Wessex Weekend

This is the weekend of the Wessex Gathering and I have a ticket to go. I booked it very soon after I got back from the Mercian Gathering last September. I had enjoyed myself so much and felt so good managing to camp and survive in a tent (which I hadn't done for a few years) that I was just bursting to head off to the next gathering.

That feels like such a long time ago. The Gathering started last night and I should have been in my car and heading off there some time in the afternoon. No, I'm not sitting with a laptop in a field in Dorset, I'm still at home. Stupidly, I let that feeling of capability, fun and adventure escape from me and as the weekend approached, the prospect of going became more overwhelming, more fraught with problems than I could manage. I think I'm slipping down the slippery slope of a depression and instead of getting out and doing something that would make me feel better, I have retreated into the house and found all sorts of reasons to prevent me from going.

Work is busy, I have a pile of paperwork related to the houses that I have to sort out, I have spent the day trying to sort out flights for my son so he can visit Ashley and achieved... absolutely nothing from the long list of things I need to get done.

The worst bit is that I feel so useless; worthless and like it's all so bloody pointless. It feels like I'm just such a waste of oxygen and that's not a good place to be. Kim is trying as hard as he can to say the right things, be positive and supportive, but it has to come from within and it ain't.

Anyway, I suppose that at least I haven't been a wet weekend for the WW people who have been brave enough to head off to Wessex, so that's one good thing. Sorry to sound like such a whingeing old windbag, but cheer is eluding me.

What Water?

What a fun week this has been. Traipsing off to Birmingham and driving home in horrendous downpours, sod-all visibility, but the prospect of getting home to peace and quiet made it all worthwhile. Only, I had forgotten that the council are re-surfacing our village road this week. So I got back to find a smiling man with a pneumatic drill chunking away all of five foot from my front door. Ok, it wasn't quite the tranquil haven I had been looking forward to, but at least I knew I wouldn't be loosing half a tyre down the increasingly abyss-like potholes.

Then it started to rain. Not that it had really stopped, but there are states of rain here in Somerset. In the same way the Inuit have 30 odd words for snow, I suspect we could out-do them for rain words. When I got home it was drizzling, then it was misty rain, then a splattery shower, then ten minutes of rain absence (this is not the same as not raining or dry as there is so much wet and humidity that it might as well be raining), and then it really rained - not stair rods or the huge, golf ball sized raindrops that you welcome so much after a dry spell, just constant rain. I went to bed.

Thursday moring dawned to the sound of beeping heavy machinery, steam rollers and the monster tarmac machine lumbering past the window, but at leat the sky was grey and nothing was falling out of it! One should be grateful for every season and I did my best. To be honest, the colour of the sky was bright ad cheery compared to how I felt; I was deeply tired, hadn't slept properly for several nights and was teetering on the edge of my own black abyss. It was one of those days when it felt like whatever I touched would fall apart, did fall apart or was actively conspiring to fall apart. Come the early evening, my son called to tell me he has decided to move to America and funnily enough, that helped make the day better.

It's not that I want him to go - I love him dearly and value the time we spend together above rubies, and I'm not even sure it it's a good time for him to go out there with the recession that's happening. I am happy for him though, that he has realised that he does want to be with Ashley, his sweetheart, who moved out there just over a week ago with her family. She had asked him to go with her and he was torn between going, the possible opportunities and being with his girlie and the security of life as he knew it, all his friends and a secure job that he loves. I suspect he's had a very hard time of it for the past couple of months trying to figure out what he wanted and what to do. Now he has decided and Kim and I are to swing inot action to sort out as much paperwork as we can to help him along. Anyway, the net result of getting the phone call was to open the flood gates and I cried like I haven't for a long time (but only after I hung up).

