The draw was held this morning for the 25 visitors to H1ghgr0ve (yes, Dave, 24 as my place is assured). There were 40 applicants in all.

After it was done, it occurred to me that I needed to write two letters – to tell people yes or no – and print address labels to the people concerned. I was too busy at the time, so I’ve been doing it this evening.

Finally, the letters were composed, so I set the printer to do 24 copies of the first and 15 copies of the second. I sat back and waited. Except for the first two copies, the printing is faint and patchy, but I didn’t find that out until all the printing was done. I am rather put out. I have cleaned the printing head, with no effect except that I’m now out of blue ink.

I have the feeling that I’m going to end up replacing all the ink cartridges before it works again properly. And yes, they are branded cartridges, not own-brand ones.

Rain forecast for tomorrow. We’ve cleared another section by the lawn, which was a tough job as we discovered some large hawthorn stumps 5 foot high, dead, covered with ivy, that had to be dug out. Most of the undergrowth has been removed now, and there are just some roots to go, the fence to be pulled down and that socking great pine to be felled. It will take some time yet – and we’re busy for the next few days, so Friday will be the next session, weather permitting.

I’m going to bed, where a cuddlish husband awaits.

It was a warm night and I was awake by 5.30 – rather reluctantly, it must be said, as that seems a bit unnecessary for a Sunday. I lay there dreamily for nearly an hour and was just drifting off again when my eyes slid sideways to the clock, which read 6.25. Since the alarm was set for 6.30 anyway, I got up. I felt remarkably chipper, considering that Peter and I drank a bottle of wine between us before dinner last night (I should remember not to drink alcohol when I’m hot and thirsty) as well as nearly another bottle between four at dinner. That’s not much each though. There will be a glassful left to go with dinner tonight, which is so abstemious as to nearly count as abstinence.

Back and forth to church as usual on the second Sunday (as I’m sidesman at the monthly 8am service, as well as organist at the 11am one – and anyway, the Fellow is on holiday), but I did have time for bacon, eggs and tomato for breakfast in between times. I didn’t have much lunch.

I heard that Brewster has died. He lived in the village for many years, until he had a stroke some time ago and needed nursing home care. He was an interesting, educated man, very knowledgeable about wildlife and books and, apparently, very good at his job. He had worked in the oil industry, in the Middle East and on the oil rigs. In these places, complete abstinence was required but, very sadly, he made up for it when he was home.

He took full responsibility and made no excuse for himself. Drinking, he said, cost him his marriage, his children, his health. The pity was, he told me, that he never suffered a hangover in his life. He could drink to oblivion but wake up a few hours later without a care in the world. Then he’d go off to apologise for his behaviour the night before.

You used to see him, cycling home from Yagnub, eyes glazed and fixed straight ahead. Sometimes he’d fall off and crawl for a bit. People used to stop to help, and the braver ones offered him a lift – not that he was aggressive, but sometimes he wet himself.

Once, I was in the greenhouse when I saw someone in the field. I didn’t have my glasses on, so I went and peered across the stream to see if I knew who it was, and he came through the ford to greet me. His speech was slurred and his gait shambling and Chester, my dog, was suspicious. He stood close in front of me, his hackles up, growling with soft menace. Actually, I was awfully gratified. I’d never seen him in a situation when he thought I was in danger before and he was ready to protect me (he was friendly and soft normally). I said nothing to suggest his reaction was wrong, but spoke in a friendly way to Brewster and stroked Chester gently,who relaxed – though was still wary – after a while.

We walked round the garden, and he certainly knew his plants. He had been on the field to gather mushrooms. He was a pleasure to talk to and I feel such regret that he suffered from such an addiction. He was all right when he was away and could not drink – but he could never stop.

He was on his bike when he had the stroke, and fell into the road. People stopped to help and he went off in an ambulance and never came home, although he lived for seven or eight more years. His house was, finally, sold a couple of months ago, and the Sage and I were only talking about him a few days ago. Must have been about the time he died.

