Another well known phrase or saying.

What's this I hear from the hen-house-on-wheels, home to my small and motley flock of poultry? It's a rousing 'cock-a-doodle-doo'. As I open the door the birds come spilling out - and here they are at my feet milling expectantly for pellets and grain. The cockerel struts about in that macho way beloved of the male of the species everywhere. I'm glad he's crowing - it's what cockerels do and it's a real sound of the countryside.

But from the interior of the hen-house-on-wheels his crow is answered by another. What? What's this? I only have one cockerel and he's here, outside.

I investigate. Up on the perch, with head thrown back and throat stretched to the heavens sits the Cuckoo Maran - crowing her heart out. 'Tis flying in the face of nature - a crowing hen - and there I was expecting an egg from her any day now....

'Limp wristed - moi?'

I Google. It's a good place isn't it, the t'internet, for everyman and his dog to put their 'two penneth' in? The wild and wacky, the sane, the scientist and the slap-happy amateur all rub shoulders in a glorious melting pot of idea and opinion. Who knows what my search criteria: 'crowing hen' will throw up.

I'd rather hoped to have found a more rational explanation than 'it's the Devil's work...'

A crowing hen is apparently not an unheard of phenomena - Google throws up over 50,000 references. (Sadly none of them suggest that 'Crowing Hen' was big chief of an obscure Native American tribe.) There are not many scientific explanations either - I'm thinking hormonal here - which might account for 'her' behaviour. (I have already begun to think of her as male.) She's well developed and quite assertive - but that's probably a characteristic of her breed. I'm none the wiser.

It seems that 'A whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor men'. I read with foreboding that a crowing hen might portend misfortune, or worse still, a death in the house. Oooh er....Folk tales are pretty strong magic and on a cold dark evening with long shadows in the corner of the room I feel a little spooked by this. It seems to be a global belief too. I tell myself, bearing in mind there is probably a grain of truth in most maxims, that eons of experience have shown that a hen showing this male characteristic is unlikely to be a good layer and will not be worth her keep. How sensible is that?

I'm going to keep an eye on her. Her vocal outburst may amount to nothing and a deep brown egg will prove she was just a 'tomboy' at heart and this to be a passing phase. In the meantime I've winged an email to my brother ('poultry keeper extraordinaire'), a guru in hen-world, because if he doesn't know the answer I don't know who will. And there's not much point in having an expert in the family if you can't make use of their talents is there?

Out and In

It's a funny old cold-wet afternoon. Not inviting at all. I can't summon up the enthusiasm to don boots, hat, coat and gloves and set about the numerous autumnal tidy-up jobs which await me out there in the garden. There are things aplenty to cut down, haul away and compost. The greenhouse needs a thorough 'bottoming' to rid it of the air of neglect I sense as I slide the door open - the summer's tomato plants are now sorry specimens hung with a ragbag of half-ripened fruit; peppers are sticky with whitefly; a lone cucumber is swollen and flabby on the vine....

And leaves....leaves in abundance. Leaves falling like confetti, ginger as freckles, tumbled into crackling heaps. I have raked and scooped 'til my back aches but a glance skywards shows more and more waiting for the whip of the wind to direct them earthwards. I don't relish the prospect of wheeling yet another barrow load to the compost bin even if it does mean more of the brown gold that is leaf-mould.Through the glass of my window and from the corner of my eye I spy a beech tree, brilliant as a beacon against the sombre conifers of Badnage Wood. In truth it's hard to miss and like all good beacons draws me towards it. I am out and how good it is to be up here on the hill with the land falling away beneath me - a stream of golds and browns and greens tumbling away down the side of the Long Mountain. How I wish I could fly and soar over this magnificent landscape with its myriad twists and turns, clefts and hollows.

It's cold and the air is wet but I'm glad I stirred my stumps. The hardest thing I think is getting through the door.

Then, from my vantage point on the hill, I hear Heather, Karl and Phil over there in the Little Triangle Field gathering in the last of the cows and calves. Phil is out on the flank somewhere while Heather urges them on and Karl thwacks his boot with a stick. It's the odd rhythmic thump which attracts my attention - and that of the hens as well. The birds stand with heads cocked and listen to the cavalcade of men and animals move across the field. There's a young bull amongst them too and I can hear him snorting heavily as they move towards the yard. He's a lumbering, muscular, ginger beast amongst the lighter-weight cows and their liquorice-allsorts calves. There's a wagon in the yard waiting to take them down off the hill to their winter quarters. The tail-gate shuts, the lorry strains its way up our narrow lane and they are gone. Silence.

