkable. We didn’t eat there that evening as there was little to tempt our non-standard diets. Instead we drove to the Pembrokeshire coast, to a chilly, blustery Little Haven where we found a friendly pub to eat in. Afterwards, there was a charity quiz in which we came last. A total disgrace.

On the morning of that last birthday, we wandered briefly around the overgrown part of the grounds, where we learned that Sir William Hamilton was buried next to his first wife, Caroline. His second wife became, of course, Nelson’s mistress, Emma Hamilton. There was a leisurely trip back talking mostly about the predicted lockdown.

It would be four days till the announcement about stopping ‘unnecessary travel’. Then, of course Boris, pulled the plug on that much abused word, ‘normality’, on March 23rd. A whole year.

Now there’s a ‘roadmap’ out of all this. Whatever happened to that perfectly useful word – PLAN? Tourism will be starting up again in a couple of weeks’ time. Slowly at first, with all the usual suspects by way of restrictions and caveats. I’m cautiously positive. But my priorities have also changed. I’m ready to step back from being consumed by this family enterprise.

It’s taken a succession of lockdowns for me to realise that writing is what I want to concentrate on now. I started writing more poems again last Spring, then began this little blog. Recently, I’ve finished a children’s book, about mice! I’m hoping to get it published. We’ll see…

So, it’s been an unimaginably confined and confused year for all of us certainly, but a year where I’ve rediscovered what’s important to me. Now, I just need to make it happen!

Insomnia, a delinquent cat and a bear named Pooh

A disgraced cat

And in that warm cocoon, I am up against the faceless man once more. I’ve had my second guess at today’s five words and not guessed right. So back I go to the locked room until tomorrow, frustrated with failure and at the unfairness of it all. It should be a place of sanctuary but I’m restless, sleeping fitfully and dreaming endless, unsettling dreams.

Over the last month or two I’ve been flexing the writing muscles with a weekly five word challenge – five words, once a week, from which I must create a poem. The last of these challenges starts today. It’s something I thought I was enjoying but, at night, the mind behaves oddly!  

Yesterday was Blue Monday – supposedly the bleakest, darkest day. Something to do with lack of sunlight, the dip after Yule and Hogmanay festivities, (not a huge number of these this year), feeling disheartened at the breaking of New Year’s resolutions and so on. The weather performed accordingly. Not cold but wet and grey, grey, grey with promises of worse to come – Storm Christoph.

Miss Baxter, our adopted stray ginger moggy, has reverted to her formal feral manners. She’s inviting in, or not shooing out, the neighbouring neutered tom. The conservatory reeks of unpleasant feline aromas this morning. Miss B is also having a few ‘accidents’…maybe because the outside is less appealing at this time of year. Not expending her considerable energy in the great outdoors means she has a surplus when inside. Midnight craziness is what happens when she’s in our room. And when she’s not, because we’ve closed the door, loud vocal objections and destruction of the landing carpet edges are our reward.

Yesterday was also A.A. Milne’s birthday. He was born in 1882. As a child I first loved both E.H. Shepard’s illustrations and the poems. I still more-or-less know a few by heart, including ‘The King’s Breakfast’, ‘Says Alice’ and ‘Disobedience’. But it’s the characters Milne created, Pooh, his friend Piglet and all other inhabitants of the Hundred Acre Wood, who still resonate with children, of all ages, including me. Expunge Disney from your memory. Open Winnie the Pooh at random and something small, simply expressed and perfect will jump off the page and grip your heart tightly.

Unless of course you’re obsessed with the spelling of Tuesday, or, like Rabbit, you are clever and have Brain…

“I suppose,” said Pooh, “that’s why he never understands anything.”

Healing, holiness and history

remaking the wooden fence

Healing, holiness and history

Lichfield Cathedral is the first UK cathedral to be used as a Coronavirus vaccination centre. And why not? It’s a huge undercover space, and, quite probably, it’s underutilised. It seems fitting for cathedrals to be places of healing once more, and for the community to benefit from their existence.

The second daff is flowering. Days slowly lengthen. I started walking at 4.20 yesterday and was still back, after a fairly brisk circuit of the fields with Jennydog, before darkness fell. She’s been unwell for the last couple of days – probably to do with eating something disgusting – so I’ve taken her off her normal food and put her on bland stuff (including boiled rice). She’s much improved.