I do feel such regret for him. He was a lovely man and could have had a good life if he hadn’t been an alcoholic. I know I tell you blithely how much I drink, but believe me, I would give it up tomorrow rather than go the way he and my grandmother went.

Most people called him Brewster. The Sage and I didn’t. We called him Brian, because that was his name.

Ooh, I was busy today. I was out in the garden, still chopping and beavering, by 8.30 and our good chum came to help at 9. Not long afterwards, the Sage, who had already been to get the day’s strawberries, joined us and we worked mightily for the next three hours. First we dug up a laburnum tree. This has been in the way, as it originally self-seeded into a path, for 60 years. In the past couple of years, I’d noticed it wasn’t flowering so well, some of the bark was dying back and some lichen was growing on it – all a sign that it was not healthy. When, having dug it up (and pushed and pulled it over), it was cut up, we discovered it was hollow with rot.

Then we tackled the lilac next to it. Now, I felt guilty there. It was healthy, but it had suckered and enlarged until it was several feet in diameter and thoroughly in the way. It isn’t now though. I sawed off the branches and C. dug out the roots, with me tugging until they broke through. After that, I went to make tea and lay tiredly on the lawn for ten minutes, but the indefatigable men didn’t and carried on working. When I’d drunk my tea I joined them, putting plasters on my hand first to stave off the threatening bllisters.

All in all, the big pine is not down yet, but it will be and a large area has been cleared.

After that, I picked a basket of runner beans to take to the shop, and went to work there for the next five hours.

Al got back and I was giving him a couple of messages, when I saw grinning faces through the window. It was our great friends Pam and Peter.

This is a friendship of four generations, so far. Peter’s grandfather and mine were friends, and my father was best man at his father’s wedding. We are friends and our children are with theirs, having gone to school with them and kept in touch.

First, I said they should come back for tea. Then I asked if they could stay for dinner? They could! Fortunately, I had bought a leg of lamb at the butcher’s – but a bowl of spaghetti would have been fine if not. I took the last of the beans, some strawberries and cream, some potatoes and broccoli and went over the road for lemonade – for whisky and lemonade is Pam’s tipple.

We had an entertaining evening, at which the Sage displayed (because it was relevant) part of my birthday present – which is a doozer and fantastically brilliant of him to find. I looked at the relevant bit and resisted glancing at the rest, rushing out of the room when he started to tell them about it.

Oh, do you notice, he said ‘part’ of my present. I wonder what the rest is? I feel all keen and happy in anticipation. Ro has already (for we are extremely prosaic on the whole, and discuss prezzies in advance) suggested buying the new Okkervil River album for me, which pleases me mightily. He has flattered me also by asking to borrow the ones I already have.

Pam and Peter are off to their house on Corfu at the end of the month, and they suggested I go and visit. I checked my diary and I only have a chink of a few days, Thursday to Monday. I am a bit torn here, but might just check out flights…

I spent a hot day with my pruning saw, always a pleasure – if a rather sweaty one. Do you remember a tall pine tree fell down in a gale earlier in the year? It’s made us look at the other pines in the garden, all of which are about the same age, were topped about 35 years ago and, since then, have not grown taller but have bushed out at the top, making them top-heavy. In short, they are coming down before any more fall.

The nearest to the house is being felled tomorrow (I promise you, it’s not a fine tree and we will plant at least one more to replace it). In preparation, Friend with a Chainsaw came and cleared some undergrowth yesterday. This has left a space. Left, it will be filled with Stuff. Untidy Stuff, because the Sage is something of a magpie. I have learned, over the years (and I am untidy too) that the best way to avoid this is not to leave a space in the first place.