That's it 'til spring then; only sheep left to nibble back and forth, seemingly oblivious to the elements.

I turn my back on the burnished landscape, head into the wind and rain and sprint for the warmth of home. Time for me to be in too.

Normal service will be resumed....

....probably some time tomorrow.

We have a guest; a guest we are very pleased to see and of whom we are both very fond. However, the change of routine which hospitality entails is beginning to take its toll.

There's no selfish, solitary half hour hunched over the crossword at breakfast - instead I must make bright conversation. There are no self-indulgent forays into cyberspace for minutes which stretch into hours - I must find entertaining earthly diversions instead. There's the need to sustain a sparkling social smile when, frankly, I'd prefer to snarl. I have face ache.

But hey! Our guest enjoys seeing the countryside from the comfort of the car so each visit takes us deeper into the Welsh countryside. Yesterday we went to Ruthin, enjoying a day of near perfect autumn weather and fantastic scenery.

We visited the new Ruthin Craft Centre which opened with fanfares earlier this year. It's a great complex of buildings, shop, work spaces, galleries and a cafeteria. It looks good. We did our usual trick of arriving at a gallery either a week too early or a week too late - one exhibition had finished and the next was in the process of being staged. We toured the shop instead, peering into the glass cabinets which held the jewellery, ceramics, glass and objets beloved of craft galleries nationwide. I must admit here to having a problem with this kind of 'craft' which I find hard to define. Yes, it is almost always beautifully made but it is neither 'Art' nor is it 'Design'. It has a twee uniformity; a sameness, a lack of vigour. I would have like to have seen the work of artisans, of the weavers, the basket makers, the tilers, the wood and iron workers et al who marry beauty with function and form. It's my problem and maybe I'll get over it.

By contrast today we've 'done' the Christmas extravaganza at the local garden centre. What you see is what you get; lots of plastic sparkle. Lots of glittery tat. Made in China. What good honest fun. No pretension.

Anyway, tomorrow things should be back to normal.

Hens on the field

The electric fencing kit I ordered following last week's fox attack arrived very quickly but it took me a couple of days to digest the instructions. There was something grey and photographic which showed me how to unroll netting and stick stakes in the ground. There was something in very small type for the technically minded telling me where to stick the energiser (that's the thing which converts the power from the battery into pulses....I think.) and what to attach the various clips to. Finally, by dredging up enough schoolgirl French I could read what to do with the little light thingy which flashes in the dark to show me it's all working. Not too difficult after all.

I did a fair bit of pacing - I know my best-ever stride is exactly a metre - to achieve a square of my 50 metres of netting. Stakes were stuck in, ditto corner posts. I made a little gate too. Then because all the instructions stress that any vegetation touching the green netting would 'short' the circuit we laid plastic damp-proof course along the bottom. This of course showed that my 'square' was not exactly erm, square and wandered all over the place. (Alan did a lot of sighing at this point.) Alan did manly things like hammering in the earth spike and attaching guy ropes to the corner posts - all those years as a boy scout were not wasted after all were they? I should add that he came to help at the eleventh hour - as I was fixing the last corner post and had nearly finished the job. Apparently I shouldn't have done it like 'that' - I should have done it like 'this'. It's said that a little help is worth a lot of sympathy (by whom?) so I resisted clocking him over the head with the mallet and shut up. Patient, moi?

We attached the battery to the energiser and the energiser to the fence and 'thwack' - as Alan didn't let go soon enough and leapt back clutching his thumb we realised we had power. Hurrah.The hen houses were rolled into place and the birds released into their new home. It does look pretty good.











After a week's confinement in tiny runs I'd like to think they were delighted with their new surroundings. They're in the lee of the hill, have sun and shade and should be out of the worst of the prevailing winds. I've incorporated a big log pile for shelter and added interest.

















I've left the small run in in case they need to get out of Mr Buzzard's way. Mr Buzzard has been hovering lately and won't be deterred by a bit of netting - he'll just drop in. We hope the birds will now be safe from the murderous fox too of course.

None of them are laying at the moment - the old ones are going through the moult and the young ones are not quite mature enough. Shouldn't be long though.

A clutch of Fabergé eggs would be very welcome. Can you manage that girls? It would go a long way towards to recouping my expenses.