Despite being closed to visitors, this little farm still needs to be looked after and maintained. Things wear out. Things break. Yesterday the chaps, ( the husband plus one other), were remaking and repairing a short run of wooden fencing. They just finished before the light went.

They’re at it again – my sister and my cousin – on the family tree/history trail. Regular updates are popping in by text, message and email. My sister’s tracing the Mansells back, (the direct line from our father), to South rather than West Wales. It’s quite a task as more ordinary folk tend to leave less of a written trail.

My cousin sends more random nuggets of information, often about the Blathwayts (from my father’s mother’s line). Friday’s snippet was that we share a seventh cousin – Benedict Blathwayt, a children’s writer.  Without visual aids, I’m afraid a seventh cousin is a connection too far for me to grasp.

The smalls next door in the cottage were drawing and painting yesterday – a competition entry for Santes Dwynwen’s Day on 25th January. Though nowhere near as widespread as Valentine’s Day celebrations, poor Dwynwen, (unhappy in love according to the tales), is widely commemorated in Wales now as the patron saint of lovers. She’s also known as the patron saint of sick animals.

A laidback mouse, and soulfood

Empty bottle of cordial

“An artist is an ordinary person who can take ordinary things and make them special.”  I came across this quote today.

Last Christmas my daughter bought several of her presents through ‘Not on Amazon’. We were all trying to buck the ubiquitousness of the big A. One gift was a bottle of Gangplank Cordials’ ginger and lime variety, (made in small batches by foraging folk who live on a narrowboat). Delicious, but all gone.

I caught a few minutes of Radio 4’s ‘Open Book’ this afternoon, (between stocking up with donkey and cat food and walking Jenny). The talk was about a children’s book – ‘Frederick‘ by Leo Lionni – about a non-teamplayer field mouse. Frederick refuses to join the other small rodents in stockpiling wheat, corn, nuts and straw for the winter. He spends his summer daydreaming, idling about, apparently not contributing to the greater good of the mouse community.

Frederick defends his apparent inactivity – saying that he, instead, is garnering the suns’ rays, the colours of flowers and plants… and words. His rationale? What he’s gathering will sustain the mice through the cold, drab and long winter days. And of course, that’s what happens.

On my return I downloaded the book – a deceptively simple apologia for non-material values, and for the importance of spiritual and cultural nourishment. Eric Carle, (yes the caterpillar chap), wrote that Frederick ‘is a poet from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail’ demonstrating ‘that a seemingly purposeless life is far from that.’

A friend told me that she needs a project now – painting or sewing or knitting. She needs to be creating something. The lockdown poetry anthology I have a poem in will be published this Spring. Writing poetry has ebbed and flowed in recent years, more ebbing than flowing if I’m honest. But a switch has been turned. Writing is once more an absolute necessity for me.

The first daffodil

The first daffodil

The first daffodils. One is flowering and one is almost. It seems extraordinary, as the snow has only gone in the last couple of days. Green bulb shoots are evident everywhere, popping up through mulched brown leaves and grass, but not a suggestion yet of a crocus or a snowdrop appearing.

And I posted a card – to the parents of a New Year’s Day new baby boy. My daughter-in-law has just come round to borrow my fairy cake tin for a home schooling maths lesson. My nephew has challenged the husband to Zoom chess at the weekend.

It’s getting dark and Jenny’s now curled up in her basket by the radiator. We all got muddy on our walk this afternoon and, once again I proved to myself, as I squelched and slid through mud and leaves, that I’m no mountain goat. Unlike the Capricornian husband.

Post  festive season viewing is very lean. We watched ‘Traces’ – ok but nothing special, gave up on ‘The Great’, about Catherine the Great, after two episodes – (disappointingly daft), and whiled away an hour or two with Tom Hanks in ‘Cast Away’. Somehow I missed that one the first time round. Mildly diverting but forgettable were the biopic ‘I am Woman’ about the life of Helen Reddy, about whom I knew absolutely zilch, and a silly 2010 crime caper with a good cast, including Bill Nighy and Emily Blunt – ‘Wild Target’.

What was more interesting than the two latter films was the google and Wikipedia fun afterwards, finding out more about Helen Reddy, and trawling through all the famous, and infamous, Blunts. Twenty years ago, a couple would have watched a film and all the ‘I wonders’ and ‘wasn’t that the guy who was in…’ would have remained just that. A few minutes of curiosity and random speculation with no probable satisfactory solution.