Between the Space and the lawn is a very old fence held up with ivy and some scrubby lilacs overgrown with brambles. It’s all coming out. The lilacs have spread out over the years, dying back in the centre – which has let in the brambles. Oh, and next to the Space was a large, self-seeded 15 or more years ago, flowering currant. Was. I took it out this morning. This afternoon, I attacked the rest of the undergrowth. The Sage was startled when he arrived home. “We were doing that tomorrow, weren’t we?”

I feel some regret taking out the ivy, as so many insects live in it, but at least it is not in flower and it’s not hibernating time. There are many other places for wildlife in the garden, without worrying about the brambles and ivy right next to the house. I might end up with a more attractive garden, if I don’t falter.

Of me and a strange dog (no more greyhounds for this family)

And Ro

I first found this when visiting Dave, but Badgerdaddy has it too.

I am, indeed, this demure.

This morning, I was reading Doc, who was explaining why she has been going outside for a smoke rather than blogging, as a way of keeping herself sane with three children at home. “You’re invoking the Sanity Clause? ” I thought. “But there ain’t no Sanity Claus.”

Imagine my startled brain a few minutes ago when sitting down with lunch and the papers, I read Ken Russell’s column. He quoted the very same line.

Yesterday, I got a strong urge to listen to Pearl Jam. When I read Badgerdaddy, while the CD was still playing, he was reminiscing about their concert which he went to a few weeks ago.

I’d say I feel like Cassandra, but she was a prophet of doom and I only have happy thoughts. I know it’s all well within the bounds of likelihood really, but it does feel spooky.

I slept straight through the alarm and didn’t wake up until ten to nine. In my pre-waking dream, I swore twice in the final sentence, but I can’t remember why.

It was WI last night, which must have been to blame. It was run as a village social evening, with a treasure hunt and supper to follow, but I shared my bottle of wine with someone else and still brought some of it home. Lots of people there, and very jolly. I hadn’t known that the friend who picked me up (WI is in the next village, three miles away and uphill – for we do have hills in Norfolk after all) hasn’t been at all well and, three weeks ago, put her back out.

Her daughter, fortunately, was able to come out on that occasion (her husband was away at the time, doesn’t it always happen?) and first she, and then her grandson, came to stay the night. But next morning, once he’d gone to work, she became stuck again, and by that time she needed the loo rather badly. Her husband’s secretary arrived for work and she called her upstairs for advice. The doctor was called, but there was still the lavatorial problem. “Whatever did you do?” I asked. “Well, she put a towel under me” (oh god,you peed on the floor? said my expression) “and went to the scullery to find an old jug. It still had cobwebs and dust in it, I realised later. Then she asked if, still bent double, I could fall forwards, and she put the jug under me. Of course, afterwards, I couldn’t get up again. But then the doctor came and gave me some strong painkillers and a friend remembered she had rescued a Zimmer frame from a skip, and I was able to get about a bit more then. But I couldn’t come downstairs for four days.”

I’ve begged her to call me if she has any trouble again. I only saw her a month ago, and this has all happened since then.

I also spoke to the two people whose dogs have, they hope, been making babies together. It still isn’t definite if Bella is pregnant but, if she is, the puppies will be due on 4th September. Five family members want a puppy, but we’ll have the sixth if there is one – Bridget thinks that she might have a scan done, as Bella herself was one of a huge litter and she’d like to be prepared. My fingers are crossed hard, which makes for awkward typing.

The Jerusalem artichokes this morning. Since then we have had some rain, for which I believe I have to thank Motherofthebride

And, for Martina, ground elder. If left, it has rather pretty white flowers in early summer. It also has white roots that spread alarmingly, break easily and, when dug up, will grow from a small fragment.

I volunteered for a meme over at Ally’s place – Seven things about me and gardening.

