slow lane life

With and without

2012-01-26T21:25:00.001Z

Our walks took place between vicious showers of rain and hail today, in an episode of brilliant sunshine. Dog walking falls into two categories in this household: Small Dog walks - reluctant, slow, dragging behind on a long leash, trying to turn for home at the first hint of a breeze or a raindrop.

Just the kind of walk that Millie likes.

Sometimes we meet other dogs. Today, Millie taught young Rascal that cats can face down even the yappiest dog. Only her flared ears and stiff whiskers betrayed any degree of concern.

Yip, yip, yip! Yip, yip, yip! YIP!

Eventually, faced with a seemingly-calm response and a refusal to play or run, Rascal shut up, and just gazed at Millie in wide-eyed wonder.

Protective Flossie was less tolerant; a sharp bark and a low growl told Rascal that his interest in her cat was sufficient for today, thank you. Rascal's owner, who had been careful to keep him on a tight leash, thanked Millie for the opportunity to teach him something new, and went off up the hill.

We, meantime, toddled back home again.

Flossie and I let the short-legged ones into the house, then went off for a Big Dog walk.

Or, rather, a gallop. We galloped this way.

And that way. An empty bottle was found, to help in the galloping.

We got home before the wet and windy weather started up again.

Millie would have loved it.

That's better

2012-01-24T18:11:00.003Z

Today it rained and rained, and rained some more.

Tosca hates rain most of all, and on this morning's walk was the picture of misery, trailing behind me, hoping we could go home after only twenty yards. Short legs don't help - she gets wet from underneath as well as being rained on from above. In pity, I cut her walk short, popped her back indoors, and the ever-cheerful waterproof dog and I went out again.

And then, suddenly, in the late afternoon, the rain stopped.

We all went out for a walk along the muddy track through the trees.

The birds sang loudly, sweetly; heart-gladdening songs announcing the departure of the rain. Tosca the little mop collected prodigious quantities of muck as she went along, and came home black with mud. Flossie bounced in and out of the brook.

Once home, the little mop was put in the sink and bathed.

Time for a haircut soon, I think, little mop.

FITH & NW

2012-01-23T09:05:00.001Z

It's Monday, and Jane would like us all to post a picture of our Flowers in the House. So here's two. I mean, here are two.

Daffs and Neighbourhood Watch. The catnip mouse? No idea. Oh... wait....

Sunday sweep-up

2012-01-22T19:18:00.000Z

It's been an odds-and-ends sort of day, the kind I like best, with nothing planned, just doing what I feel like at any one time.

I phoned friends, and had a good catch-up. They spoke of trips to London, to Paris, to Scotland, to North Wales; I realised that I haven't actually been further than about 20 miles from home since last July. Must get out more.

I tidied the hall. This means picking up all of Flossie's toys, for her to get them all out again half an hour later. Like having a toddler around, really. She is utterly besotted with her newest toy, the teddy that Scooter and Millie have outgrown.

I fetched logs, chopped sticks, swept the hearth, laid the fire. All that was missing was drawing water from the well and milking the goat. I often have a sneaking, mocking little feeling that I am still 'playing cottages' when I do this sort of thing.

I walked the dogs, with uninvited Millie in tow. Millie adores coming for walks with us. The noisy little terrier who guards the top of our road burst through the hedge and tried to chase her, but met her match - a small silent sitting cat, holding its ground while giving a fearless-and-fearsome look, is clearly too daunting. Little terrier backed down and trotted off, and Millie resumed her walk, which consists of loping runs and zig-zagging dashes, occasional wild leaps up trees, and acrobatic moves trying to trip the dogs up. Joy on four paws.

Back home, I tidied a heap of recipes torn from magazines, found one for Quick Walnut Bread, and, on impulse, made a loaf. First loaf I've made since I moved here. It looked ok, but should be renamed Quick Walnut Brick. It may have to go to the birds.

While it was ~~setting like concrete~~ baking, I made maple syrup and pecan scones, using a new recipe, my previous dry crumbly ones having failed to impress. As I weighed and measured, I began to be alarmed - surely, with that amount of butter and maple syrup, these should be termed Luxury Maple Syrup & Pecan Scones? Millionaire's Maple Syrup & Pecan Scones? The recipe was really for walnuts, not pecans, but I prefer the latter, as they combine so blissfully with maple syrup, so on I went, thinking that this might be the last time I blow the grocery budget on a humble scone. (Actually, I used up most of my precious, hoarded, gift-from-Canadian-friend and quite superb maple syrup.)

"Makes about 12 good-sized scones" the recipe stated. So I used my good-sized cutter, and got 17 from that mixture. 17! But I'm not surprised: the recipe came from the Hairy Bakers, and you know that they are... well, substantially built men. Who have a blithe disregard for the cost of maple syrup in this country.

But oh, the difference! Those scones were divine.

Reader, I ate three. With butter. Luxury Obese Millionaire's Maple Syrup & Pecan Scones.

The rest are in the freezer, for when you come to visit. Bring sensible shoes for walking with Millie.

They're back!

2012-01-20T16:40:00.001Z

The builders, that is (and Masterchef, which is much more exciting).

Just doing a few odds and ends.

Front of house: weedy in summer, swampy in winter. Not good for the foundations.

The Supervisor is making sure they get it right.

Done. Not lovely, but affordable, and will improve with age and a couple of planters.

Back of house: you can't spot it here, but the rendering on the little back door's lintel is dropping to bits, as rainwater runs into it.

There's a trainee supervisor for the back of house. Catkin is getting braver, and having a rare moment in the fresh air.

I love this Heath-Robinson contraption with its wind-up handle; it spits wet mortar and pebbles onto the surface.

And the windows.

Next: the painter will come in, and then - who knows, I may be finished with builders for the moment. All that's left to do is summer-weather and-winning-the-lottery work.

The Supervisors will have to find alternative employment.

They say they'd rather take a well-earned break, thank you very much.

Next project for me (and Mountainear, who has kindly offered to help with design):

Hahahahahahaha

2012-01-17T14:46:00.001Z

So my house is pristine, sparkling, perfectly tidy, all those other nice words you used to describe it? C'mon, you weren't fooled for a moment by those carefully edited and cropped photos, were you? Let's have a little tour.

We'll start in the dining room, currently my Room of Despair, as it gives access to the stairs, the hall, or the kitchen, and is in effect just a square corridor, with the old dresser looming darkly, domineeringly, over everything. This room is challenging.

At the foot of the stairs is a door that leads up from the dining room. Mind those two steps; one is fairly standard, the other is very shallow, and easy to fall up or down, as I do, frequently.

Push the door open, and we arrive at the stairs - only 9 of them, which after the 35 in my previous house, makes hoovering less of an ordeal. Notice that the same fawn ferny-patterned carpet runs through the entire house. The animals are making it their lives' mission to wreck it. I dream of finding beautiful old boards beneath (but suspect that I won't). That's another year's project.

On the bottom landing sits the still-wrapped large mirror that used to be over the sitting room fireplace in my last house. I don't know what to do with it yet.

Hidden behind the same door stand two wrapped-up - what? sheets of glass? pictures? more mirrors? I must have a look some time.

Be careful on the very steep stairs - few are the same height, so again, it's very easy to tumble down. At the top is a large cupboard.

Like the stairs, this cupboard is the only place in the house where my neighbours and I can hear each other, making us think that the staircase was divided in two many years ago, as they have the same number of irregular death-trap steps.

The landing is irregular, with two more steps and a door leading onto a corridor for the bathroom and my bedroom. On the right, a doorway leads into a dark little lobby and two more bedrooms.

This landing is the real death-trap - it's light during the day, as there is a skylight; at night it's pitch dark, so there are little plug-in lights to save visitors from emerging from bedrooms, floundering a bit, then falling spectacularly down the stairs, and possibly ~~damaging the mirrors~~ breaking a leg.

Today I am engaged in emptying this cupboard, into which things were stuffed willy-nilly when I first moved here, and sorting out fabrics, bedding, curtains, pillows, making a satisfyingly large heap for the charity shops.

Its interior is a rounded triangle in shape, going back about 4 feet at its furthest point, with crudely made shelves.

But this is no ordinary cupboard! No, it doesn't lead to Narnia; don't be silly.

It's the famous Flying Freehold - the f-word twice, as it came to be called - that caused my conveyancing solicitor so much grief. It extends into the neighbours' house, and on their landing appears simply as a curved wall. If you look carefully to the left of the interior wall, you can just make out a doorway. See it? This once connected the two houses - or what are now two houses; English Heritage's somewhat inaccurate listing states that the entire building, now next door's and mine, may have been three dwellings at one time, a malthouse at another, and possibly the local pub before then. Both our houses are higgledy-piggledy, and hard to make sense of, full of character and crumbling plaster.

But older locals tend to refer to mine as "May H's cottage" - May H having been the elderly owner at least three ownerships previously, when there were stone flags in the hall and a pervading smell of damp.

Later today, there may be shelves of neatly sorted bedding, spare duvets and pillows in the flying freehold cupboard, and if I don't manage to get low bookcases sorted out soon, the several still-unpacked boxes of books that sit reproachfully next to my desk - yes, that's more filing on top.

So, still thinking pristine? Immaculate? Tidy? Thought not.

Come back soon; I'll show you the linhay at the end of the garden one day, and destroy all romantic notions you may have about stone buildings before damp proofing.

Now back to that cupboard. I have a reputation for tidiness to live up to.

Corners of my cottage

2012-01-16T11:41:00.000Z

Still things to do round here.

There's a lot of flat black and white in this cottage, and it looks very 'new'.

(There's also furry black and white....)

I like it - mostly - although brilliant white paint is a modern invention, and not entirely plausible in an old, old building. It can look cold, and it shows up Flossie's huge wall paintings - her Studies In Mud - all too effectively. But it's clean, and crisp, and that's fine for some things, some areas, and woodwork.

The new utility will remain brightly white. There's some sensible advice about adding modern fittings to an old building here.

I like my old, wonky, thankfully-salvaged, door, now gleaming with new paint.

How could I have thought, even for a moment, of replacing it?

I like my new kitchen lights; now I can see what I'm cooking.

I like my battered old bread bins, filled with cat food and pet medications, sprays, pills and potions.

And there's grey. I love grey.

But I want a little more colour in a few areas, a little bit of a softer, warmer look.

Some is added by way of objects, cushions, or a cheerful blind.