Hues' news

Today we are mostly doing orange....

A puff of wind, a shot of frost and all this wonderful colour will be gone. Catch it while you can.

This week...

Tuesday
Latin class. We hit the ground running. The classes' collective bums have not had the opportunity to settle comfortably into the classes' seats before questions of declensions, conjugations and the minutiae of grammar are fired at us. My pea-sized brain finds recalling English grammar difficult enough so tackling the nominative, accusative, genative, dative and ablative in another language is challenging. We aim to be able to read some Medieval Latin at the end of this 8 week course. If turning Latin sentences into English ones were not enough we need also to read the script - so some paleography is involved too. And then, after we've translated the words and deciphered the text, we must understand the quirky code of symbols and abbreviations that contemporary writers used. I'm not sure if 8 weeks will be time enough but I relish the challenge.

Wednesday
First up I lose a chicken to the fox so in addition to the one that hopped off its mortal coil on Sunday due to a mystery ailment I am now 2 birds down. Grr. Keeping my little flock safe in the future will now involve buying electric fencing at great expense. A rough calculation shows each hen will probably have to lay in excess of 300 eggs before I even approach break-even. I'm a bit fed up with economics at the moment.

It's the night of the WI programme planning meeting. Only 6 of us forgather in the local pub to see what we can put together for the next 12 months. It's the same recipe as forever I think; a health thing, a hands-on thing, some history, cooking, travel, a visit here and a visit there. It will be interesting but the same old, same old. Yawn?

We're in the comfort zone here - no challenges but hardly the stuff to set the world on fire either. How on earth will this organisation ever attract the new members it needs to survive? If there is anyone out there who might join a group - what would you like to listen to/take part in at a monthly meeting? Serious question - I really would like to know.

Anyway, as we deliberate around our table my eye is caught by the couple - she's potential WI material - sitting on the couch over there in front of the pub's wood burning stove. It's hard to avoid them actually. They're not youngsters - probably in their 30's but they're snogging. Really loved up. A mixture of intertwined arms, legs and lips - there is no one else in their world. Probably not a good time to ask if she'd like to join our group....

Here's the bit which is probably too much information - Sweet memories of snogging in the hollows of the very saggy couch in the residents 'lounge' of the White Lion in Banbury, but reading Baudelaire too and drinkingsweetMartinieatingchicken'n'mushroompie. No one else in our world. No names, no pack drill. Happy days.

And I wouldn't have wanted to join the WI then either.

Thursday
To the hills across the flat Rea Valley and an afternoon with blogging friends in Snailbeach.

What a fantastically strange place this is, especially on a dank autumnal day. Actually to call it dank is a tad untrue - we were blessed with clear blue skies which lit up leaves, hips and haws. Whatever. We're in a post-industrial landscape. The mines here produced, at the height of production, the largest quantity of lead in Europe but since their decline in the dying years of the 19th century the landscape has reclaimed its own.

Those lumps and bumps you see may be spoil heaps or a tumble-down settlement. The Shropshire Mines Trust has the industrial buildings and the mines themselves in its care and have worked to safe-guard this local history for future generations. The village itself, clinging to the hillside, is a mix of old and new. Incongruous executive homes have been built as infill on plots here and there and they dwarf the little worker's cottages that remain. I never entirely escape the feeling that here the 'old ways' are just beneath the surface - maybe one day a year a mist rolls in and the past comes to life again.

I'm interested in the lives of the common man - and woman. What was it like to be alive then? Curiously shaped patches, plots and pieces are the miners' gardens - if you are shown where to look you may spot a 'root store' where potatoes would be stored for winter use. Boundary hedges have grown into trees. Snailbeach is quiet now - the pulsing of the mighty engines that drove the processing machinery and was the community's heart beat have long been silent - sent for scrap. There's only bird song and our chatter as SBS leads us through the network of lanes that knits this little village together. She points out curiousities as we go: fact and fantasy, faces, places and people - this is my sort of history. We meet sheep and rare wood ants. We stand above the village and are awed by a magnificent view over Shropshire and into Wales and north to the Cheshire plain.

We enjoy a very late lunch around SBS's table. Chatter, gossip and laughter - strangers from blog-world, now friends. Thank you J for a lovely day.

Friday
Ah! The Bangers 'n' Mash Supper. More fun in a Village Hall.

