Despite
Omicron, I actually went out and visited people last weekend, first time for a
long time, including a lovely overnight stay with Graham and Lo just in their
immaculate abode just inside the Devon-Dorset border. Not having seen each
other for at least two years, (all three of us being cautious types !) we had a
lot to catch up on. A country walk, good food, wine and fine conversation, who
could ask for anything more ? On the way back I popped into Pat and James' at
Maiden Bradley, where the same applied. All of this not that good for the diet
perhaps, but it did wonders for my morale.
And on the way, I had also managed to effect an entry into the church at East Knoyle, where the ladies were preparing for Advent. This was at Peter's behest, as the Church is associated with Sir Christopher Wren, who was born in the village. How shameful that his very modest little birthplace was cumulatively demolished over the last hundred years or so, surviving only as a grainy 19th Century photograph in the Church guide.
This weekend was not so adventurous, dominated by the woodburner and getting on with preparations for Christmas - general deck-clearing. I did manage my first walk up the hill for months. This was despite mist and drizzle, and in part inspired by a need to do something about the weight residue remaining after the excesses of the previous weekend. The hills were wrapped in mist; it was all very atmospheric. Stripped of all foliage and long grass the often hidden and mysterious bones of the hills stood out well. The lines along the hillside are the remains of lynchets, cereal growing terraces, probably 2000 years old.
I had
company. A small herd of dark brown heifers; big girls, who, unusually, stood
their ground eyeing me speculatively as I appeared through the mist. They
blocked my way. Could it be a Mexican stand-off ? No, at the last moment,
within six feet, the nerve of their obvious leader broke and she backed off in
sudden alarm. I celebrated my victory
with breakfast (coffee and biscuit) sitting damply on the block of concrete that
once anchored a barrage balloon that protected
the US airbase down in the Vale from the Germans. A little further on,
where the path reaches the Wansdyke itself, I came across a young couple, obvious
walkers, having a rather determined picnic
breakfast in the drizzle. We exchanged commiserations and I passed on.
During the week, I spotted the damage that those Roe deer had done in my copse. Nathan my part-time gardener was amazed at the way they had munched away at the laurel bushes. They're full of cyanide he said, so animals avoid them. Intrigued he did some research. Apparently that only applies to laurel grown in England. Ones imported from the Continent, it seems, are different- and decidedly inferior. All those fancy, foreign, new-fangled shades of green and yellow, rather than the comforting monotonous pea-green of British ones, come at the cost of safety from deer. I must have the alien variety. The rest of the laurels hadn't been touched. There's a convincing argument for Brexit, if you like.
Posting some Christmas cards for America involved a walk to the village and provided an opportunity for me to try out some fancy new walking boots/shoes I had just got from Scotland. 'Water-proof' they said. And they were right. Dry socks even at the end. Excellent. I did though come back loaded with sticky clayey mud that was amazingly adhesive. It made me two inches taller. Towards the end, though, each step was an effort. Much of this came from tramping across a field where the path is always ploughed over. I persist in asserting the right of way, not least because it's much shorter. It also offers a spectacular view of the house !
I've been doing some academic work too. This included a review essay on a couple of books on naval aviation in the Second World War. It was overdue and the Penguins on top of the grandfather clock have been reminding me of the need to get on with it. My last duty of the day is to wind the clock, when its dark and I'm tired after yet another day of excess. Invariably the motion dislodges one or other of them; in a classic naval manoeuvre one or other dive bombs me, bouncing off my head. The review is now done and despatched. And they now stopped attacking me ! Case proved.
This must all sound very dull, but just at the time of despatch - high drama. It was dark and raining. I suddenly became aware of a lot of mooing, very close by. Friends of the girls on the hill getting their own back ? No - a herd of escaped cows streaming down the road, and milling about, cars all over the place, a flashing police car parked in the drive. Quad bikes zooming around. Not the local farmer's cows apparently - from Devizes. A quick check in the rain suggests they didn't get into the garden although they certainly unloaded some cow pats on the drive and outside the garage. It was a close call, all my gates being open. This country living lark can sometimes seem a bit too exciting. .......