Nothing much; just flashes, splashes, pops and surprises.

I have my useful books, full of ideas and inspiration, and a drawer full of paint charts.

So guess what I'm going to be doing on this bright, sunny day?

....the local decorating centre has a 15% sale on this month.

Watch this space!

Blocked

2012-01-14T20:03:00.002Z

I struggle to find things to blog about these days. I'm fearful of having overdone the continuous home-improvement stuff, or the cat-and-dog stuff, the look-how-lovely-it-is-where-I-live-now stuff; surely everyone (not me!) is bored to tears with it all by now?

Because people around me don't know about my blog, I feel uncomfortable about writing about them, interesting though they are. Back in Newcastle, my friends and neighbours took it well if they were mentioned in, or indeed the laughed-about subject of, a blog post, and some offered rich material, as well as encouragement and feedback. Here, it feels unauthorised, illicit, disrespectful, somehow.

I feel dull and discouraged, and the draft posts are piling up, dull and discouraging too. But I love blogging, so what to do?

For now, here's a little round up of what else is happening, and it's not all about house, cats and dogs, scenery and builders.

Except, unavoidably, some of it is.

I love my new made-to-measure bedroom curtains; the first really, deliberately, 'cottagey' items I've brought to this house; most of my furnishings have just been plonked down here from my last house, and some really don't fit. I love this faded chintzy-rose cotton ("It's not chintz!" said the snooty shop lady, sharply, mistaking my adjective for a noun - silly me).

I love my new hall lights, bought from an antique lighting centre. The galleries (the bit between the flex and the glass, and that holds it all together) were not antique, but a brightly incongruous shiny brass.

I needed to reduce the modern shine to this, slightly more aged, look.

The Lovely Son gave me a useful tip: suspend them (or any bright shiny new brass that you dislike intensely) for a couple of hours over a little dish of household ammonia, covered loosely by a plastic bag or a box, and the fumes will dull the shininess to a very acceptable aged bronze hue. And your house will smell of home perms for ages.

It seems to be winter at last. Last night, as I walked the dogs before bed, I noticed that for the first time it was cold enough to see our breath. This morning, there was the first frost.

I love the way inanimate objects are assigned a gender here, e.g. "He's going to fit nicely" (a cupboard slotting into place under a worktop.) I have asked as tactfully as I could how the speaker (usually, but not always, one of the builders) decided whether a window frame, a household appliance, a tool, a plank, or a block of stone, was a he or a she. Abashed, they said they didn't know, and I began to suspect that they weren't really aware that they did this, but K thought that the tumble dryer was certainly a he, and the washing machine definitely a she. But he couldn't say why.

But he and she fitted in nicely nevertheless.

The builders are quiet men. They speak softly among themselves, with never a raised voice, and if they want something to be passed to them, they say please and thank you to each other. They talk about fishing, mostly, but they like to gossip too. I never remark or join in when they share something with me ("M still lives with his mum and dad and he's over 40!" "K is absolutely terrified of spiders", both said with a chuckle) because everyone is related to/married into the family of/went to school with/was an apprentice to/goes fishing with each other.

And that's rather how it is in the locality too. Everyone knows everyone else, and everything about them, and I suspect a sizeable dossier is being built up on me and mine too.

And everyone knows Millie. She makes sure they do.

I'm getting to know quite a few folk round here. An old man, a colourful local character with a Somerset accent you could cut with a knife, walks a barely-manageable but vigorously healthy-looking Staffie cross. The first time I met him, he admired my dogs lavishly, and went on to tell me about his dog, rescued from the most unspeakable cruelty. Harrowing to hear, and stayed with me for some time.

The next time, and on every subsequent occasion we meet, he tells me almost the same story, but the details of the unspeakable cruelty have altered beyond recognition, and I have begun to suspect that they may indeed be a figment of the old chap's lively imagination - and his sturdy dog certainly bears no evidence of the various injuries or burns said to have been inflicted on it.

I have been encouraged by B up the road to try the Women's Institute; she says that once I've taken advantage of all the groups and activities on offer in this town, I will no longer be able to say (as I so annoyingly do) that I'm time-rich. Sadly, I wrote the wrong week on my calendar for my experimental visit, and was called on later that day to find out what had gone wrong: "You didn't come!" said B disappointedly. I had to confess to sheer stupidity and never being quite sure what day of the week it is, or in this case, what week it is, but I think she suspects me of losing my nerve.

I shall go along in February, and can then answer amused friends' questions about the average age range, and whether or not you have to sing 'Jerusalem' at every meeting. I do so hope not.....

But perhaps I need to brush up on my domestic skills. Today I did some baking. Yes, those are the mince pies that didn't get made at Christmas....

Very nice too, though I says it as shouldn't.

And some maple syrup and pecan scones; not so nice. I would love to find a recipe that doesn't produce an over-crumbly scone that tastes too much of baking powder, and that is in UK ounce/gram measurements, not US/Australian cups for those of us who hate all that converting.

And that's it for now. Sorry about all the builders/house/cats/dogs/loveliness of where I live stuff. I think it's all I know now. I'm off to read the paper and catch up on the catastrophic state of the world beyond my tiny life. And maybe have a mince pie.

Cleansing with help

2012-01-09T18:47:00.001Z

I am doing my filing.

This is one of the worst jobs in the world, and takes forever, but it Must Be Done. My desk was almost buckling under the heaps of papers waiting to be put neatly away into new folders marked Pensions, Pets, Insurance, Instructions. And more.

I'd reached the stage where I couldn't put it off any longer, or it would take over the house and I would have television crews beating a path to my door to film me as I crawl through my home along narrow channels and tunnels of letters, papers, agreements and guarantees, weeping about where it all went wrong.

I had to start by thinning out the stuff already filed - so many useless, out of date papers taking up room! And with the old over-stuffed filing cabinet left behind in Newcastle, the same old dross got bundled into drawers and carrier bags, and have remained there ever since we arrived here, while new papers arrived in the post almost daily. The paperless society? Ha!

Many folders have been emptied. What had once bulged out of a bulky 2-drawer filing cabinet has been condensed into one of these neat little stackable boxes, a box file and a cheerful pink folder. Another stackable box is empty and ready for future use.

I haven't done this unaided. A wood burner is a wonderful filing asset, requiring as it does a layer of crumpled paper beneath the kindling to be set alight.

And the cats have supervised throughout, and made sure that I stayed on task. They know me too well.

Stern looks from Catkin and Lottie produced results. Next, the Christmas decorations, the books, the clothes, the kitchen utensils....

Rain on the righteous

2012-01-06T12:45:00.000Z

and on the unrighteous alike. Whatever we are, here in Somerset, we get rained on a lot. A lot!

Water rushes down from the moors and fields, creating mud, making every little lane a delight to the weather-and-waterproof dog, and a sore trial to the little short-legged one.

From here it careers downhill to the brook, turning it into a cocoa-coloured mini-torrent that shouts rather than babbles. Sometimes the water just rushes past my front door, and I am thankful for that slate step up into the house.

Despite the ever-present mud, living somewhere so mild and damp has ample compensations.

Spring doesn't hang around in the wings, too shy to put out her early flags.

And it's rainbow country.

Yet another reason to love it.

Psychosomatic

2012-01-04T15:52:00.002Z

Did I mention that I was given a Kindle for Christmas? (Thank you, sister Anne!)

I never thought I would want such a thing, but now that I have one, I find that I love it. So light, so portable, so easy to read in bed, no matter where the bedside light is positioned! So many books to store inside it!

At present I am reading THIS (click for a free (downloadable?) copy).

I find I'm not feeling very well.....*

*only kidding

Out with the old....

2011-12-31T19:23:00.000Z

...thank goodness.

As many of you have done, and very entertainingly too, I was going to review my past year for this post, but the very thought of trawling through the various events, photographs, memories and emotions was so onerous and off-putting that I thought I would sum it up with one cliched image:

As someone who really isn't fond of thrills, spills and sky-high blood pressure through being catapulted violently from one emotional state to another, and run off my feet with so much to do whilst trying to keep a grip - for months! - saying goodbye to 2011 is very welcome. I am very happy to step off this hideous hurtling contraption that symbolises so aptly the changeover process of house and location, and all that went before and since, and to walk calmly into 2012.

It's been quite a year, eventful, decisive, disappointing, upsetting, exhilarating, scary and thrilling, all overlaid with a clinging blanket of exhaustion, but it's over, just about, and I intend never to repeat it with such intensity. Never, ever again will I step willingly onto a rollercoaster, if I can help it.

I'm home; I will settle peacefully into my new environment, care for my little family of dogs and cats, tend my garden, and just 'be' in my cottage, creating as tranquil and simple a life as I can, and be content.

Thank you for coming along with me on this year-long (two-year-long, really) voyage-cum-rollercoaster ride, and for supporting, encouraging, empathising and sharing it with me.

I wish you a very Happy New Year, and exactly the kind of 2012 you want for yourselves.

Ungloomy Christmas

2011-12-30T20:21:00.000Z

I hope your Christmas Day was tranquil, relaxed and extremely pleasant? Ours was. We go in for very low-key, un-timetabled activity, the Lovely Son and I; nothing has to be done other than opening our presents in turn, having a walk when we feel like it, having dinner when we feel like it.

It dawned grey and damp. We went for our customary walk anyway, choosing to drive to the end of the road on Bossington Hill.

Millie tried her best to come with us, but was forcibly ejected from the car, squawking in protest.

High above Porlock Vale, there was some lively galloping about, ball in mouth, until the Lovely Son accidentally threw the ball deep into the gorse. Such accidents are always a ten-minute tragedy for Flossie.

Despite the mist, there were views.

And bare winter trees.

We walked to Bury Castle, an Iron Age hill fort. There was some hilltop posing.

And Flossie demonstrated the windsock capabilities of labrador ears.

East....

West....

Then a slow walk back to the car.

And home amid glimmers of sunlight.

Then Christmas Dinner 1* and an evening in front of the fire, with calls to and from friends left behind in the North East.

Our first Christmas in Somerset; just lovely.

*Christmas Dinner 2 took place two days later after the arrival of the LS's girlfriend. Yes, two puddings!

Waiting 2

2011-12-24T21:14:00.000Z

Everything comes to the one who can wait.

And that includes those of us who wait for the Lovely Son.

Happy Christmas to all!

Waiting

2011-12-23T12:03:00.000Z

I wait for the Lovely Son.