It’s the time of day when what-do-you-want-to-eat discussions happen and when I dread the turning on of TV or radio to hear the evening news – with the three constants – the pandemic/vaccine rollout/latest horrendous statistics, the next chapter in the unbelievable presidency election and election aftermath and the post-Brexit delays, glitches and hiccoughs. I  dread it all but find it compulsive.

Thaw and a theft

our new dog enjoying winter weather

Thaw and a theft.

It’s sllghtly warmer today, but there are still treacherous icy patches. Water to all the outside taps is  frozen. It’s just after five and feels like hunkering down time! Were it not for dry January, some homemade sloe gin would have my name on it right now. The outside animals – donkeys and our remaining two sheep – have been checked on; we’ve done the afternoon dog walk. It’s dark and I’ve just shut out the outside world by drawing curtains.

I’ve been nursing the woodburner into life but she’s currently unco-operative. Today, she’s a luxury, a nice-to-have evening extra. We had two days – two very cold days – with no woodchip, so no central heating or hot water. My son has now part-filled the hopper by tractor so the biomass boiler is fuelled and running once more.

The frost had thawed enough by lunchtime today for us to take the donkeys over to their usual field for a kick about. Since the New Year they’ve had a couple of days in just mooching and eating hay, and a couple of days of us popping them into the old sheep paddock for a couple of hours in the afternoons. Weather has certainly altered their routine over the last week. Except for the farrier, who made it to us mid-week for the seven-weekly pedicure. A rare but essential visitor.

Yesterday I baked – banana bread and an orange cake. I forget how far the new dog can reach when standing on hind legs. I forget how observant, how bright she is. In a five minute absence from the kitchen she hooked a slender front paw onto and through the cooling tray and helped herself to a third of the orange cake. No adverse effects this morning though.

We’ve had her for four months. Her outright terror has diminished but she still barks at people, is wary generally of humans. Dogs she loves. Walks she loves. When we’re out with her she’s less nervous if she sees a stranger with a dog. Whatever happened to her before we brought her home from the rescue centre has scarred her.

To us she’s affectionate and responsive…but we still have a long, long way to go and the outcome, (as are all outcomes now), is unknown and unknowable.

A scintilla of hope; a whisper of sadness

snowyJanuary20211

Another year. It’s January 7th . It’s been nearly four months since I last posted. Hope, expectation, disappointment, worry, frustration. Repeat. Repeat again. It seems we can cope with confinement, with a barrage of financial, personal and professional body-blows, with travelling blindfolded through a long, dismal tunnel, but coping strategies have now worn very thin. We do need to feed our capacity for optimism.

And we’re not all singing from the same hymn sheet any more. We’re negotiating the same choppy, troubled waters but in different ways and in different crafts. With less tolerance than before. Like many others, I’m pinning my fragile new 2021 shoots of hope on the vaccine rollout.

Now that the festive season has been and gone, (more ‘no’ than ‘ho’ this year), new novels and the jigsaw puzzle have given way to screen dependence again. Generally underwhelming, with no binge-worthy offerings based around chess or the monarchy. However, I did expect good things from the second series of ‘Staged’, (with Michael Sheen and David Tennant). None of those good things was forthcoming. And who would have thought that the word ‘f***’ would pop up quite so many times in one 15 minute episode – I stopped counting at 30 – or that the word ‘scintilla’ would be uttered twice (in the same episode)?

2020 ended with rare snowfall. Only a couple of centimetres, but it’s been icy, frosty and bitterly cold for a week. Today, the last remnants of polar frosty stuff gather in corners and cling to rooves. The donkeys stayed in as their paddock was crisp and white.

And the vet visited this afternoon. Blackberry, our eldest pet sheep, had reached the end. We’d been waiting for her to slip away since before Christmas. She clung on – arthritic, wavering on her pins, getting thinner, falling over and needing to be set upright again. Every morning she still greeted us, the tamest and most vocal sheep of my acquaintance. ‘Just a sheep’? Tonight, there’s a feeling of relief and inevitability with a little whisper of sadness.

Fall falls early, barn camping and the inspection of feet.

And now it’s September. We have been seizing the day or making the most of a flurry of staycation activity. A whole month has gone by. My blue notebook is filled with scribbles – such a long time since my writing was neat or even legible – but they’ve not made it to the blog. So I must apologise for my tardiness and try to catch up with extracts from my notes!