1 I grew up in a household passionate about exhibiting. We had a full-time gardener when I was a child, and he and my parents discussed, endlessly, what was to be grown each year. They were all keen showmen and competed in local exhibitions, including the Royal Norfolk Show and the Suffolk Show. They won many prizes. In the run-up to a show, the best vegetables were kept back and we were only allowed to eat misshapen, overblown or imperfect food. After the show, much of the unchosen produce was past its best. Mr Weavers, the gardener, would think nothing of digging up a whole row of potatoes to find six exactly matching ones. In flower classes, they specialised in begonias and delpiniums. My parents went to the Chelsea Flower Show every year and went straight to the Blackmore and Langdon exhibit to see the new varieties. One year, my father held a dinner plate to a begonia bloom – the flower was larger and petals showed all round the plate. Mr Weavers would sit up half the night with a bucket of hot water and a bucket of cold, dipping the delphinium stalks in each alternately. This would encourage the buds high up the stalk to open, without making the lower ones drop. The prizes were money, which was always given to our gardener and his name as well as my parents’ was on the entry card, although it was my father’s name on the trophies won. I never enter shows as I am totally uncompetitive, but I love going to them and know exactly how to choose the best items. For example, it’s better to have six matching specimens, even if they are not the biggest, than four magnificent ones and two slightly smaller. Size is not the most important issue, shape and quality is. Presentation is very important, but it’s care that matters, not showiness. A dozen perfect shallots, properly dried off, their tops turned over, tied with raffia and neatly trimmed, in a shallow wooden box, nestling in sand, are a joy to see. They do not need prettying up, just showing at their best and being allowed to speak for themselves.

2 My father loved growing plants, but the garden and the greenhouses were Mr Weaver’s territory, jealously guarded. So he bought another greenhouse and cleared a piece of land, just for himself. One year he grew loofahs and had his picture in the paper. We used the loofahs in the bath for several years, with the big black seeds gradually working their way out. I’ve grown loofahs a few times. They are just like cucumbers to grow, but you have to be extremely careful when drying out the fruits, as they rot if they get the least damage.

3 Once, my father took me to the Municipal Nursery. The head gardener, who was a short tubby Scot called Mr Campbell, was extremely kind to me and showed me round the greenhouses, which were fabulous. There was a fully-grown lemon tree against the wall in one greenhouse, full of flowers and fruit. He gave me a lemon to bring home. He also gave me several exotic pot plants. Mr Campbell was in charge of all the parks and public gardens in Lowestoft and Oulton Broad and they always looked beautiful.

4 After my father died and when we could no longer afford a gardener, my mother and I still grew all our vegetables. I have always been a completely organic gardener and never used any artificial fertilisers or pesticides. Proper gardening is a passion, not a fashion. I have always encouraged wildlife, which are a natural pest control. I live in an agricultural area, and get in lots of cow manure, which I let rot down for at least a season before digging it in. In fact, I usually spread it on top of the beds in the autumn and fork it in in spring. I also make compost. I do buy seed compost because I can’t avoid it and because peat-based compost is best for seed-sowing, but good companies, now, make compost with recycled peat and claim to be environmentally ethical, so I hope that’s true.

5 I used to love growing flowers too, but I have been completely discouraged by the ground elder that riddles a large bed that cannot be cleared. There are three round beds in front of the house and these used to have elderly, straggly rose bushes and bedding plants in my in-laws’ day. I got the Bressingham Gardens catalogue (this was when it was still privately owned by Adrian Bloom) and went through it, looking for plants that would thrive in sandy soil, a sunbaked aspect and would grow no more than 4 feet high. I spent £100 on plants, 20 years ago. Most of them are still there and thriving, although a few died off young. I water plants when young or in extremely dry weather, but mostly I believe in having the right plant for the place and letting them fend for themselves. I chose plants that would look good most of the year, with variation in form and leaf colour, that would cover the ground and need little weeding.