Millie waits for.... Father Christmas?

We have time. We have patience.

.....we have SO MUCH TO DO!

(but you know, the Lovely Son won't notice if the hoover, duster and tidying-up fairy haven't been usefully employed before he arrives. The house can wait too.)

When the builders aren't around

2011-12-21T20:23:00.001Z

What goes on here?

Well, life without the builders is just as busy as life with them, but with less kettle-boiling involved.

Lists get written, and mostly ticked off.

Dogs get taken to the sea and swim energetically, coming home to sleep like the dead. (Flossie does, at any rate; Tosca watches.)

Beautiful babies come to visit.

It's tormenting for babies like 9-week-old Merlot because they can't be set down on a floor other than their own until their vaccination course has been completed. So Merlot wriggles and squeaks, and gazes longingly at the cats and dogs who troop in to inspect, and in the cats' case, pronounce him wholly beneath contempt.

Merlot doesn't care. A few days later, he comes for another visit, and it's evident that his ears have grown rapidly.

So what else?

Well, two days ago I had my blood pressure checked. Not as good as I'd hoped: I blame the hectic-ness of the past few months, but also noted that the electronic monitor - the one that strangles your arm rather painfully - was playing up again. Three times that arm had to be strangled before the nurse gave up, and accepted one of the readings.

Despite the erratic behaviour of the machine, I have been summonsed to talk to the practice nurse and to have my low-level medication reviewed, but also must monitor myself, taking triple readings twice daily, for two whole weeks! And then I must present my home readings to the GP. Perhaps they hope that my home monitor will be better behaved than the overworked machine in the practice.

Today I had my regular deep tissue back and neck massage; I feel like I have someone else's back now, someone much younger and fitter than I. Maybe I should have a massage before a blood pressure check - I'll try that one next time.

And this afternoon I travelled a good distance in mild sunny weather, and picked up an espaliered apple tree (Cox's Pippin, my favourite) for the Lovely Son to give me for Christmas (and - oh joy - to plant for me, after putting up the requisite training wires against the garden wall). This was a pleasant excursion along little country lanes to a specialist fruit nursery, made all the happier by ending about a mile and a half from a town that boasts a Waitrose.

So of course I had to go, buying things I may never use, like rose harissa paste (suggestions welcome!) and lovely cordials for the non-drinkers (well, me) and can also tell you that the Lovely Son will do well for ~~mad~~ stylish cheesecake and other delights this Christmas.

Christmas pudding cheesecake

Tomorrow I have my hair cut and coloured. Three hours of torment for me, but I should emerge fit for polite company at the end of them, and fully acquainted with the details of my hairdresser's recent stag night in Prague, as well as all his socialising plans for the holidays. I won't need to speak at all.

And then on Friday the Lovely Son arrives, bringing tools and timber for the long-promised wood store and bookshelves. We plan to have our usual low-key (aka idle and slow) Christmas Day doing very little other than reading our new books, eating Anton Berg plums in madeira chocolates, and walking the dogs.

His girlfriend joins us some time on Boxing Day, so our 'proper' Christmas dinner won't take place till the day after. This gives us time to pause, review the cheesecake and chocolate situation, and make salads and life style resolutions.

Meantime, there is still present-wrapping to be done and the eternal tidying. And maybe a cup of tea - I've been a bit tea-deprived since the builders went away. They'll be back in the New year; phew, that's a relief!

Pursuing a life of glamour

2011-12-19T10:03:00.002Z

Added later: Same as exactly one year ago today!! If you want to be spooked, click HERE.

I am tired today. I am tired because I got up at 4.30 a.m.

This dog is empty.

Flossie is empty because she applied herself conscientiously to the task - at both ends - between 4.30 a.m. and 5.15, despite an intervening walk in the dark. Evidently she preferred to finish her emptying indoors.

And now she is carrying her bowl everywhere. It seems that I should be giving her some breakfast, because, well, she is EMPTY.....

Not bloomin' likely.

Miscellany for Sunday

2011-12-18T16:26:00.001Z

When I first moved into this house, I declared it to be completely liveable-with for now. And then I proceeded to not live with it, but to start chipping away at the edges, making little changes here and there, and suddenly finding that they had grown into major undertakings.

It felt strange, and sometimes wasteful, to be undoing the work that the previous owners had put so much time in doing. But I was helped by being so much shorter and smaller than they had been, and needing rooms to be scaled down, made less cavernous, softer, homelier.

Remember the work that was being done on the bathroom? All the mess and disruption, caused initially by the replacement of an ancient and deeply undesirable concrete-and-asbestos soil pipe? Then the bright idea of moving the toilet along to the right by a few inches? Then the addition of a walk-in shower?

This is where we're at today:

And remember the utility room? The soil pipe again - and connecting drain - that had to be replaced? The floor that had to be levelled by several inches?

Followed by the notion of a run of worktop with appliances beneath? Oh, and a sink for buckets and bathing of small dog? And a new roof? And the removal of all those spidery beams?

And the boxing-in of pipes and vents?

The utility room is still unfinished but with not much left to do, waiting for the woodwork to be painted, the floor scrubbed, and the planned dresser to be found to replace the old bookshelves that have taken much of the clutter out of the dining room - looks like this:

And now it's starting to feel almost there, almost my home, rather than someone else's, or a holiday cottage that I was allowed to 'do things to'. It's very different from my old home, yet very different from the cottage that I moved into almost five months ago. I feel ready for my first Christmas in my new home.

Speaking of which.... it's not Christmas yet, but my birthday today.

The un-Christmas packages, some of which have sat for weeks, tantalisingly full of secrets, were opened this morning, and revealed this:

And scented narcissi are filling the sitting room with the perfume of Spring. Lovely gifts.

I am now 63 years old. Not young, not old; just 63.

I might give myself a day off.

Inspiration

2011-12-15T13:45:00.001Z

Thank you for all your helpful suggestions. One of them - a grandchild - didn't get passed on to the Lovely Son and girlfriend though, for obvious reasons (well, timescale and expense, anyway, as well as it being None Of My Business, delightful daydream though it was).

No, the Christmas present suggestion came to me in a blinding flash.....

I looked out yearningly at the sodden mess of mud and bleak paving slabs - currently littered with builders' buckets and ladders - that I hope will one day become a lovely little garden, and thought I would like an apple tree. And perhaps a plum. Or a pear. Or a cherry. Or a .... oh, I don't know. Definitely an apple tree for starters, anyway. After all, we are in Somerset now.

So that's what I'm being given for Christmas.

Easy!

(whisper: although a grandchild would have been nice too......)

Desperate times

2011-12-14T13:53:00.000Z

An email from the Lovely Son has just arrived, entitled "HELL", and continuing "...LLLLLLLLP". He has trailed hither and yon through the shops, he writes, and can't find anything for my Christmas present. What would I like? Please would I just tell him and rescue him from his misery.

Familiar and entirely predictable, this missive, given the time of year, although rather earlier than usual. His shopping desperation generally becomes acute around the 22nd of December; clearly he is better prepared this year. Shop early for your Christmas despair.

So what would I like?

I have no idea. Not within his budget, anyway, although if a garden designer were to become affordable - which for him would mean in the pocket-money bracket rather than at the RHS standard - I wouldn't say no.

But I don't need anything, I don't yearn for anything, I am sick of living with too much stuff, and I don't want any more. What I really would like is for him to be here, spending time with me, and muttering his trenchantly bah-humbug views on the over-commercialised consumer society.

I've told him I need time to think.

Delaying tactics that could run to December 22nd and beyond.

Nosy new neighbours

2011-12-11T14:30:00.001Z

Alpacas.

Just up the road, watching us with interest.

Background noise

2011-12-10T20:10:00.000Z

Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmmmm.... Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooommmmmmm....

Imagine having a car engine running for hours in an adjoining room.

That's what a big dehumidifier sounds like, as it dries the outer wall to allow the painter to start work, hopefully next week.

I leave it on for as long as I can bear.

Then I am reminded that silence is golden.

Governor's Pardon

2011-12-09T14:14:00.002Z

J the boss is here, putting the finishing touches to the back door, which - to anyone (sadly, not I) with a practised eye and a knowledge of old-fashioned joinery - is an impressive work of craftsmanship; I had to be given a guided tour of the external and internal rebates and staggered joints, and the skills needed to fit it into the drunken angles of an old garden wall and a lumpy sort of house wall, while following the preferences of a customer who wanted more window and less door, thus throwing out all the standard measurements.

Anyhoo, while J was here, I took the opportunity to discuss the possibility of salvaging the old kitchen door. And yes, it is entirely possible.

The door will be raised a little, more timber will be added to the bottom, clear glass will be fitted (that's just a pane covered by hideous sticky-plastic window film!), hinges will be reversed, and the old Suffolk latch will be re-used too. No problem, says J.

I didn't mention cutting a hole for a cat flap. Perhaps I ought to do that now, while J is in a can-do mood....

Note: A cat flap is required in this interior door because if one was put in the new back door, Hamish and Scooter could bypass me entirely, coming in to the utility room unseen, bolting their food, and legging it as soon as they heard me. Instead, they must come in from the garden to the kitchen, then through this door into the utility, where their food bowls will be placed above dog height. (I know, it's complicated....)

It's part of the enforced relationship with me that I have cruelly imposed on them: I know my limited place as the lowly provider of dinner, but I reserve the right to actually set eyes on these two thankless little cats at least twice a day. Low cunning is essential when dealing with them. And infinite patience.

Eccentric

2011-12-08T14:20:00.002Z

The new utility room can be entered through any of three doors - one from the hall (yes, that's my washer and dryer, parked in the hall at present):

One from the garden (this door should be glazed and finished today):

and one from the kitchen.

The kitchen door itself is a battered but charming little affair, unless you're tall, in which case it becomes a head injury hazard.

It would be better if it fitted its opening.

Much chopped and changed over the years, it has to be replaced with another that will close properly, that reaches the floor, that opens the other way, that has clear glazing, that will take a cat flap, that has hinges that don't require packing with scraps of wood to sit flush.

I feel somewhat guilty about saying goodbye to this little old door, but am comforted by knowing that the sloping frame, without a right angle or a straight line to its name, will remain to remind me of how old this house really is.

The new door will match my favourite - the small narrow door that leads from the kitchen into the garden, that even I must stoop to use, and that will ensure that I never allow myself to become so wide that I can't get through it.

