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.

Lost, lavender and another birthday

George the cat seemed confused. Outside the pizza wagon, on the conservatory windowsill, in the yard, up in the vegetable garden. He’s been spending time here for the last few days now, but then, yesterday especially, it was as if he’d forgotten where home was. And he seemed distressed about it.

In the heat of Wednesday and Thursday who could blame him for losing the plot a little? For two days the sheep barely moved till mid-afternoon. A couple of times I had to check that we still had three of them. They were so utterly still. May was, without doubt, a record-breaker, followed by a few weeks of more mixed, more normal Summer days. Then came Wednesday and Thursday. Scorching and humid. Brain foggingly, ankle swellingly humid. The kind of heat when it’s impossible to feel fragrant for long.

The barometer is not entirely responsible for my recent sense of being overwhelmed, under-achieved and exhausted. I’ve found the images of the British beach madness depressing too.

We had thunder and lightning last night; and rain, just enough to clear the air. We watched Bennett’s ‘Talking Heads’  – just the one monologue with the brilliant Sarah Lancashire. Excellently acted but bleak. And Radio 4 was right about the appalling knitwear. Have always found Bennett challenging. He’s very talented and has such a great ear for speech, but it’s quite a dark, narrow furrow he ploughs.

On what would have been the beginning of the Glasto weekend, it’s also my elder son’s birthday. Have been round for tea and, inevitably, cake – this time a Hugh F-W carrot cake which my daughter-in-law and two smalls baked bright-and-early this morning. My son took the day off and he woke to smells of baking.

I’ve never been to Glastonbury, (as in the festival). I love the abbey though. It was the place we visited the day I discovered I was pregnant (with today’s birthday boy). I think the scale of the festival would put me off now – smaller festivals, yes, but not something that massive.

The lavender is finally out and spectacular as it always is. I brushed past it earlier. Then, on their way home, the two youngest brought me flowers from the cutting section of one of the polytunnels. And they fed the fish – a pinch each.

A happiness expert spoke on the radio yesterday. ‘Happiness,’ she said, ‘is not having what you want…but wanting what you have.’ And, despite all the conflicting emotions, I do.

Flowers delivered by the youngest two