‘Almost the bank holiday. Almost the end of August. And, buffeted by the latest storm – Francis I think – it feels like Autumn is here already. Branches are laden, still very green but now weighed down by fruit and ripening nuts. The loss of a bough in high summer wind is a much more serious proposition than it would be in November or February. We drove up the lane earlier to get animal feed – donkey nuts were still unavailable due to a problem with deliveries – and there were sticks, twigs and small branches everywhere, several getting caught under the car.’

Keats was so right! I do love Autumn – mist in the mornings, cooler evenings, scents of ripeness on the air and underfoot. Crispness to come. But we did not welcome that blustery intruder in late August.

Warmth, humidity and wetness didn’t do any favours for two of the outdoor pets – one sheep and one donkey. There were weeks of checking feet and applying, amidst strong protests, the purple spray. Of the two donkeys, Treacle seems susceptible to anything going – infections, allergies, thrush… Now both of them have begun to look scruffy again, losing their glossy summer coats and acquiring the unkempt between- seasons look.

As ever, I was concerned about our guests, sharing their disappointment about ‘unseasonal’ weather. In the midst of the worst rain two families of campers abandoned ship, or rather canvas, and slept on the floor of the barn.

Unlocking seemed to be progressing everywhere with news of new cases, new ‘spikes’ outside the UK being consigned to the footnotes of journalism. We read articles with graphs showing, beyond the possibility of contradiction, that cases of C19 were climbing again.

‘It’s our fault, our own stupidity,’ one of the barn campers said as he left. ‘We are the virus’.

Making hay, thunderclaps and uncertainty

It has been a period of incessant activity. Juliet’s birthday, Lammastide and another glorious full moon came and went. Barely remarked on.

Weather of all sorts has visited us. Of course there have been blue skies and staggeringly beautiful sunsets. But also days of brain-fogging humidity. Clammy, restless nights. Thunder and lightning. Hot heavy showers. Brief power cuts when the storms were close. For a minute or so technology was extinguished. I was mid-conversation with a prospective guest when this happened two days ago. He rang back. ‘I think there’s a problem with my phone,’ he said. I didn’t correct him.

Bad weather is a problem in this holiday business. You feel – or I do anyway – personally responsible – when it rains or is unseasonably cold. Many guests expect perfect, sun-filled days. Some are in lush, green West Wales because their foreign holiday is not feasible or sensible this year. They’ve been locked in for months and their more exotic plans are just not going to happen this summer. And some visitors are here because they know us, have been here before and understand the vagaries of the UK climate.

I am aware of the emotional investment in a short break to the Welsh countryside. I want, in some small way, for a stay on our little farm to replenish these visitors after months of confinement. And I want them to appreciate what an amazing part of the UK we live in… Most do, I think.

Making longterm plans is impossible now. But today we’re making hay, with thunderclaps in the distance and the odd scary shower. This hay will feed our pampered pets for the winter. We have no illusions about being ‘real’ farmers.

It was stickiness in the extreme earlier. Even Miss Baxter looked worn out, overwhelmed by the heat, albeit in a languid feline kind of way. Two buzzards and a red kite circled above the farmyard this afternoon. The newly turned grass was obviously the draw, but, to us, it seemed as if they were waiting for one of us to drop.

Hay is being baled, despite late afternoon thunderclaps and fat globules of rain. The husband rang down earlier. ‘Get help,’ he said. ‘There’s more than we thought.’

It’ll be a late supper tonight.

Losing things and finding Jane again

Jane Austen is a regular preoccupation. Though not a complete Janiac, quotes and phrases from her novels do pop into my head quite regularly. And soothingly.

It is a truth probably universally acknowledged that a new sock and its mate will soon be parted. I recently received a thank you email from my brother-in-law for a pair of merino walking socks which we sent as a birthday offering. Unexciting, predictable but extremely postable. And he walks a lot, even more so since lockdown. My sister made the sock suggestion and we knew that merino wool would be appreciated. Unlike the husband, my brother-in-law’s also the kind of guy who doesn’t lose things.

With me, there’s a constant loss of pens, not socks. All guests arriving on the farm, whether to stay or to eat, have C-19 contact forms to fill in. Just before a Saturday pizza afternoon/evening,( the first at which guests were going to be able to eat their pizzas outside if they wanted to), the pen shortage had escalated into a mini-crisis. Orla lent me 10 of her store of writing implements, fully believing that she would be able to reclaim them. I’m afraid to say that only 7 remained at the end of the evening.