A weight-watcher's door.

Resolution

2011-12-06T23:23:00.000Z

No reason for this picture, other than my inexplicable fondness for these jolly orange builders' buckets.

The builders are busy with the small fiddly things now, and it's taking time; making anything fit accurately in this wonky old house takes much patient measuring and trimming, nipping, tucking and adjusting. Concentration is fierce; cups of tea are more often refused than accepted, as the two perfectionists cannot be distracted.

While I was taking my friends to the railway station 40 minutes away this morning, waving them off while thinking worriedly how cramped their seats looked for a five-and-a-half-hour journey, things were moving along briskly at home.

I now have a new back door, a Belfast sink, and the start of some worktop. Much remains to be finished, but I can see what it's all going to look like soon. My decision-making over the past few weeks has come home to roost - too late now if I don't like something. Mostly, I do.

Tonight:

I haven't changed my mind much over the weeks, but today I did. I decided not to have the large, useful but boxy larder cupboards intended for the top of the utility room, but to go for a Welsh dresser-style affair* instead, painted in something delightful and Farrow & Ball-ish. Less practical, but more pleasing to the eye, and less smothering of the lovely slate floor. I'm stalking eBay. Thankfully, the functional but dull cupboards hadn't been ordered yet.

A dresser must also have magical properties - to hold the huge stack of stuff that is piled up temporarily all over the house: the baking tins, racks, trays, mixers, juicer, jam pan, cat food, dog food, vases, washing powders, dog towels, and much, much more.

In reality, I know a major throw-out (well, recycling/gifting/freecycling) is on the cards - after all, how many sizes and numbers of bread tins does a single woman need? Especially a single woman who has accepted that home baking and successful weight management are not natural bedfellows? Will I ever use the pasta maker again? The juicer? The mandolin? The sandwich toaster? The expensive extendable shelf and roasting pan, packed by accident, that belong to my lovely Siemens oven, left behind in Newcastle? I'm embarrassing myself just listing a fraction of the stuff I keep.

Downsizing is a slow process; it takes a while to realise and accept that vigilance and a degree of ruthlessness is required, and ruthlessness doesn't come easily to some of us. But the utility room demands it, and I shall obey. Hoarding, clutter and hardly-used gadgets will be things of the past. I hereby resolve to simplify my bloated batterie de cuisine - bowls, boards, knives and a few other basic tools are all I really use on a frequent basis - and the rest can be sent packing.

See? A New Year's Resolution, made early.

Maybe I could hold a virtual ~~garage~~ blog sale... but you all have pasta makers languishing at the back of your cupboards already, don't you?

Whoosh!

2011-12-04T22:08:00.000Z

The days go by, my feet don't touch the ground, and the planned blog post falls off the To Do list day after day.

Next week I will have no visitors at all, and I can spend my time not planning meals, not cooking, not chatting, not going anywhere interesting/lovely/unusual/plain funny.

Porlock Weir

Dunster by Candlelight

Allerford

Dulverton by Starlight and the West Somerset Morrismen

Of course, ~~my new family~~ the builders will still be with me.

I'm beginning to wonder if I will cope with life without the builders.

Back soon.

Busy

2011-11-25T23:08:00.000Z

We've all been busy this week.

In our different ways, of course.

Layers: mortar, latex, latex, mortar.

A proper windowsill.

Electrics.

Lakes, trees.

Tackling obstacles.

Lunch in a funny little place, once a mill (and, we were told, mentioned in the Domesday Book).

They were slender folk in 1085....

Rolling countryside.

Dulverton.

Resting.

More rolling countryside.

Rolling steep countryside.

And more old buildings.

And at last it's the weekend, and we don't have to get up early for the builders.

Macro

2011-11-23T23:44:00.000Z

I love my new camera....

I really do.

Window sill

2011-11-22T18:20:00.001Z

For those of you who like a bit of render/plaster/building mayhem.

This is the back 'door' to the new utility area. Notice the new down pipe and water butt? Well, it rains so much here, may as well use it!

The new door will match the little door from the garden into the kitchen, but will be bigger - even I have to stoop to exit this one.

And this is the future utility room. Not really a room, more a corridor, but still....

The rougher lumps have been knocked off the old wall.

This morning, K and S set to with a will, 'parging' the rough surface.

Adding another layer later in the day. These are the first two of five, I believe, after which the old garden wall will be waterproofed and smooth.

There will be a long timber windowsill. The window is high on this side, but much lower from next door's drive.

Not a sunny window, but ideal for orchids.

(new camera practice shots)

Opposite the window there will be a Belfast sink, a run of appliances and worktop, and somewhere to feed the cats.

A new door into the kitchen will be made to measure. There are three doors into this narrow space! The floor will be slate.

My poor washing machine and dryer sit there while all goes on around them; they will move into the hall at the last minute.

And at the far end, opposite the little kitchen door, there will be a bank of cupboards. No room for a chair, but oh, such a useful and much-needed space!

More as it happens, I promise.

Meantime, for those of you who prefer to see fur rather than mortar, here's Catkin.

Fatkin . Poor cat; Lottie and Millie hate her. So she comfort-eats.

Conscious incompetence

2011-11-21T23:44:00.000Z

So life with a new camera goes something like this:

Yesterday lots of pictures taken and most of them discarded, apart from a nice one of Flossie and neighbour's 8-month-old Milo. (Easy to spot which is the boy.)

Weather today wet and gloomy, not encouraging. Camera sits on the desk, unused.

Tonight, ok, let's have a go. Oh.... nothing's happening....

Take the lens cap off. That might help.

Nothing's happening....

Switch the camera on. Oh yes, that helped too.

What else? Where are my specs?

Find specs. Peer at the little dial on the top of the camera. Yes, the flash is off.

What's that little symbol? So many symbols....

Oooh, the screen has a message on it. Autofocus automatically set. That's ok then. Realise room far too dark; put flash on again.

Take photos of large dog in front of the wood burner, looking anaesthetised with heat.

Put photos on computer.

Oh, all blurry.

(Cue pathetic voice) "Tricia! My photos are all blurry, but the camera screen says I was on autofocus."

Tricia (checks camera): "You were on manual focus." The screen lied. My little pocket camera is so much simpler to use. (But doesn't make that satisfying deep CLICK when shutter is pressed....)

Oh. Change to autofocus. Take photos with flash. Complain about hating flash photos. Upload to computer; feel discouraged.

Meantime, anaesthetised dog has fallen off the cushion in front of the fire. Take photos with flash.

Perhaps I should read the instruction booklet. Where have I put the instruction booklet?

Look for instruction booklet, distracting myself by making a cup of tea. Leave camera in kitchen.

Tricia walks through to the room I'm in, holding up the lens cap in a tut-tutting way. I am in trouble for forgetting yet again, in this dusty, pet-hairy house, to put the lens cap back on.

Forget about booklet; decide to watch tv instead. I may be a dimwit with cameras, but I manage to answer some of University Challenge's questions.

Tomorrow I will take this camera out and about with me and practise. If I can answer some of UC's questions, I can learn to work my new camera. Can't I?

Smile!

2011-11-20T10:26:00.001Z

It wasn't me. She made me do it.

Tricia (above, giving instructions as befits someone with a degree in photography) is staying till early December. She let me use her beautiful Canon DSLR whenever I wanted, and I caught the bug. I didn't want one of my own, because it weighed a ton, but I loved borrowing hers. With its zoom lens. Mmmmm, zoom lens......

Then she spotted the ad for the bargain bundle* (offer almost at an end), compared weights (hers was more than two-thirds heavier), and positively encouraged me to think about/drive to the nearest town and stockist/play with the display model/talk to the Canon area rep who just walked in as we were ~~drooling~~ inspecting it with a cool eye/persuade myself that this was just the camera I wanted. With its zoom lens. Mmmmm, zoom lens......

(* Later: details here for those of you who asked)

So I did. Obedient unto death, me.

All this:

added up to this:

It's all Tricia's fault. Now she can have the dubious privilege of teaching me how to use it properly.

Mmmmm.....

...zoom lens.....

Moving along

2011-11-17T22:16:00.000Z

The shell is forming.....

My funny little strip of covered-over pathway is gradually becoming my utility room. I am oddly excited at the prospect.

Monday

2011-11-14T23:02:00.000Z

Speechless.

Silently and frequently, I remind myself that I have invited all of this; in fact, I am parting with wads of cash for it to happen.

But, oh but.....

I'll be back when it's all over.

(The mantra: It will all be worth it in the end.....)

Remembering

2011-11-11T17:39:00.000Z

To my knowledge, no one in my family died in either of the so-called World Wars, but the impact of both conflicts impacted profoundly on my mother's family in Belgium and France.

She was born in 1917, and often spoke of how few of her schoolmates of the same age had fathers still living. Her beloved father had undertaken several tours of duty at the front, and survived.

In the second war, too old for active service, he stubbornly refused to rush down into the cellar when there was a bombing raid; he would prefer to stand outside and watch the dog fights in the sky above, willing the Allied planes to victory. She remembers him shaking his fist at the German planes, the rest of the family frantic with worry in case he was hurt.

She herself was caught in an air raid, and was pulled alive from the rubble of a house where she and another woman with a small child had sought shelter. They died; she was saved because her hand protruded from the ruins and the watch she wore reflected the light and caught the attention of rescuers.

The scar on the back of her thigh, just visible if she wore shorts, would enthral us as children; that was from "Mummy being bombed in the war".

After the war, she met my father when both were stationed in Berlin, she with the French Army, he with the British; she would talk of the pathways bulldozed through the mountains of rubble that the city had become. In her papers we found the official permit that had allowed her to cross the Russian Zone to return to Ghent to visit her parents.

So on this day, the 11th of November, I think about not only those who died, but my family who - like so many other families - lived, suffered, endured, and survived to remember. And to pass on small fragments of those memories to us, the privileged, who grew up in freedom.

Lovely day - a guest post

2011-11-10T22:20:00.001Z

Hello! Flossie here. I haven't been on Slow Lane Life for a while because I've been very busy helping the builders.

I love the builders!

We had a day off from building today. Firstly, Tosca went off to have her hair cut. She looks and smells a lot better now.

Meantime, Tricia took a photo of me with Lady, my favourite toy. She says I make her laugh.

I love Lady!

Later on, we went to the beach.

I love the beach!

We took a ball.

I love a ball!