First sweep your village hall and remove industrial quantities of crud. Scrub well and curse ineffectual 'caretaker'. Tape over holes around perimeter of floor thus stopping icy draughts whistling up ladies' frocks. Remember that this is yet another fund-raiser to build a new hall so that one day none of this will be necessary.

Set up bar. Panic that there is not enough beer. Buy more. Peel, boil and mash 6lbs of potatoes.

Turn up at hall In Good Time with potatoes to find that at least 70 people are there already.

Take up position behind makeshift bar and assume role as barmaid. I had assumed that my days of being leched over are long gone - but no, there are still lascivious old goats out there. Sad and creepy. Sigh.

Crikey, these people can eat. Food is served school dinner style and a long queue forms quickly. They return to their tables with plates bending with the weight of sausages, beans and mash, eat and then go back for more. Perhaps they need to stoke up before the dancing begins, because when it does they are all on their feet and the hall is shaking. Those in the know share a grimace of concern - the joists which hold the floor up have - shall we say? - seen better days. All is well however and the hall is rockin' to the music of Alan Herbert. And crikey, can these people dance? They're up and on their feet stomping the night away. I reflect that fun isn't the sole preserve of the young. There are few people on the floor, if any, under the age of 40. A conga forms and winds through every room of the hall. It's very surreal. The sense of fun and sheer enjoyment is tangible.

At 12.00 Alan H. plays a smoochy last waltz and the night winds down. It's all over bar the totting up and the debriefing. There seems to be a lot of beer left over.

I make my way home up Marton Hill. There is a thin drizzle falling and a dead badger in the lane. Finally get to bed about 1.30. Sleep. Eventually. The night is very quiet.

Saturday
Hmm - do nothing. Yes!!

As James Thurber might have said: 'My world and welcome to it...'

On such a glorious morning....

The land is glowing, suffused with golden light; an illusion helped I suppose by the amount of yellow in the fading vegetation. The grass is still heavy with dew and shimmers in the autumn sun. Was there a hint of frost this morning? Maybe.

The 16 sheep in our field have brought themselves out from the shelter of the hill into the sunshine and now lie chewing their cud. Just chillin'. A buzzard is mobbed by a trio of ravens - the foursome roll and tumble clumsily against the dark backdrop of Badnage Wood. This wood changes little with the seasons - it's mostly coniferous - but here and there Birch and Larch are dull and tinged with yellow. In fact these few acres have probably not changed significantly for centuries......

Close by my window and seen through a purply haze of Michaelmas daisy, a blue tit pecks an apple, reminding me that I should get them picked. I must gather Squash too. I must harvest and store against the coming cold.

It's so damned tranquil here that I would rather sit and stare. There is nothing wrong with that methinks.

How hard it is to imagine the world outside the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan, a world where headlines scream 'Global Down turn!', 'Bank bail-out!', 'Crisis!', 'Recession! Doom.....Despair!' It seems a world gone mad and it will touch all our lives. I think I am just a little bit afraid.

I walk on the field, calling to my small flock of poultry, with a dish of grain to scatter. The 3 old birds come running; that's The Evil Mrs Black, Mrs Scraggy-neck and the Bantie. 3 Blue Marans, one, two and three - tick - are soon pecking the ground. The little Cuckoo Maran - tick - she's at my feet too. The Cockerel and one Cream Legbar pullet - and another - that's 2. They're here. But where's the third? A bird is missing. I walk the perimeter of the field calling 'Chick, chick, chick - birdie, birdie, birdie' and shaking my dish of corn. (You might have heard me.) She does not come running.

She's inside a fox - that's where she is. A pile of feathers and a patch of gore. The bastard's seized its opportunity and snarfed her. I'll shoulder some of the blame - I should have kept them penned in - but hey! this is paradise. So even here - as in the wider world we suffer 'the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune' and here too we can be wise after the event and feel the consequences.

Me? I've shut them all in and am off to host the inaugural meet of the Trelystan Hunt. Hunting's banned? Tough, this is my kingdom and I mean business.

Things to do in Autumn

Bowling home last night along the road that follows the spine of Long Mountain I kept my eyes peeled for a glimpse of the new moon. It seems forever since we have had a clear sky and this night was no exception - indeed as I neared home a misty and persistent drizzle fell and I drove the last few miles lulled by the rhythmic slap of the windscreen wipers and a fascinating tale on the car radio. (One of those programmes that make you want to drive around for a few more miles just to hear the ending.) I'd been to Shrewsbury and the County Archives where D and I have embarked on a short course of Medieval Latin. (I think I shall need to explain this venture at a later date.) Suffice to say I wish I had paid more attention at school because by 9 0'clock my brain felt like it had fought 10 rounds with something harder-hitting than grammar.