Just as my face stopped leaking, and only because my eyes had swollen up so much there wasn't much space for the tears to ooze out, the sky started again; the pit, pit, pat of the opening chords of the symphony. Before long it sounded as though someone was hurling marbles at the roof! The conservatory caved in and leaked all over the place because of the sheer force and amount of the rain. The lane down the side of the house turned into a fast flowing river. There was lightning, thunderclaps that were as loud as I've ever heard and rain that wasn't as gentle as stair rods - it was like having a water cannon pointed at the house, the village and all around.

Now, we're good at wet in Somerset, but this was exceptional; even the cat woke up and looked up when the thunder was sounding, and that was something, considering he was sleeping off a large lunch of chicken breast. Then we heard "Flash floods in Somerset!" on the national news "Crewkerne flooded badly!" Oh bugger. Our little house is in Crewkerne and we have just finished rennovating it, decorating it and yes, just when I thought the day couldn't get any worse, Crewkerne flooded.

I'm just about to try to negotiate my way out of the village, past the tarmac machine and road rollers to go to Crewkerne. I don't know what state I shall find the little house in, but I'm a bit worried. I suppose this has, at least, made up my mind about going to the Wessex Gathering - I'm not. At least, I'm not camping. If I feel inclined, I might drive down tomorrow and spend a day there and just come home at night. It's a waste of a ticket, but if the little house is wrecked, the worry would probably dilute my enjoyment anyway. Keep your fingers crossed that the Victorians built my little house high enough that it's not going to mean starting the rennovations all over again.

Doom, Doom...

What a pants day it is today. Howling winds, lashing rain and the lanes are full of plastic bottles and drinks cans ejected from grockle cars over this dismal Bank Holiday.

I'd have been quite happy staying indoors snuggled up to Tom on the sofa, but I had to drag off to Marston Magna and had a bit of a scare aquaplaning along the A303, then I got drenched, despite waterproof, just getting in and out of the car and to top it all off... I have to drive to Birmingham this afternoon, in the rain and with all the returning bank holiday traffic. Oh Yippee.

If I had thought about it while I was out this morning, I would have picked up all the cans and bottles the townies had thrown into the lanes (even if it meant I would have got uttery saturated) so I could hurl them at grockle cars on the M5 - just so they felt nice and 'at home' with the flying litter. Bastards. Why don't they stay in their towns and throw their litter in their own front gardens?

Still, I suppose this weather is a blessing, at least they won't be travelling the lanes today. Our lanes, in heavy rain like this, turn into small ponds and rivers and in one or two places get very deep; deep enough to kill the engines of the unwary and the grockles. Muahahahaha!

It's rather nice living in a place that becomes hard to get to in bad weather. It just makes me wish that it has started raining on Wednesday and continued until today - our lanes would have been nice and clear and I wouldn't have been such a grumpy old git.

Personally, I'm still living in hope that Kim will finally see sense and buy a birthday present for me that I keep asking for. For a number of years, I have been asking for a Land Rover with a sort of gun turret arrangement on the top of it. I have also asked him for a long bow and a cross bow, but he keeps buying me things like diamond earrings. It's very sweet and generous of him, but my psychotic alter ego is getting impatient and this year, he had better come up with the goods, or the consequences may be dire... cos when I feel compelled to go and buy my own cross bow, it will be an industrial sized version.

Once in possession of said items of hardware, I fully intend to sit in my wonderful window that sticks out over the main road of Shepton and Goddess help anyone littering, honking their horn, revving engines and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Never mind 'vengence will be mine', all I'm after is a bit of peace and quiet and a life not blighted but inconsiderate bastards, local and grockle.

In-Flight Meal

Today, sadly, I missed an amazing spectacle. Kim was in the kitchen, standing by the sink (nope, not inspired to wash the delicate glasses that have been piling up all week) and the back door was open. In flew a fly, and after the complaints I had made earlier about one that had got into my room his eye was taken with this small intruder; but not for long...

The fly had got no more than half way across the kitchen before it died. No, it didn't drop out of the sky with a sudden coronary. One of our local bluetits flew into the kitchen, caught the fly as it was heading towards the inner part of the house, and immediately swooped out of the back door again. How amazing is that?