And we met Pippa, who is so like me - she has a ball too, and doesn't like to share it, but we ran in and out of the water trying to steal a ball from each other.

I got Pippa's yellow ball.

And she got my pink one. Her human couldn't make her drop it. Rachel laughed at this; she said I was just the same.

Then Pippa went home, and we carried on playing and walking.

Tricia took lots of photos of me. I don't know why, really, because when I'm wet, she complains about the smell in the car.

But I love being wet!

Rachel took photos of Tricia and us with her phone.

Then they said we had to go home. The painter and the joiner would need a cup of tea. Tosca and I thought we would like a little something too.

The sun was going down.

But there was just time for another gallop into the waves.

And then we really had to go.

Everyone was going home for dinner. And so were we.

We love dinner!

See you soon. Big wet licks from Flossie. xxx

Note from Rachel: sorry about all the exclamation marks. They're a Flossie thing.

Window saga

2011-11-09T21:59:00.000Z

Poor R, the young joiner. He has been busy for days on end, opening long-sealed windows in the sitting room, replacing modern 'brass' fastenings with traditional curly-tailed iron ones,

building a cupboard to hide the gas meter, deepening the windowsill,

taking out a window that is beyond saving if it is to be draught-free in winter,

and boarding up the void. All under the watchful supervising eye of a small tabby cat.

And trying again and again to hand-build the replacement to fit perfectly, without a router bit being available that could replicate the angles of the glazing bars.

The window went back and forth from the house to the workshop, until eventually the match between the ancient, uneven frame and the new 'light' was satisfactory.

All done. Not much of a view, but definitely an improvement on a sheet of plywood. Thank you, R.

Next major event: choosing the curtains....

Of mud and mayhem

2011-11-04T20:27:00.001Z

Just for those of you who like to know how a major renovation ~~can go wrong~~ is getting on nicely, this is a glimpse of my revamped bathroom as of 5 o'clock this evening. It requires a little explaining.

Top right: a corner (well, leg) of the freestanding bath, finally plumbed in and working at 5 o'clock, after a drama with the wrong-sized waste and some improvisation by a determined plumber. There's a window where the builder broke two panes of glass.

I only wept once today, and then secretly, alone in the sitting room, and only for a moment, honest, when it looked like I might not have a bathroom for yet another weekend.

Lower left: the corner of the walk-in shower, not working because of wrong/missing fixings; our second attempt to have them posted out from the manufacturer won't yield results till some time next week.

Centre: the missing floor tiles? Well, before they were even finished being laid, let alone grouted and sealed, a builder who shall remain nameless trod large clods of red mud all over them. Then a joiner who shall also remain nameless swept them with the broom, smearing the mud liberally all over those tiles, by now firmly cemented into place. Whereupon the mud stained the tiles - not cheap tiles, mind you - and could not be completely cleaned off. I went on a bit about this, as you can imagine - "my friend has cream porcelain tiles in her kitchen, with direct access to the muddy garden, and her floor always cleans up like new...." and so on.

And so the foreman was summoned, and the worst tiles were chiselled out laboriously by the two nameless ones, somewhat subdued by now, and are to be replaced; the supplier will be given a stained tile to ponder over quality issues.

The rest of the bathroom looks no better; in fact, for authentic bleakness, it should smell of carbolic soap and have a ragged scratchy towel hanging up on a nail in the wall. And maybe one splayed-bristle toothbrush used by the whole family and for cleaning the plughole.

It will get better though. The supplier sent the wrong size of basin but a bigger one will be in place on Monday. The toilet seat and lid will also be replaced with a soft-close one (honestly! how princessy of me!) and behind the slatted blind, the rattly broken window will be removed to be repaired and completely reglazed, and hopefully won't allow whistling winds to make little waves in the bathwater.

So we must try to imagine it with the walls painted in some yet-to-be-determined gorgeous colour, heaps of lovely fluffy towels, candles, plants, a shiny chrome towel radiator, gleaming mirrors, delicious scents, and me having forgotten all about the past two weeks' rather spartan arrangements, accidents and mud.

But now - well, I'm going to find my scratchy old towel and that bar of carbolic soap, and .... no of course I'm not. I'm going to have a lovely bath in my unlovely bathroom, and just be glad that we got this far.

Family resemblance

2011-11-03T13:53:00.001Z

Millie had a birthday-wishes email last night from the foster carers in Northumberland in whose house she was born.

They also sent photos of Millie's sister Luna, and of Banjo, their latest rescued cat, who had been taken in as a 3-week old kitten with meningitis, and who is now hale and hearty, but, sadly, blind.

Here they are.

So, can you see the sisterly resemblance between Millie (below) and the tabby (above)?

Well, you're wrong.

Meet Luna. Big sister.

Three!

2011-11-02T09:48:00.001Z

It's Millie's birthday today. The only one of the menagerie whose date of birth is known.

The naughtiest kitten ever is growing up. Still adventurous and sociable, but no longer the whirling dervish getting into everything everywhere.

From the ~~Prosecution's evidence file~~ archives:

Thank goodness.

Happy 3rd Birthday, lovely girl. ~~Whiskas~~ ~~cake~~ ~~fish~~ Philadelphia cheese* later.

* such a fussy eater, but she knows what she likes!

Colouring

2011-10-31T19:29:00.002Z

This is my favourite time of year. So many colours, and not just the autumn leaves.

Pinks.

Flossie chose a ball to co-ordinate with her tongue.

When it gets too muddy she rinses it in the brook.

There were vibrant yellows.

And zingy reds.

Creamy white.

Different blues, bluey-pinks, and bluey-pinky-lilacs.

And lovely, lively orange. Such a tonic as the days shorten.

High-viz orange too. This rider asked her horse to smile for the camera.

There was colour even when darkness fell.....

And all within 500 yards of my house.

Stand down, everyone

2011-10-30T10:01:00.000Z

No gas smell this morning, just cool autumn air. Seems that the smug and patronising emergency gas man was right. What a relief.

Two fellow dog walkers told me yesterday of their similar experiences.

Mr Frayed at the edge, with a career in the petro-chemical industry behind him, suggested that it was the "stenching agent" that we could detect, and that an explosimeter could be used to let me know if I was about to be blown up. I accused him of making that last word up, but no, it appears to be a real and no doubt awfully useful gadget.

Flossie's new job description will include responsibility for becoming the household's own private stenching agent.

I may treat myself to a nice modern explosimeter to ensure that the household remains safe.

We know that Flossie takes her duties very seriously.

Alive, at any rate

2011-10-29T14:47:00.003+01:00

9 pm Friday and the house is cold, with open doors and windows overcoming the central heating effortlessly.

I find it hard to believe that 'nothing can be done' about this residual gas problem. I worry about becoming the shock-horror story of how 'something should have been done' (but wasn't, and now look at what happened!)

I reach a stage where, close to a self-pitying sob (no bathroom! building supplies everywhere! gas seeping uncontrollably into my cold, dusty, comfortless, draughty home!), I contemplate booking myself into a B&B for the night, but stiffen the upper lip and go to bed with an electric blanket on, set to All Night. And oddly, sleep soundly. Lottie and Millie glue themselves to the warm bed and don't move till morning. Tosca coughs a little in the corner, but she is better now, and quickly settles down for the night.

(Note: wrong seat on toilet; replacement awaited. Well-known builders merchants gets it wrong again.)

(Note: wrong size of basin; replacement awaited. Well-known builders merchant etc...)

This morning, the gassy smell is still there, but the judicious closing of doors in the the rabbit warren that is the downstairs of my house has kept Flossie, Scooter and Hamish cosy and ungassed in the dining room while the hall feels the full force of the wind through the propped-open back door.

This afternoon, the smell has lessened. I clean the sitting room within an inch of its life, so that there is one room at least where we can be comfortable and dust-free this weekend, and I feel a bit more hopeful.

The building supplies will dwindle next week and metamorphose into a glossy tiled bathroom, with gleaming taps and shower panels; the smell of wet plaster will change to that of beautiful scented soaps, and all will be clean. Including me.

And then the work on the utility-to-be will start up again....

Sorry, dog

2011-10-28T18:26:00.000+01:00

4 a.m. and there's an odd smell in the house, discernible upstairs as I sleep.

So I shuffle downstairs; yes, a gassy sort of smell, in the vicinity of a sleepy labrador. No gas taps left on at the cooker, so perhaps it's just canine digestion at work.

"Flossie, what have you been eating!" She thumps her tail and goes back to sleep. And so I open the door from the hall into the soon-to-be-utility and plod back upstairs to bed. I am faintly uneasy, but obviously more than faintly stupid at that time in the morning. Smell of gas? Aw, just go back to bed.

7.30 a.m. and there's a very strong smell of gas throughout the house. Definitely town gas, nothing canine about it. I catapult downstairs, throw every door and window open, grab the big torch (I may be stupid, but I always know where the torch is!) and turn the gas off at the meter, which, coincidentally, is currently having a cupboard built to hide it. (And for those of you who wondered, the boarded-up window is away being replicated with one that will fit.)

Before I ring the gas-emergency number, I text the builder's surveyor, who arrives super-fast - after all, it is his men who are pulling the house apart, and who removed an old and defunct gas pipe from the utility room, sealed the gap, and concreted over it, two days ago. He smells gas too, and summons the plumbers urgently. We agree that it emanates from the utility room, and I fear that by opening the door in the night, far from airing the smell away, I simply allowed gas to flow freely into the rest of the house. That's the old pipe below, on the left.

Within minutes, two plumbers are here, sniffing in a professional sort of manner, although one has just had a cigarette and the other one has a cold, and declaring that they can't smell ~~anything~~ gas (well no, the house is now a chilly wind tunnel standing wide to the world; all I can smell now is very fresh air) and they check the meter, which proves to be fault-free. They look at me disbelievingly; the surveyor has gone by this time, so it's only my word against their inefficient noses.

I overhear the boss plumber telling the emergency engineer that I had detected a slight smell. I find myself reiterating with increasing emphasis that there definitely was a powerful smell of gas, and that yes, I do know the difference between a slight smell and one which could result in explosive newspaper headlines and the loss of many local windows.

Then the emergency gas engineer arrives. His specialised instruments detect gas - in residual amounts by now - and he tells me, only slightly reassuringly, I must say, that this is his second such case this week. His explanation is that heavy and persistent rain, as we had yesterday, can flood old unused gas tanks and force any residual gas to seep out where it can. There must be a fume-filled tank somewhere beneath the utility room, seeping quietly out as the rain fills it up....

