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.

Fathers’ Day, a damp squib and an emergency cat

Several of us slept badly on Saturday night – maybe it was the loudness of the rain or the shortness of the night. Several of us felt quite tired and a bit flat on Sunday morning. The paper made for dismal reading. Brains proved inadequate for both crossword and sudokus.

Then, on the way to put the donks out, I rescued a rather beautiful butterfly from one of the barns and we collected a handful of courgettes and small squashes from a polytunnel.

Towards midday, between heavy rain showers, there were visits and presents – three fathers together in the conservatory – the husband, the son-in-law and my elder son. Silverback gorilla, (aka the husband), received chocolate, homemade cards, a painted ‘You Rock’ stone, a bottle of homemade elderflower cordial and a jar of homemade lime pickle. We drank tea, coffee and squash, sampled the elderflower gift and ate cake. My daughter made a lemon drizzle cake with raspberries. Orla baked cupcakes for the festivities, entirely unaided.

These past three months have been punctuated by small celebrations on the farm – Easter, an anniversary, a birthday, VE Day and then yesterday, Fathers’ Day. A whole season has passed. The internet was full of suggestions for make-the-solstice-special-at-home ideas. No-one here was especially inspired. The solstice came and went.

Dependent on the next First Minister bulletin, and of course the ‘R’ number, it looks like we will be  opening guest accommodation from 13th July – a reduced number of yurts, no shared facilities, no camping – but some business. Over the weekend we were updating prices and availability on our website. Plans for the remainder of Summer 2020 are still fluid and we’re waiting to receive details about the rules, regulations and protocols. It doesn’t quite feel real yet.

Soon we may be able to see other family members and good friends living beyond the current permitted area. That’s a definite end-of-tunnel light.

A few of my friends, for various reasons, have been much less lucky than I have and have spent the last three months more-or-less alone. One has an allotment to keep her busy. One has a beloved small dog. A third is in real need of an emergency cat. We all need something living – if not human company, then something which grows. Or better still, something which breathes and responds to us. I wish I could dispense, where required, an emergency cat or two.

from the polytunnel on Fathers’ Day

Like a duck to water

You almost didn’t make it, just out of view
of the humans who sat, chatting, downing
cups of tea, amused by a clowning puddle of pups,
tussling and tumbling on new Spring grass.
You scrambled up a ramshackle pile of bricks,
stacked against a plastic butt, and somehow must
have toppled in.

Alarmed by sounds of splashing, we found you
doggie-paddling in blissful unschooled circles, ears
dipping, skimming then skirting the murky surface.
You learned fast – this first watery mishap
transformed into a story, your story –
the discovery of the aqueous element
you made your own.

Adventures in, on, across, through water
populate our memories of you. Your chest built
for swimming, ears spread wide, steady, bubbly breathing:
your pelt liquified. Sometimes we’d panic, light failing,
scanning the horizon or bank, and no dog visible.
Would you get washed away, tire and drown
or simply carry on,

forget to turn, your easy strokes pulling you
out into the Irish Sea,
the sunset,
West?