6 I love growing things, but hate weeding. I’m best at the nurturing stage and then want to plant out and forget about it. For this reason, I always let weeds grow far too long before removing them, as I can’t be bothered to hoe. However, one does find self-seeded gems this way. I have forget-me-nots and heartsease in the kitchen garden and haven’t the heart to eradicate them. I let some vetch grow in a flower bed as it was pretty – this was a mistake as it’s very tenacious. The worst mistake I ever made was to grow some tansy, which came in a collection of herb seeds. It is beastly stuff. It stinks, it roots deeply and is hard to kill and it seeds like a Victorian paterfamilias.

7 When my children were young and life was very busy, my greenhouse was my refuge of calm. I used to grow loads of seedlings, not only for our own garden, but to sell at fêtes and fairs for local charities. I spent hours in the greenhouse, pricking out seedlings and caring for the plants. The family was always welcome to join me, but my strict rule was that it was a calm and happy place. They were not allowed to come and quarrel or complain. I grow a good many tender vegetables, but have the cheapest propagator possible, it being a soil warming cable in trays of earth, on which I put the seed trays and over which I have a framework draped with polythene to keep in warmth and humidity. It works fabulously well. The cable is 150 watts, so it’s like having 2 lightbulbs on at night for about 2 months, by which time I have enough plants to fill a 40×14 foot greenhouse, a 30×12 foot greenhouse, a 30×10 foot greenhouse and all the kitchen garden. Of course, as the plants get bigger I have to move them about to keep the most tender ones in the warmest place and allow room for everything to grow.

8 (Sorry, 7 was not enough) In the past few years, gardening has started to become a chore rather than a pleasure, and I am dealing with this by finding new and interesting varieties to grow and, paradoxically, by enlarging the vegetable garden. The best thing I ever did was to have proper paths put around the beds. We borrowed a cement mixer and mixed concrete for the paths, which are 2 feet wide around 4 foot wide beds. They are always clean and absorb warmth from the sun, which warms up the soil. Rainwater runs off and onto the beds, helpful in this dry place and on our sandy soil. If I can’t keep on top of the weeding, at least I don’t have a huge area of growth to deal with. I’m following the same principle in the new garden, but varying the sizes of the beds this time. Once my wall is built, I’m going to plant roses, jasmine and other scented plants on the drive side of it, and tender fruit trees such as peaches, plus cottage garden flowers like hollyhocks on the kitchen garden side. I am going to put down mulches early, so as to keep moisture in and smother weeds. I know my limitations and the limit of my time and enthusiasm, so I’ll really try not to get carried away and be overambitious, and then disappointed later. I am determined to get the wall done by the winter and the paths finished by next spring, so that next year I will be able to start to realise my dream. I won’t plant everything in one go, so as to extend the enjoyment. It’s something I’m looking forward to enormously, so expect some enthusiastic posts in the future. With pictures.

I almost forgot to write, as I’ve been commenting almost everywhere today. I thought, earlier, what I was going to write about, and now I’ve forgotten. I have an impassioned post all formed, but I feel quite mellow now, so it can wait.

Like the Boy, we had salmon for dinner tonight. Farmed, however, for the Wild* Atlantic variety is not delivered to my door by the good fishmonger Paul. And beans and pasta. As I gathered together the final forkful, Tilly appeared by my chair, tail wagging. How did she know it was the final forkful? She’s a dog. Dogs know.

I had, of course, put aside morsels of both salmon and pasta to share with her. She accepted them gracefully, without snatching. She breathed cowpat breath and we gazed at each other. Undoubtedly, she told me that she’s got the message. Eating cowpats is acceptable, rolling in them is not. I stroked her, telling her how long and elegant her neck is without her collar (which, washed, is still in the porch). She leaned in towards my hand appreciatively.

She looked at me again. I took an extra piece of pasta from the serving dish. “It’ll only go to the chickens” she had said.

You may think, by the way, that I pamper my dog. Chester, who died nearly three years ago, would disagree. He used to sit up at the table, on his own chair, to eat cheese. He had impeccable table manners.

*I’d have put in a quip about ‘wild? it was furious’, but it’s been done before.