Nothing can be done. It may happen again, he says, until it exhausts itself. If there is another build up, I should take the same precautions, i.e. no naked lights, and open the windows. I add silently "And don't blame the dog and go back to bed."

The joiner is here by now, having sided with me from the start, and we spend the morning sniffing smugly and telling each other that, yes, definitely still a faint smell of gas. Yes, definitely. And the cupboard gets built, and primed. (Whoever installed that meter in the centre of a window should be slapped.)

While all this is going on, the cats are busy, competing for my attention. The Daily Frog - a black one today - and a sodden and very dead mouse.

After gift disposal, I google the effects of natural gas inhalation. There are marked differences of opinion: one school of thought considers the only risks to be ignition/explosion/loss of neighbours' windows/gruesome newspaper headlines, while others blame town gas for many of mankind's current health issues.

I have learned a lesson today. You don't know what you are living above.

I shall try to carry on as normal, but with more windows open than is usual on chilly autumn nights. There is a distinct smell of gas in the hall; I am uneasy.

But I have to say sorry. Sorry, Flossie.

Escapism

2011-10-26T17:02:00.000+01:00

Fleeing from this:

We did this:

The weather was warm.

But changeable.

Well, something worked!

2011-10-25T19:42:00.000+01:00

Susan said a prayer to St Anthony and I thought about looking in the places where the camera definitely wouldn't be, and there it was - in the bottom of my handbag, along with old receipts, powdery tissues, biros that don't write any more, and all sorts of unidentifiable gritty bits that came from heaven knows where.

It had come to the hairdresser with me. Just think, I could have taken scary Hallowe'eny sort of photos of myself in a black nylon smock with my hair dye applied, laughing at hairdresser Dan's plans for his stag night in Prague this weekend.

I have spent about 2 hours ransacking the house for this blasted camera, just to take rather pitiful flash photos of ugly things that only I and a couple of you - the ones in a similar state of domestic chaos and disorder - might get excited about, and there it was, in the handbag sump, gathering debris.

My mother, were she here, would have given St Anthony the credit. When we were children, she would have us all saying prayers to him whenever anything was lost or mislaid, and she, very haphazard in her Catholicism, believed firmly that it was always he who helped us find the scissors/purse/specs/dinner money amidst the general untidiness. My own approach is to look in all the likely places first, then whittle it down to the very least likely of all, and usually it will turn up. (Alternatively, you could buy/apply for a new one, as in the case of bank or loyalty cards, at which point, the lost one will appear just at the very second that it has been cancelled.)

So here you go.

I shall spare you the squashed frogs. It's dark outside, and raining, and I fear adding to my local reputation as the madwoman incomer who walks with ill-assorted coughing dogs and a little tabby cat by creeping about, bent over double, searching in the rainy darkness for a squashed frog to photograph.

I won't open the boxes that contain the floor tiles, but I know that in order to sleep tonight, you needed to see the rest, especially Malcolm, who likes a bit of builders mayhem. Perhaps I should have brushed my hair first, but the point is, no grey roots!

Personally, I can't wait for the After shots. Maybe next week, before the ever-increasing grey emerges again....

Today I could

2011-10-25T18:33:00.001+01:00

Show you the several squashed frogs in the road. The less-bucolic reality of living beside a brook is beginning to dawn on me.

Show you my newly cut-and-coloured hair, thanks to a sudden cancellation at my hairdresser, so that I no longer have 2" grey roots showing through the film of building dust.

Show you the wooden framework and all the new drains in the bathroom ready for tomorrow's plastering marathon.

Show you the gleaming copper pipes downstairs that will allow me to have a washing machine, a sink and a dishwasher in my narrow utility-to-be.

Show you the deep new windowsill, that will have a little cupboard beneath it disguising the monstrous affront of a gas meter plonked directly in the middle of the window alcove.

Show you my lovely floor tiles for the bathroom.

Show you the - oh heck, I can't show you any of it.

Because I have lost my camera somewhere in all the chaos and disorder.

I am lost too as a result.

Mission and mantra

2011-10-24T20:10:00.002+01:00

Today, I thought, the down pipe and soil pipe would be replaced by something sleeker. The new toilet would be moved along the bathroom wall a little, to allow for the positioning of a freestanding bath where the basin was currently placed. Then the builders would finish concreting the floor downstairs, and then they would go home and wait for everything to dry.

How wrong I was.

This is what happens when Men On A Mission set to work.

Downstairs, there was some more breaking up to be done.

And an ancient pipe to be removed.

Whilst upstairs....

There was some breaking up to be done.

And a new, single, pipe to be installed.

Also - to my surprise - an entire bathroom to be removed. By this time I had escaped, to look at curtain fabrics, visit the loo in the garden centre, buy groceries, and give the sociable, workmen-loving dogs a break from all the dust and excitement.

I came home to find the dismantled bathroom suite left in the rainy garden. I made haste to cover it up with a tarpaulin; tomorrow it has a new home to go to.

The speed of progress wasn't the only surprise.

There was some pink and fishy wallpaper behind the bath.

The bathroom wall, once uncovered, was seen to have been rough-cast, and had clearly been on the exterior of the house once upon a time, which makes the dining room and kitchen younger than the sitting room. Another element of discovery to add to the mystery that is my old cottage.

The hallway is full of boxes of tiles, and the shower tray. The bath failed to arrive today, but we live in hope.

Tonight, I have the bare essentials. Sorry, essential. And a sheet of plywood to stop monsters from climbing up into the bathroom in the night, through the gaping hole in the wall.

Tomorrow, the builders, plumber, joiner and apprentice all come back to continue the mission. The mantra is on a loop in my head: it will all be worth it when it's finished.

Vandals 0, good fairies 1

2011-10-21T20:13:00.001+01:00

When I first moved here, this sad, broken fragment of an old water fountain sat over the brook.

I was told that it had been vandalised last year. When I expressed incredulity (vandals? in our sleepy backwater? our sleepy backwater where nothing escapes the attention of the locals?) I was told with a sigh that yes, vandally things had happened last year. Details were sketchy. As ever, I was careful not to mention that "where I used to live, yadda yadda yadda, vandalism? Tell me about it!" I didn't wish to give the impression that I hailed from Sodom and Gomorrah, UK.

And then early one morning recently, I noticed this:

The water fountain fairies had been in the night.

And no one could understand how this had happened.

Until the other day, when one neighbour gave me the altogether more prosaic version of events. Vandals had not been to blame. Mrs X, whose wall supports the old fountain, had been instructed by the council to remove it, as it was in a dangerous state (although dangerous to what or whom remains unspecified, the brook not being an area where anyone hangs around in 3-inch-deep water waiting for lumps of masonry to fall on their heads).

Mrs X obeyed. The less securely-fastened pieces were removed and stored until a few of the handier husbands or sons got together and repaired, cleaned and reinstalled it. Mrs X had clearly taken its maxim very seriously.

Waste not, want not.

There now, the real story. You heard it from me first.

Don't tell me that nothing exciting happens round here.

Coughing and coughing up

2011-10-20T20:31:00.002+01:00

Greetings from the House of Hacking Coughs. It sounds like the old Chest Wards must have sounded a hundred years ago, with tubercular old men coughing and wheezing, and - well, yes - spitting up.

Flossie has had a cough for over a week; it started as soon as she had finished crunching up one of these:

the spiky beechmast husks that lie everywhere at this time of year. A "huff! huff!" sort of cough, followed by a large amount of spit, always deposited on the carpet rather than in her (fully washable) bedding. It went on long enough for me to move from the "Serves you right, you silly dog!" stage to start fretting about blockages or tears in her throat, and to take her to the vet.

No, unlikely to be a scratched throat, thought the vet, given the copious phlegmy spitting; more like tracheitis, or even low-level kennel cough, quite coincidental. Jabs were given, much wimpish yelping issuing forth, Flossie not being at all stoical about having needles stuck into her, and slowly the "huff! huff! began to decrease and the spitting stopped.

A few days later, daft spaniel pup Alfie came bounding up, greeting Flossie as ecstatically as is his wont. His owner told me that Alfie had been kept indoors for a few days because of kennel cough. Hmmm.

Catkin had gone to the vet at the same time, and was duly jabbed and medicated for cystitis, which seems to have disappeared now. Altogether a happier, calmer cat. We have entered a Cold War phase, with occasional growling stand-offs, but no real battles where fur might fly.

Then Tosca started up. Not a genteel cough like Flossie's, but a loud, painful hacking that woke us both up several times a night. I won't go into the details of the involuntary deposits this racking cough caused, except to say that it wasn't spit.... Her medication, kept in reserve and usually only needed in the damp and dreary days of February, didn't help, so back to the vet we went. An expensive hobby, all this vet-visiting.

And poor old Tosca, gradually going blind and deaf, with a wonky back leg, turns out to be rather poorly, with a chest infection and asthma. She's heavily medicated and on the mend, but can still cough dramatically, with me watching her rear end anxiously.

Perhaps it all has something to do with the arrival of this:

The builders are busy tearing up the floor in what will be the utility room; next week it will be tanked, and eventually beautiful slates laid. I have to keep reminding myself that it will all be lovely in the end.

In the course of the digging, this was found, buried for who knows how long:

I shall clean it up and use it to iron tiny handkerchiefs for the dogs to cough into.

Catching

2011-10-18T20:55:00.001+01:00

It's easy to blame Millie for any little offerings brought into the house, but today - for once - she was the innocent party.

She was in the sitting room with me, fast asleep in the window, when we heard a wheezy little screech from the dining room - a frog, I thought. Clearly Millie thought so too. Both of us rushed next door, to find Scooter sitting wide-eyed, on full alert, under the table. The hunter home from the hill written all over him.

No sign of a frog.

So I moved stuff around, the dining room being cluttered with the contents of the soon-to-be-utility room, and finally spotted a small leg protruding from beneath the standard lamp. A small froggy sort of a leg.

And there it was - seemingly unharmed - and very ready to hop into the plastic canister that has become my standard frog-rescuing kit.

Hop! into the pond, and all was well.

Except that Scooter really didn't think so. He took up his position beside the pond, until I chased him away. Up onto the wall, casting longing looks back at his stake-out, and glowering at me.

If any cat can look outraged, Scooter can.

One final glare at me, then up onto the linhay roof to sulk.