Early in lockdown I bought three or four packs of pens and stashed them in a top drawer in the farm office. I naively commented to my daughter – ‘that’ll keep us nicely stocked up for the summer’. All have gone without a trace.

A small delivery of wine arrived about two weeks ago (the first since February). With it came a rather smart pen bearing the logo of the local West Wales wine business. I claimed the pen as mine – not for sharing, not for folks to borrow. Of course it’s vanished too.

The last three weeks have been hard, exhausting in fact. Once the donks are in bed, the sheep are fed and we have eaten I have no energy left, especially mental energy. Talking to friends, blogging, reading – all are temporarily on hold. The pendulum has swung too far the other way, but it is as must be for now.

I return to Jane Austen…the other evening, I collapsed happily in front of the concoction that is ‘Becoming Jane’. I’d seen it before, probably twice. But it had a watchable cast and sufficient wit to sustain me until bedtime.

Presence, absence and processing

Life is different, but the ‘old normal’ shows no sign of returning yet. A steady flow of visitors has been arriving, staying and departing since last Tuesday. 12 days now. We’re not currently offering camping, B&B or the big house.

There’s more space between bookings. Which is just as well – we are a smaller team and the whole changeover between guests takes longer. There are more processes and safeguards in place. And we’re slowly getting used to the new system.

Two of the smalls just asked to feed the fish and we all noticed that the eco pond cleaner has stopped working. Once again, the water is green and gloomy. Also, someone has donated two small yellow plastic bath ducks to the pond. It’s a little mystery.

There’s been lots of outside activity. A newer yard tipi has been put up. An ugly old farmyard wall is now white. After a couple of weeks of lifting, carrying, climbing and lifting again the husband has hurt his back. Earlier, he took a couple of anti-inflammatory tablets and went for a brief siesta.

While he was resting, a neighbour came to tell me about ragwort – evil poisonous stuff – which has popped up uninvited in one of the fields we use for the donkeys. I immediately went and pulled out what I could. But there was still some left, deep-rooted and resistant to my feeble tugging. Reinforcements arrived in the form of a young male volunteer and the loan of a very conveniently located small fork. The husband emerged just as we’d finished and has now removed all the ragwort we’ve collected. All’s safe in the donkey field for now.

Earlier today I was reading that it’s the first anniversary of Mr Johnson as Prime Minister. The headline, I think, was – ‘Twelve months at the helm of government.’ I’m not sure that’s strictly accurate .

Ragwort – a poisonous weed.

Byebye tipi and feeding the sheep

Today the chaps have been taking down one of the tipi frames in the yard. We’re going to leave one frame there and cover it – when time permits. But the other canvas is beyond repair. It’s over eight years old now so has lasted well!

The frame was made on the farm with Welsh poles we brought back to de-bark here. The canvas was 50% flax and 50% organic canvas. At that time, (the end of 2011 and beginning of 2012), we couldn’t find a British giant tipi maker. All giant tipis seemed to be imports. Which is why we chose the self-build route.

Taking down the second skeleton is part of the tidying-up the farmyard project. We plan to offer socially distanced eating and drinking there soon – maybe twice a week. There’s painting to do and the creation of a mural based on local children’s designs.

However ready you are for guests, it’s the last details which eat up time. When you’re not on mains – for gas, water or sewage – there’s bound to be an occasional glitch too. It’s part of the way of life here and keeps us from complacency.

But our first visitors have arrived – three units were occupied from yesterday and a fourth today. It’s all short breaks. Harder work now though, with the additional hoops to jump through.

The weather has been a bit disappointing for our first two days. Yesterday the forecast worsened as the day moved on. I wanted sun. I wanted our little smallholding to look at its best. But the barometer had other ideas.

The husband, and the guy who lives with us on the farm, have been working long and many days. We’ve been on a mission to get ready for our partial re-opening. Even the in-theory-office-bound one has been busy physically. According to the gadget on my wrist I walked over 16,000 steps yesterday. No walk, just visitor-preparation activity. For the moment at least, the rather more relaxed way of life of recent months is submerged.

Apparently there was a success on the plumbing front yesterday. It’s a complex system here, a black art understood only by the husband. It needs documenting for the ‘Clapham omnibus’ scenario…though he assures anyone who asks that there are ‘schematics’. Would anyone else understand them? I rest my case.

Early yesterday evening I was mucking out the donks and two guests toddled past – a child of about 18 months and his grandfather. I gave them a bucket of sheep treats. Sheep have very soft mouths and nibble gently when hand-fed. It reminds me of one of the really good aspects of doing what we do. And for now, that, and a G&T is enough reward for one evening.