I fell into bed declining nouns and conjugating verbs. It's a good way to send yourself to sleep - maybe better than counting sheep.

On waking the litany of 'amo, amas, amat' hadn't quite cleared from my head - but hurrah! - a gutsy wind was blowing the cloud away and give or take a few spots of rain the weather looked set fair. A good day to take stock of the garden in early autumn; what has been successful, what can be composted and what was a complete waste of time. It's a job best done with the sun on one's back and a mug of tea to sip while making mental notes. Ever the optimist I know I will be beguiled by such fripperies as fennel and sweetcorn - the evidence in front of my eyes should make me question the sense of trying to grow the like on the top of a low Welsh mountain.

There are still vegetables to harvest and winter greens and roots still in the ground but we are clearing beds and applying compost and muck in readiness for next year. There are apples to be gathered in and bulbs to be planted too for a splash of welcome colour when spring comes round again. The flower borders, so exuberant in spring and summer, have something of the Matto Grosso about them now (so dense is the vegetation that there may indeed be lost civilisations hiding there). I need to summon up much energy and enthusiasm to start tidying them. This will not be a job to do today.

So today under a bright and beautiful sky I pressed onion sets into newly tilled earth - exhorting them as always to 'grow, damn you, grow' - and planted garlic. It's good to get things growing - both I hope will be ready in the early summer. Thus the cycle begins again.

The Earworm

I'm blaming Geranium Cat for my present predicament.

She posts a perfectly normal post illustrated with a photograph of the landscape as seen from her garden - the glorious Cheviot hills. So far so good - nothing remotely irritating about that. The subsequent observation that 'A good Protestant upbringing has left me with a store of psalms that are in my head whether I want them or not...' is not irritating either. And I too am fond and familiar with Psalm 121 which begins 'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills...'

I reply with a comment along the lines of having had a similar education. Indeed from aged 5 - 18 the school day started with hymns in Assembly - and there was no pandering to the tastes of small children either, it was straight into 'Hymns Ancient and Modern.' At secondary school along with a hymn book (for which we must embroider a purple felt cover) we were presented with a psalter. On Tuesdays we sang psalms which were then, to my untutored ear, ugly things.

Now the point of this small diversion is that after 13+ years of school assemblies and school in general there are a lot of words and music imprinted on my brain. It doesn't take much for a thought or a picture to bring a tune, religious or secular, to mind. On this occasion Geranium Cat saw her hills and thought Psalm 121. I saw her hills and now have the hymn 'Hills of the North Rejoice' on a continuous loop in my head. That's all the words and all the verses. It is a long hymn. Grrr. I'll add that seeing the motorway signs which state prophetically 'The North' have the same effect. Somethings are obviously going to be best avoided.

It's an earworm - an Ohrwurm - a sticky tune that keeps repeating itself. Apparently its a very common phenomena and has been described as a 'cognitive itch' by Professor Kellaris of Cincinnati University. Repeating the tune/phrase persistently is a way of scratching the itch. There doesn't seem to be much of a 'cure' either - as one runs the risk of replacing one irritating worm with another.

I have some 'favourites' all of which are truly awful:

1. 'How Much is that Doggy in the Window?'
2. Tie a Yellow Ribbon'
   
3. 'Agadoo' (particularly bad)
4. The song from the Young Farmers pantomime in 2006 - the name of which escapes me right now and which I'm not going to try very hard to remember. Just in case.
   

Actually after all that, I think it's gone now. Good.

Leaving home

Up on the field, in the hen-house-on-wheels, there's an empty space on the perch tonight. 'Big Ginge' has left home. I suppose one could say he's flown the coop.

In poultry terms at 14 weeks old, he - and the others - are now teenagers. The hen birds are delicately formed, sweet and graceful. The two cockerels are shaping up nicely as showy, swaggering posers with an eye for the ladies; all mouth and trousers. Of the 2 birds Big Ginge seemed the most mature - perhaps because he had appointed himself top bird in charge of his siblings and the 5 sinister looking Marans I bought recently.