I know, I'm such a spoilsport. It's my job.

Flying visit

2011-10-16T19:47:00.000+01:00

A lovely weekend, but not long enough.

The Lovely Son had been to Bath, and made a detour to visit us yesterday evening, staying overnight. First, an evening in front of a roaring fire, roasting chestnuts in the embers. The new chestnut roasting thingummy went on fire, somewhat dramatically; once its paint had burned off, it worked fine, but nevertheless it took us by surprise.

This morning we walked round Dunster, the LS not having been before; I had never seen this little village so quiet.

The dogs, thrilled to be with the LS, came too. He threw sticks; Flossie plunged in and out of the river at the Gallox Bridge.

Not everyone joined in, preferring to collect autumn leaves to wear as a nose-ornament. A leaf-strainer moustache helps greatly.

Then we walked on the beach at Blue Anchor, ate bacon and sausage-filled rolls and drank pots of tea at the so dog-friendly Driftwood Cafe, chatting as we looked out over the water to Wales. Sunday lunch, casual.

Home to some odd jobs that take two people, like lifting heavy boxes into the loft, and then off to deposit the LS at the station again, a 25-mile drive skirting the beautiful Quantock Hills, leaving two moping dogs behind. I try not to mope, but it's hard.

A very pleasant break. Tomorrow: The Builders return. There will be mess.

Heresy

2011-10-15T10:28:00.000+01:00

Three lovely days spent in the company of two friends from Newcastle.

We crammed in so much. Walking, sightseeing, driving, shopping, tearooms and cafes.

My, how those girls can shop!

And eat.

And fret about their holiday weight gain, and how they might not be allowed on the plane home, and not just because of their luggage allowance. And eat some more.

I so enjoyed their company. Tosca was in heaven having two favourite aunties with us, and Millie enjoyed coming out for walks in a larger gang.

All that running about excitedly and dashing up trees was tiring for little stripy legs, though. A lie-down in the road was required before coming indoors again.

The best part for me was watching the loveliness of this area working its magic, and seeing my friends enjoying the views, the beaches, the beautiful rolling hills, and understanding why I love it so.

Three days wasn't long enough; much more to do and see next time.

But the heresy? Well, I really don't like the much-vaunted cream tea that is such a tourist attraction all over the West Country.

Give me a home-baked scone fresh from the oven and a bit of butter, yes, lovely. Maybe some raspberry jam. But a big, cakey scone with clotted cream and sickly-sweet strawberry jam? Even worse, two? Noooooooo..... (If I hadn't refused this time, there would have been six on that plate!)

I've tried them in several different places, where the home-made cakes look much more enticing, and they have invariably disappointed.

Feel free to disagree....

Another dream comes true

2011-10-10T18:58:00.000+01:00

Autumn Sunday

2011-10-09T14:41:00.001+01:00

An early walk with the dogs this morning, the damp, soft air as mild as milk, as my mother used to say, then off to Porlock with friends for the Exmoor Food Festival. The village hall was teeming with people, tasting, chatting, buying. As did I.

I came away with some delicious purchases, all made locally; raised pork and apricot pie, venison pasties (now in the freezer) for the Lovely Son, who may be visiting next weekend; cider vinegar, chutney, handmade chocolates for my visitors later this week, some lovely cooking apples whose rather grand name escapes me, although I know that they are definitely not Bramleys.

Sausages made from rare-breed pigs described by the farmer somewhat ruefully as "free range hooligans who charge all over the fields".

Everywhere you go here at the moment, apples, and sometimes pears, are pressed on you; boxes stand outside houses, labelled Please Help Yourself, and these (name not known, left outside a neighbour's house) are amongst the loveliest apples I have tasted in a very long time.

After a cup of tea and a chance to vote for the best entry in the photographic competition (I chose a plant picture, suspecting that it would be the photo of the stag standing behind two sheep that would win), we trooped off into the steep woods above Porlock Bay to pick sweet chestnuts, lying in their thousands underfoot.

Ali showed me how to open the prickly cases by pressing down with both feet at just the right point; meantime, more of these fierce little spiked tennis balls hurled themselves down on our heads.

My wood burning stove is being installed tomorrow; of course I need a huge bowl of chestnuts to roast on it!

And then home, hungry.

The plumptious free-range-hooligan sausages had to be cooked as soon as I got home, as I made the mistake of turning my back on them, and found Millie deftly unwrapping them on the kitchen floor. Best popped in the pan at once, I thought, and cooked slowly with some local apples. An impromptu Sunday lunch, not at all what I'd planned, but rather nicer than the intended salmon and salad, and with several left over for mustardy sandwiches tomorrow.

Next week, foraging for hazelnuts. Never a dull moment round here.

Works every time

2011-10-08T16:37:00.002+01:00

Take the children out in the car.

Give them a hill to run down, rabbits to chase

and a beach to play on.

Sticks to play with.

And each other, of course.

Lots of fresh air.

Rather windy fresh air, not good for one's hair do.

Up the hill again.

And back in the car.

Where it becomes hard to....

stay awake....

PS The collies are Lizzie's dogs, not mine!

Same old, same old

2011-10-05T19:17:00.000+01:00

Some of you have gone quiet, and some report that you have nothing to say on your blogs. I feel a bit like that too. I sit at my desk, and my mind goes blank. Nothing bloggable is happening to me.

Although, really, lots of things are happening, but I've been here before with most of them, and so have you, dragged along in my wake. Bathroom, utility room, shower room; so many hours of renovation-blogging from my old house! How we suffered together!

So what; let me drag you along in my wake yet again, and tell you about the latest round of knocking a perfectly-reasonable house into a new shape. Again.

It means dealing with builders, plumbers, tilers, online window-shopping till my brain liquefies with the tedium of comparing dozens of toilets and cisterns, shower trays and mixer taps; doing the sums, having a bit of a panic, giving myself a stern talking-to ("do it properly; don't cut corners; you don't want to be re-doing this in 5 years' time because you were too mean to buy quality"), and going back to the blaring websites, each of whom proclaim that they will undercut their competitors.

Why a new bathroom? It looked absolutely fine when I viewed it, although as I could only see the very top of my head in the mirror over the basin, I guessed that the people who had installed it were considerably taller than me, and I was proved right.

It has to be changed because I can't get in and out of the giant bath very easily, being short and less than nimble; it's a fall waiting to happen. Because the electric shower over the giant bath is feeble in the extreme. Because I want a walk-in shower that will see me safely into my dotage. Because - well, you don't want to hear about the toilet and its moods. I'm having a new bathroom again, and I'm bored with the planning and shopping already.

Where I shall put Catkin's private litter tray has yet to be decided; at present it is a decorative addition to the bathroom until such time as she decides to stop being the Upstairs Cat who only makes an appearance downstairs for dinner. (And breakfast. And snack times. The Lovely Son was right: she is a cat who moves only to search and devour.)

The bathroom isn't being started yet, but the new toilet has to come first, as part of the work to create a proper utility room beneath the bathroom, and needs to be moved several inches along as the rusty old soil pipe is being replaced.

The utility room creation scheme is something I do get a bit excited about (I know, I know. It's sad....). It used to be the side path outside the house, and was roofed over many years ago with now-discoloured corrugated plastic sheeting. It has crumbling stonework and a decrepit back door, and is the home of many, many spiders. It was almost empty when I viewed the house.

And now it is a disgraceful repository of all sorts of homeless stuff: appliances, plants, the cats' Monstrosity, from which Millie watches the enemies next door, assorted cleaning products, the giant cat tray that no one but Lottie uses now that they have my garden, and much more that will one day be tucked away tidily in cupboards when they are built.

The floor slopes down to the open gully; the washing machine judders downhill, despite much packing beneath it, and its plumbing connector leaks, so that the concrete floor is always wet. All this will change.

I shall say no more, but will only hint that I am deeply in love with charcoal grey slate flooring....

Come back in two weeks' time, and see how it's getting on. What d'you mean, it's too boring to contemplate another visit? There will be a sink! A worktop! Cupboards and shelves! Best of all, a level floor! How could you resist?

Good. See you soon.

Catching up

2011-10-02T22:48:00.000+01:00

Visitors gone, weather glorious, time on my hands to relax, and in the evenings to read blogs and perhaps, at last, find time to leave comments.

But it hasn't worked out like that. Weeks of lovely visitors who actively discouraged housework (bless you, Shelagh!) came with consequences. The house needed attention, with me in rubber gloves and a pinny.

The kitchen and bathroom have been cleaned within an inch of their lives, The Wall has been painted, the hoover has been employed with vim and vigour, furniture has been shifted around and back again, then moved somewhere else, the numerous cakes and treats that had slid immediately onto my hips have been attacked with long walks up and down hilly bridleways, and the days have just flown by, with very little of that planned relaxation. Lottie kept me on task.

But my house looks much, much better now. I have yet to tackle the pictures. No longer a matter of banging a picture hook into a wall, changing my mind whenever I liked and re-hanging; oh no - these walls require a drill, a masonry bit, rawlplugs and screws, a tolerance for dust and nerve-shattering noise, as well as a certain confidence that where I place a picture or a mirror is somewhere that it can stay for a long time. Where's that Lovely Son when I need him? In Berlin, that's where, celebrating his 40th birthday with the lovely girlfriend.

He is under orders to eat at least one doughnut on my behalf. The best doughnuts ever, Berliners.... a fond childhood memory.

The boys have come out of hiding. You have to visit for at least a fortnight before they emerge, and even then they will regard you as highly dangerous.

They appear with brazen stares at mealtimes.

Next wave of visitors scheduled for the 12th....

I will leave comments one day, and that's a promise.

Uphill

2011-09-29T22:15:00.000+01:00

Shelagh's last night, before she leaves tomorrow for a few days in London then home to Toronto.

So we went to watch the sun set over the hills.

The dogs came too.

And driving back, we spotted this on the skyline.

Yet another reason for Shelagh to declare, as she has done daily, "I love it here!"

At the 132nd step

2011-09-27T18:00:00.000+01:00

from my house is this: the rear gate of a pleasant complex of apartments where older people live.

Millie had to come too, of course.This is the first shot I took.

And then we met this little bunch, all fascinated by a dog even smaller than them, and a cat.

They stopped to stare, all except for the puppy, who couldn't

concentrate

for more than

ten seconds.