One year ago

A friend sent me a picture of the boys making hay a year ago. There was no pandemic, no furlough and there was a sunny window of opportunity between weddings. So we made hay. While the sun shone. Although it looks overcast and brooding in the photo.

Our first guests arrive tomorrow. It’s been like a March pre-season flurry of busyness, only it’s mid-July. Some of the activity has been the usual stuff – bringing yurts and their contents out of their winter hibernation, putting them up, re-waterproofing them and getting them ready them for occupation. But there have been processes to document, forms to fill in. A lot of paperwork. Added to this has been the return to part-time work of a few of the team, and introducing them to the way things have to be done now. The new normal which is anything but normal. It seems sad that we have to pare down what we provide in accommodation, prune it right back. No frills this season.

There’s been productive busyness down the lane. My daughter’s hive was overpopulated. Just before the weekend, her beekeeping mentor visited and helped her to set up a second hive.

There are 44 big round wrapped bales waiting to be taken away. This strange year, we decided to sell hay off the field, rather than deal with it ourselves. Three fields were cut and I think they’ve made haylage.

I’m a romantic. I confess it freely. I love the scent of fresh hay and the look of the small rectangular bales stacked high in a barn. The job has been done anyway. These bales will be gone soon.

Pizza, fleeces, bees and a tree

I mentioned gluten-free pizza. Finding the perfect flour for a gluten-free pizza dough has taken a long time. But the company we buy our pizza flour from also produces a gluten-free flour. It is, albeit eye-wateringly expensive, amazing.

The youngest and largest sheep, Gwilym, has been getting bossier. When sheep nut treats arrive there’s great excitement, followed by a little tussle with Gwyneth. Gwilym wants the lion’s share. However, he’s usually very respectful of the old lady, Blackberry. Not so today and yesterday. Despite his size and greed, he’s more cautious than the girls, less interested in being petted. Though he will now eat from my hand.

We have the beginnings of a plan for their fleeces.  I’m not a spinner or knitter, weaver or felter, so insulation is the answer. We’re going to wash the fleeces and then incorporate them into the insulation of the upcycled hot water tank for the new showers.

Today, the men worked between and during downpours. It was cats and dogs. Stair rods. When the donkeys finally made it out to their field, I told them to be sensible, take cover in their purpose-built shelter or hide under the trees. I didn’t want to find them standing in the rain, at the gate, looking mournful and accusing. Did they listen?

The bus roof repair is completed. Two yurts have been put up and waterproofed. One more to go, as we will only have three bookable this season. We going to have to leave out some of the frills and the non-essentials this year to minimise the risk of infection.

Cleaning materials, PPE and essential pieces of kit arrive almost daily. I’m trying to find the greenest way of complying with all current advice and recommendations. A package which arrived today contained a note saying my order had funded the planting of a tree.

We love trees. Bees too. My daughter, a novice beekeeper, has a surfeit. Her mentor is currently advising her on the setting up of a second hive. There’s also a new swarm which arrived a couple of weeks ago and seems to have settled next door. They must like it here. Long may this continue.

Let them eat cake

So, the five-mile-limit will be dropped from Monday in Wales. Since this started I’ve only done one trip beyond this limit, to a supermarket in Cardigan. I haven’t really felt deprived, except of course, for seeing the family I don’t live with, friends beyond the ‘zone’, the occasional evening out and…the sea. There is a plan to visit the sea one evening, possibly Wednesday, after work.

Confusing opinions abound in the media – many brickbats, some fear, few plaudits. My concern is that the impetus to restart the economy is pushing aside any environmental gains we may have made, amongst the losses of the last few months. I hope we don’t just slide back to the way things were.

I also hope that the leaders who have actually done some good, (or even are just wading through this as best they can, but in an honest, compassionate way), are rewarded for their efforts. Not the  bamboozlers and the blaggards.

Yesterday, pubs opened in England and it was Independence Day in the US. After seeing some film footage of non-distanced socialising in London, I decided not to depress myself further. I watched one of the Alan Bennett’s ‘Talking Heads’ – this time with Tamsin Greig – reminding myself both of her acting talent and her beautifully expressive eyes. A tour-de-force, but not cheerful viewing either.