As 2 male birds are probably not a good idea in the same flock I was pleased when one was offered a home in Cornwall. His new owner wanted him not for breeding purposes but, (and I quote,) 'to keep my hens happy'. Hmm. From what I've seen of cockerels 'keeping hens happy' the hens could take it or leave it. Perhaps this is a man thing.

This morning Big Ginge was put into a strawy box and loaded onto the back of a pick-up for the long journey to his new home on the banks of the Tamar where a harem of 6 wives awaits him.

Enjoy your new life Big Ginge - after all, you could have ended up on a plate with vegetables and a splash of gravy.

This Little Piggy

Of all the things you expect to drop out of a Jiffy bag on a rainy Thursday, a small felt pig probably isn't one of them. My youngest brother had hinted obscurely that he would be sending something which would bring back memories. Always a difficult one this; not all memories are good ones. Some things are best left to lie. Some things might need more of an explanation than I want to give.
So when this little toy slid out of the envelope I squealed - I oinked - with delight. I was 5 years old again. I had completely forgotten this piggy. Isn't she a sweetie? I can't remember how many years it is since I saw her last.

Now, if everybody had their own she actually belonged to my other brother. For a 54 year old toy which once belonged to a boy she's in pretty good shape don't you think? I suspect he moved on quite quickly from stuffed animals to the real thing although I don't recall him being much of a pig enthusiast.

Looking back - as the memories flood in - I think we were something of a family for small felt toys. I had a white felt mouse with a wired tail. (The wire eventually poked through the felt and I never really liked it as much after that.) AJC had a blue felt rabbit - I think it was called 'Blue Bun'. MRC had the pig. There was also a flattish yellow duckling with a floppy orange beak - most unsatisfactory - and a black cat which even now if you thump it hard enough will emit a pitiful bleat.
Back then they were all blessed with beady eyes. There were no large labels warning of hazardous parts and being unsuitable for small children. My mother did though have a spate of cutting out the eyes of our teddies (a gruesome thought) lest we should suck them off and choke. An early example of 'elf 'n' safety and an uncharacteristically maternal act on her part.

I suppose that may be why I live to tell the tale of course.

Somebody loves me.....

A big thank you to Lost Stones who has generously given me this award:There are of course Rules:

1. The winner can put the logo on her blog.
2. Link to the person you received your award from.
3. Nominate at least seven other blogs.
4. Put the links of those blogs on yours.
5. Leave a message on the blogs you’ve nominated

I nominate:
Angel
Welsh Hills Again
The Snailbeach Shepherdess
Bodran
Nikki Ann
Zoë
Pam at Life with our Lads
Kissa

It's up to you what you do with it.

Yassou. Notes from a small island.

Home again. Home via the combined evils of Corfu Airport and First Choice Airlines - both of which let one enjoy queuing and the company of the nation's low-life to the full. However like any chivalric task - emptying a lake with a sieve for example - they are necessary evils and any time spent enduring either makes return to the green and gentle sun-drenched slopes of the Long Mountain so much sweeter.

How was it, the holiday? Well, since you asked, it was OK. The Paxiots were as charming and welcoming as ever they have been. The island's rugged landscape; the terraces of grey-green olives wherein a breeze might sigh, the scented maquis and its clicking cicadas, the turquoise Ionian rattling a stony shore, tumbling white pebble against white pebble and the milky dawns and dusks - these things do not change. The routine for the summer visitor follows a comforting and familiar pattern too - those returning know where and what and when to go and do and eat. Excepting a few idiosyncrasies it is not a challenging place to be. I recline and let the sun rest on my pale northern face, I have books to read, there is good hearty food to eat and, because I am on my holidays, the prospect of a glass of Metaxa at the end of the day. Why hurry? If you want fast, hire a speed boat.

But what is this? It is a cloud on the horizon - no, not just one, but more and more bubbling up from the south. Shortly the sky is gunmetal grey; the sea likewise. Beyond the breakwater of the small harbour at Loggos, 'cats' paws' flick the surface of the previously still Ionian. In the distance the Greek mainland disappears in cloud. We hear thunder on the other side of the island - at first mistaking the rumbles for some Greek revving up a motorbike. By degrees the electric storm reaches us and its violence does not make for a peaceful night. The morning air is sharp and metallic, the heavens open and rain falls and falls and falls. Water cascades off gutterless roofs. Roads are a watery sheet. We remind ourselves that after such a downpour they will be more slippery than usual - there is a residual film of oil on them from the ubiquitous olives.

