With and without

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

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

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

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!

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

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.