It was take-out pizza Saturday yesterday. The son-in-law has been experimenting with gluten-free dough. He’s absolutely nailed it now! After responding to some accommodation enquiries – it was, once more, small central here. Activities comprised visiting the horses, feeding the rest of the menagerie, cleaning out and bringing home the donkeys. There was also Hunt the Teddy, a puzzle, a couple of storybooks, watching Jungle Book, (the more recent version), and making, icing and eating cupcakes.

All being well, we’ll have our first visitors here from 14th July. So, between now and the two hundred and thirty first anniversary of the Storming of the Bastille, our little smallholding will be a hive of activity. It won’t just be the bees. But we’ll fuel ourselves with pizza… and cake.

A postman and two specialists

‘It’s worse than Christmas,’ said the postie. Several building/DIY related parcels arrived for the husband and a gift for me. It was a lovely pack of butterfly playing cards. I predict a heated game of snap very soon.

Today, there was huge excitement. Hot water now comes out of the cute copper taps in the loo block. This hot water is stored in a cylinder which used to live upstairs in the farmhouse (until it sprung tiny leaks). A local guy repaired the tank and it’s now being heated up by the second-hand solar panels on the barn roof (first lockdown project). Still a few tweaks necessary, but we’re almost there.

Despite changeable weather, the bees are very active. Lavender is popular as ever but there’s been a lot of to-and-froing near the last windblown roses on the yard pergola. More by chance than design, these co-exist amiably with jasmine and clematis. Today we have a few new clematis flowers, not a full second flush, but I’m optimistic.

Pink roses on the wall

Yesterday a friend passed on good news about her pet’s clean bill of health. At its recent annual booster and check-up, her dog’s heart was behaving oddly. With great haste, pet and human made their way to a local centre of excellence for doggie tickers. There, every test known to veterinary cardiologists, and pet insurers, was carried out. With hindsight, my friend thinks that her pet’s heart irregularities were probably due to panic. Under current C-19 precautions, owner and pet separate at the door of the surgery. The owner waits in the carpark, unable to hold a paw or make encouraging noises…

This tale brought back a time when we too lived in the Home Counties. Rosie, the dog we had, injured her eye badly. Almost immediately, we found ourselves in the consulting rooms of a pet eye specialist. He was a magnificent specimen, with a manner which soothed all canines and their owners, (particularly the female of the species). He also had a helicopter parked jauntily in the clinic garden.

When our patient was convalescing, we went to stay in a farm cottage, one of a pair, near Cardigan. Our next-door neighbours had a black Labrador and, for the three or four days of the mini-break, humans and dogs socialised. One early evening, perhaps over a cup of tea or glass of wine, the couple told us about their recent pet experiences. There was much praise for the vet who had cured their dog. ‘And you’d never guess what,’ the lady said, ‘but on the lawn of the clinic there was a helicopter. And it was his.’   

Art, artists and a competition

The headlines have been proclaiming it’s back to school in Wales. This is an over-statement. The eldest small went back to school yesterday morning for three hours. Six children took up the invitation to return. They have two more Monday mornings in this very different school setting and then, it’s the end of term.

In Orla’s absence, her younger sister watched the husband working through a small box of things-to-be-fixed. Mostly bits of jewellery. I’ve always loved jewellery, generally vintage or handmade by a craftsperson. Often with little financial value. But, to my eyes, pretty. Some things were not repairable or had missing hooks or clasps. My talented sister silversmiths. I know that’s a tongue-twister but am not sure if it’s a verb. Amazingly, a little package arrived from Buckinghamshire this morning with some spare parts. Thank you, sis!

Jewellery components from my sister

 Years ago, a local painter was running workshops in our Old Dairy. Presumably she had more than enough fish at home as she started populating our little tank-cum-trough, (aka pond 1) with fish. She did this gradually and by stealth. When we had five new aquatic residents, I mentioned this strange occurrence to her. Her face gave her away. Five became four a while back. We’ve noticed that one of the survivors doesn’t seem to be thriving. While we became custodians of goldfish by accident, not design, I don’t like to see any creature ail on my watch.

An entry just popped into the letterbox. We’ve been running an art competition for children here to draw or paint something from the last three months of lockdown. The idea is to use elements from their pictures to create a mural. This would then decorate a rather ugly wall in the farmyard.

The dull, the drab and the dreary has seemed dominant for the last few days. Any bright flower emerging is cause for celebration!