After a summer such as we have had in the UK we are not impressed. The Paxiots are perilously short of water though and welcome this September storm; the island is without any springs or water source and all water must be caught and stored in cisterns and the big reservoir. The summer's influx of tourists puts an increasing strain on the island's resources. Fortunately winters are quite wet in the Ionian and this is achievable. (The big reservoir was, until this break in the weather, empty and a man, a brush and a bin liner had been sent to sweep it out.) I think we appreciated their need for water....
The storm blew through and we watched its tail-end over the mainland. That vertical shaft of cloud is rain. Those people must have been pretty bad in a former life to deserve that deluge.

The weather did improve and life resumed its tranquil pace although towards the end of the week strong winds got up - those gentle 'cats' paws' turned into galloping 'white horses'. Yachts and little dinghies sought shelter in Gaios, Loggos and Lakka. The island ferries and Hydrafoil which link Paxos with Corfu and the mainland were cancelled. We wondered if we would be able to get off the island and in fact went to bed on the day before departure convinced we would be extending our stay. However, come the morning the sea was flat and with a wistful glance at a rosy opalescent dawn we were bundled into a waiting taxi to begin the homeward journey, riding off into the sunrise.

I should add we travelled hopefully as my suitcase contained, as well as clothes, a gallon of the best Paxiot olive oil, a bottle of vodka (opened) and a bottle of vinger (ditto). Oh, and a piece of roof tile. Despite the best efforts of baggage handlers at Corfu and Birmingham all arrived intact. Phew.

And finally, instead of views, flowers or shots of a grinning family here's a cavalcade of transport Loggos-style. Love those crazy trucks.
And now we are back in the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan. After a week away things seem much the same but subtly different. An autumnal hint to the air and fruit trees glowing with apples. Today has a thin sun but there is some warmth in it. We will manage without the Aga for another day or two yet.

It doesn't take much effort to shift from 'being away' to 'being back'.

All scrubbed up and ready to go...

Forget big bangs and things sub-atomic hurtling through Alpine tunnels. Teleportation is the next big thing believe me. Bring it on. p.d.q.

Mon dieu! Going on holiday is so damned difficult. I'm wilting. It's generally a delight once you've arrived at your destination - an other-worldly pleasure-fest involving sunshine and reading. What a joy it would be to be 'beamed down', luggage and sundries complete. The preparations which make it all possible are enough to bring on an attack of the vapours. Thank goodness we are only going for a week - although I'm sure a Holiday Rule comes into play - as it does with children - that more than one (that's a child or a week) doesn't necessarily increase the work load. Much. Lists, lists and more lists are made. We tick the tasks off with a grateful sigh.

In the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan the people from the Big House have been appointed regent in our absence. A regiment of house-watching neighbours have been drilled to feed and water hens and tomatoes. Dogs are blythely unaware that kennels await them. Suitcases are mostly packed with clothes that haven't been out much this season and little piles of essentials gather.

Hmm. With a jolt I remember too, that as if this were not enough, there is the question of getting one's kit off. Beaches, sunshine......swimsuits.......

I stand in the bathrooom in front of the mirror. The normally kind and warm lights have a adopted a cruel cold glint. The wild-looking body that looks back at me is mostly pale and hairy. There is a hint of a 'farmer's tan' to the upper body and the feet have 'Birkenstock' marks. One hand is stained purple with bilberry juice. The nails on both are a disgrace. The hair is Strewwelpeter-esque. All in all it is not a good look.

If you believe that the female form is naturally and effortlessly buffed and silky smooth then it might be best to turn away now in case reality disappoints. Trust me, the body beautiful is hard work.There follows a frenzy of washing and scrubbing, exfoliation, depilation, clipping, buffing and annointing. There are potions that moisturise and potions to bring a touch of colour to a pallid skin. I manicure and I pedicure till my extremities are honed to an unfamiliar perfection. Sigh. I drop into bed sometime later. I would like to think that after all this I was scented with rare, exotic and sweet perfumes; however all these functional creams give off a slightly evil and chemical pong which cannot be the least bit alluring - nor can it be disguised. I am smooth and soft of skin though. That bit has been a success. Tomorrow I'll probably wake with a tan as streaky as bacon. Damn.

I fall asleep and dream as ever of travel - in my dreams I'm always travelling. Buses, trains and planes, routes strange and routes familiar. Pretty soon, before a dawn, we'll be off to Paxos (the best) for real.

I've painted my toenails gold. I'm ready to go.