132 steps

2011-09-26T09:34:00.000+01:00

Having just read Susan's post with accompanying glorious photos, I am inspired to go outside with my camera and take a picture of whatever is there in front of me when I've walked 132 steps. Anyone care to join in?

Post your photo any time this week. Maybe Jane could teach me how to do that clever linky thing, (or maybe she would do it instead because I am BUSY BUSY BUSY having fun with visitors and the like). But go on, do it; could be fun!

Meantime, here are some neglected and going-over flowers that I bought for £2 at Dunster Castle a week ago - before I cull them, I thought I should share the madness of them with you.

Flowers in the (dusty) house....

Life in the madhouse. Effectively.

2011-09-24T23:33:00.001+01:00

I haven't blogged for ages, and I miss it. But I've been so busy!

Shelagh is here. Tricia has gone. Both really love the house and the area; it is such fun showing my lovely visitors round my new county, and learning a great deal about it for myself, but my, it's hectic too! While there was the three of us together, we crammed a lot into the few days before Tricia went off to visit other friends and family; steam train, Exmoor off-road excursion, shopping, sightseeing, eating, and laughing a great deal.

We were driven around some wild and barely-accessible areas of Exmoor by a chap with a very loud voice, whose favourite word was "effectively". He sprinkled each sentence liberally with this word, and after three hours, having lost count of how many times "effectively" was bellowed, we tottered home, our deafened ears bleeding, barely able to assimilate the lovely sights we had seen for the force of the commentary that accompanied them.

CLICK here for information about this rarity!

A fifth cat has upset the fragile equilibrium of the menagerie, and pet behaviour/bodily functions seem to feature quite frequently. You don't need the details. It's settling down, sort of, and no one has been bitten or scratched, but they all have their moments. Shelagh described it as (effectively) a madhouse this morning, and she was right.

Catkin spends much of her time upstairs, although her hearty appetite would suggest that (effectively) she isn't too upset by this. She has a Lady Bracknell look about her, mostly of disapproval, and the boys, always easily alarmed, can be cowed by a glance.

Millie's fascination for frogs is lessening, but we're not free of it yet. Sitting at my desk this morning, I could hear a rustling sound beside me, and squinting downwards, I spotted this little chap trying to hide behind a pile of papers. He was very happy to be rescued from a carpeted sitting room and returned to the pond.

The builders are here, my roof is now winter-ready, the electrics have been sorted out, and the stone wall in the sitting room, with its oh-so-wrong pointing has been rendered in the traditional style, and looks infinitely better as a result. It will be painted when dry, and I can get some of my pictures up, when it may start to feel more like home (effectively), and less like a WIP.

Next week, the madhouse will consist only of me, the cats and the dogs. And perhaps a frog.

Weather

2011-09-17T22:31:00.001+01:00

Rain, sun, rain, rain, sun, showers, sun, rain..... but rainbows too.

Afternoon tea at Porlock Weir for Lizzie's birthday today; much laughter, too much cake, and some very silly photographs that I wouldn't dare show you without permission, of five middle-aged women having a very jolly afternoon.

Up the renowned Porlock Hill before going home; a 1 in 4 gradient and alarmingly tight bends - what larks!

Happy birthday, Lizzie. May you always have rainbows in your life.

Spiders, apples and auto-rickshaws

2011-09-15T22:41:00.000+01:00

Afraid of spiders? I'm not. I wouldn't welcome them onto my hand, but they don't scare me. Just as well, living here. I have never lived anywhere so spidery; they are in the car, webs and all, in every corner of every room, and in mega-populations in the garden.

We transported whole neighbourhoods of them to the tip today in bags of garden waste (mostly overgrown clematis, with which I am engaged in mortal combat), but some jumped ship and now add to the growing colony in the car. Very distracting as I drive the winding lanes to find a spider dangling in front of me trying to create a web between my chin and the dashboard.

My friend Tricia from Australia is still here. On Monday we shall be joined by Shelagh from Canada. So cosmopolitan, we are!

We went to Porlock today. A very apple-y afternoon.

Some cheerful chaps were pressing juice in the community orchard. Laxton somethings; we were given a taste.

The apple store smelled lovely.

Their system is more hygienic than the old cider press, but has considerably less charm.

Next to be juiced were the Egremont Russets.

Funds are being raised to restore the old press. The princely sum of £700 is needed.

A pretty little place, Porlock, but sorely in need of the bypass that is planned, to free its narrow road from the nightmare of competing lorries and buses. We caught it at an unusually traffic-free moment.

Thatchers have their own distinctive trade mark. Here it's a ship and three ducks in a row....

It's not only the buildings that are old.

And then on to Porlock Weir.

And to Allerford, before we and the spiders turned for home, to spin our webs, walk the dogs, and cook our dinner.

Meanwhile, the Lovely Son is discovering the nightmare that is his new (old) van's internal workings - or, to be more precise, non-workings.

His girlfriend is away for three weeks, doing this.

I've spent time in India, and travelled many times in auto-rickshaws. Fun at the time, and occasionally very dangerous. You have to be young and daft, or perhaps just daft, to endeavour to make a long-distance race of it. My thought is that the LS's worries about clutch, gearbox and finding the ready money to replace both are great ways of taking his mind off the more alarming aspects of her hair-raising voyage.

Give me the winding roads and hills of West Somerset any day. With or without spiders.

Status report

2011-09-12T23:43:00.002+01:00

The Lovely Son came and went, taking time to mend a chair and to change the twiddly wall lights for something more neutral that can be painted to match the walls and thus become barely visible after a time. My taste gets plainer and plainer as I get older, and fearfully boring.

In return, he left me a cat.

She (working title Catkin, a term of endearment used by the Lovely Son, who could never decide on a name for her) is settling in, purring loudly for me and growling ferociously at everyone else.

Admittedly, Millie needs to be growled at to stop her from committing murder; Lottie just employs the renowned Death Stare.

Poor Tosca, who has done nothing at all to deserve Catkin's growls and dagger-like glares, is oblivious to the peril she is in as she potters about short-sightedly, too close to the portly newcomer. Flossie has the sense to sit quietly in her basket and avoid making eye contact or her usual friendly overture - even her uncomplicated mind recognises that this is not a cat whose ample behind can safely be sniffed.

Hamish and Scooter respond as we have come to expect; they flee, they hide, they behave as though someone was after them with an axe. I notice that it doesn't affect their ability to know when it's dinnertime.

But by this evening it begins to feel more like a ritualised form of pseudo-warfare; a Haka as performed by actors rather than by a group of truly dangerous warriors. I feel less anxious about Catkin, although I expect some blood-curdling cries in the night - my bed is Queen Lottie's territory, and is not always willingly shared.

Five cats. How did it come to this?

(image courtesy of The Simpsons)

Six weeks

2011-09-10T23:47:00.002+01:00

Bedding in. It's been a very busy six (almost seven) weeks, and many changes are underway.

This cottage came to be mine in a rather sad way. The couple who had bought it as a wreck almost 14 years ago had intended it to be their retirement home. They had worked on it lovingly and were counting the months till they could move from their home over 3 hours' drive away. Their cottage renovation was almost finished.

And then, last year, he became ill and died, very unexpectedly. She couldn't face the thought of moving so far from friends and neighbours to the cottage that held so many hopes, dreams, plans and years of hard work, and decided that she had to sell. She told the estate agent that she hoped that the process would be rapid, as it was so painful.

And I came along, hoping that the buying process would be rapid..... I knew that it would be a difficult process for her, and was careful with the tone of my emails. She later commented that it felt like she was selling to a friend rather than to a stranger; we corresponded regularly, and I felt sorry that I hadn't met her.

So this cottage and much of its furniture, whilst not entirely to my taste, became mine; it felt loved and cared for, and what remained to be done was clearly defined. I'm making changes to it, but I can see how much has been done with it already, and respect that. The vendor sent photos of how it had looked when she and her partner bought it; I was rendered speechless by the filth and squalor, the neglect and damage, and the vision she must have possessed to know that beyond the horrors, she could make it into a lovely home.

Almost 14 years later, this is how the sitting room looked when I viewed it.

I don't like those cottage suites, personally, or antimacassars, but this photo always makes me smile, as my mother would have loved it so much!

And the 'utility room', once the side path of the cottage, largely untouched except for a massive clean up, aided, I'm told, by the local Environmental Health Department. I think that, had she kept the cottage, this may have been the vendor's next phase of the renovation. It will be my second.

The first task for me has to be the electrics; they need to be upgraded as a matter of urgency, and also to be made less of an eyesore.

And the builders have made a start, knocking and drilling a hole through more than two feet of stone, to create a conduit for the new cabling. I could have wept at the dust and mess, worse than any plastering or sanding dust I have ever experienced, defeating all attempts to cover furniture with protective sheets. The electrician comes on Monday, when the cabling will be streamlined and routed through the wall into the hallway, and then - to my relief - the stone will be rendered.

The utility room will soon become a reality, its sloping floor raised so that the washing machine doesn't judder its way downhill into the drain, a sink and worktop installed, and some storage for all the clutter that animals bring with them; the food, the bowls, the brushes, the potions and lotions, the litter trays. I miss my old utility room, and look forward to making something functional and clean-lined out of this one.

But it's not all cottage-based busyness. Far from it. We are out and about a great deal.

And we expect a new addition to the household tomorrow.

I am taking the Lovely Son's stout, middle-aged, attitude-filled cat, she who has remained nameless for years. His lifestyle, yo-yoing between his own house and that of his girlfriend, makes it hard to look after a cat properly. Despite coveting her for years, I'm taking her on somewhat reluctantly, aware that there will be dramatic scenes all round. But I have to hope that love and attention will overcome everyone's injured feelings, and that she will end up as happy and settled here as the others are.

We've moved to a new, quiet life? I hardly think so.....

Nothing to say, lots to see

2011-09-03T22:13:00.000+01:00

The weather has been lovely, brought by my dear old school friend Tricia, who has travelled from Australia to spend a few months in Britain, and who is currently staying with me.

I am enjoying showing her round the few places that have now become familiar to me, and discovering new places too. Still so much to see and do!

With her comes her camera and a lot of complaining about its weight. Here are a few of her photos.

I've been shopping.

First, a new (old) chest of drawers.

Perennials.

Leggy sedum from the Rescue Me table.

And a load of logs for the wood burner that won't be installed till October.

These need to be moved into the linhay soon. Meantime, Flossie looks after them - Guardian of the Giant Sticks.....