The hole is plugged. Glass now exists where it was formerly absent. It’s less draughty. However, when asked if the job was finished, his response was slightly shifty. ‘More or less,’ he said, ‘but don’t open the window yet.’

While sweeping up shavings and splinters of wood and other evidence of the recent activity, I came across clouds of soft fine dark hair. This was from Sunday afternoon, a socially distanced visit by a chocolate lab called Millie. Her humans came too.

Defences breached and fields of flowers

There is a hole in the conservatory. One of the windows broke last night. It’s been a mostly grey day today. The temperature has dropped and the chill has been palpable. The timing hasn’t been brilliant.

Last time anything like this happened it was three houses back and what feels like a lifetime ago. We were living in, and extending, a modern house. For once, we’d employed a builder. Turned out he was a rogue, who disappeared, leaving his sub-contractors out of pocket and us with a building site, and no windows in the front of the house. The husband was elsewhere, possibly in the Middle East. The weather wasn’t good and I had three quite young children. Friends rallied and a posse of other husbands arrived to board up the windows, to protect us from ingress by either weather, uninvited visitors or both. The current problem is minor by comparison and should be fixed tomorrow.

My niece has lost and found a job in the last couple of months. Her first day went well today. The wind was fresh and the donkeys were fast and frisky this morning, relishing their freedom. We played poohsticks on a bridge in the village. With a small, naturally, not with the donkeys.

A friend was talking about how much more closely we look since lockdown, how much more we notice. I’ve seen this especially with the children and have included an image of a burnet moth, feasting on nectar in our tipi meadow. We’re cutting two fields this summer. We have the gear to cut and turn but not to bale, so a local farmer is going to cut and make round bales – either for silage or haylage – from one field. As for the other one, he’ll probably cut the grass and take it away in a trailer to be used as cattle bedding.

What we amateurs relish for its prettiness, and for the pleasure it gives to us, is not necessarily a plus for a professional. The farmer picked a bunch of oxeye daisies to take home. ‘Cows don’t like flowers,’ he said.

Chocolate cake and nude trampolining

Miss Baxter climbed on my keyboard yesterday afternoon. I pushed her off and she fell asleep on my mouse mat, nudging the mouse and shedding fine pale hairs with every exhaled breath. I worked around her, relishing her warmth and physical presence inches from my typing fingers. Poor tired puss.

But the amorality and perfidy of cats knocked me sideways again early evening. The boys were still on the roof of the double decker bus, trying to finish the job before rain set in. Hopefully wearing masks and goggles and being careful: the husband has had one or two accidents. I tend to cross digits and look away. I was making an unexciting risotto and chatting on the phone when Miss Baxter came in, dragging something heavy. She darted under a pine cupboard but I’d clocked her. Half a rabbit. The hind quarters of a rabbit which she’d planned to sneak past me for later enjoyment. I was not amused.

Take-out Saturday again, which means looking after two smalls while their mum and dad cook and serve pizzas from lunchtime till mid-evening. This morning, there were flowers to organise to send to the widow of a couple married here not that long ago. Strange and sad that all the optimism, all the joy of that wedding day, had led so quickly to here.

Then there was the socially distanced trip to the village shop-cum-post-office returning stuff, posting cards for an assortment of occasions. But there were three real-time, brief conversations in the queue with neighbours and acquaintances, including one with two dogs which were waiting patiently, tied up outside like trusty steeds outside a western saloon. That sparked the inevitable exchange about the loss of our two. Would we get another dog? It seemed such an odd question.

Delivering post next door before lunch, I was greeted by a trio of little girls bouncing on the trampoline and the three-year-old boy sitting, being bounced.

‘We’re naked,’ they shrieked. They were. ‘But it’s raining,’ I said.

‘It’s hot rain,’ one of them said.

And then the youngest piped up – ‘I’m not naked .’ And he wasn’t.

Activities this afternoon included tracing, drawing, colouring, the sheep and donkey routines, making a chocolate and raspberry cake – mostly orchestrated by the husband, while I acted as chief washer and clearer up to all of them, picking wild cherries, making jam and replying to accommodation enquiries for post July 13th. This is the date tourism unlocking is planned to start in Wales. A friend told me yesterday that there are now twelve empty shops in our little market town, Newcastle Emlyn. The decline has been gradual, but it’s accelerated over the last few months. Can it be reversed? I’d like to hope so.

Past Glastonbury highlights on TV are my background music as I write this. It’s been a day of cloud and sunshine, wind and rain. Of course, it was hot rain.