I know that it's a staple of bird diet to eat insects, but flying into our house to grab an in-flight meal is rather bold of the bluetit. And isn't that a much nicer, more environmentally friendly way of dealing with flies? Little blighter must have seen the Barbie pink fly swat I had bought at the garden centre and decided that it would be a waste of a meal!

Long live our intrepid bluetits!

Grumpy Old Bat

I don't know what's happening this week, but I feel like a complete wreck. Bits of me ache, not the usual bits like back and hips, but I feel like I'm 598 and falling apart. It's very frustrating, as I have been travelling the back lanes of south Somerset and this morning followed a young hen pheasant who hadn't sussed out what to do when meeting a car. I've had the lovely Millie cat to stroke each morning and Tom to snuggle up to in the evening and life should be feeling great, but I feel all urgh and deflated.

Just ignore me, I'm only having a whinge. Work is piling up and I can't see the wood for the trees; in fact, I shouldn't be blogging at all, as I have yet another proposal to write, a contract to draw up and I have to do a telephone tutorial for a client this evening on how to use their new system. Blagh - what I want to do is bury my head under a pillow, pull the duvet over my head and drift away somewhere different. I'm feeling all restless and dying to just pick up, think of a destination and go there. I haven't done that in ages - I used to do it when I was on my own - just think "Oh, I fancy going to Carnac" and I'd book a ferry, cross the chanel and do it.

These days, it's all so... turgid and difficult. It's not my work that keeps me from such things - I am more than happy to work all sorts of odd hours to make the time to be able to do these things, but somehow it's not the same when you have to think about another person and what they do and don't want. I suppose that being on top of each other, literally in next door rooms, for the past five weeks hasn't helped things along - I'm missing the long silences that being on my own gives me.

Actually, writing tht has given me an insight. I like silence and seclusion and I am happy in my own company. I also like socialising, but I like to do it on my own terms and when I want to seek out the company of others, not when it suits them. Sharing a house, which is also a place of work, with someone doesn't give that option and it's not like the normal life of working people when you are separated all day during the week because of working in different places. It's even less normal than just working in the same place all the time, as he often works away from home and I spend all week on my own; just lately, though, he hasn't had much work and the stuff that he has had has been home based. There's no consistency to the home/away pattern and I think that it's this that challenges me. If he works away too long, I miss him and wish he were at home more and if he's home for more than a week or two, I wish he were working away!

Never happy? That's me! Poor man has been slogging away on some particularly sticky code for one of my new projects and doing it with the nasty virus that has been doing the rounds. There has been the odd whimper and groan emmanating from his office, but on the whole, he has been soldiering on valiantly. I have brought him lucozade, magnums (very good for poorly men, I'm told), cherries and strawberries and as much TLC as I could muster and he seems to be recovering. The time has come now, though, for me to break out and have silence and then an adventure. I have no idea what I'm going to do... that's the whole point of an adventure I suppose. Just acting on a whim and going off and doing something new and different... that's what I need.

I'm stretching myself with the work I'm doing, as every time I think I have got to grips with a new technology or topic, something comes along and I'm back to square one - all fine and well (if frustrating at times), but outside of work, I don't feel challenged or like I'm stretching myself or spending my time well - there is so much world to see before I die and the way I'm feeling this week, I don't have long left! Oh dear, what a grumpy old troglodyte I am. And grumpier still because of the high heel red sling-backs...

There comes a time in the fatness of women when wearing high heels is no longer reasonable. When you consider that one's entire body weight is focussed down on to the ball of the foot, one's poor feet can only take so much punishment. I used to live and die in very high heels - it was a sort of trademark. I could flounce about all day and dance all night in long, spiky heels quite happily, but then, I was a dainty little thing. These days, I look like a walrus on steroids and to put that much tonnage on the balls of my feet, a mere few square inches, is just torture.

The trouble is, high heels are so flattering and apart from the added inches of height, make my legs look so much less... doughy. My ankles seemed to miss the message from the rest of my body, and as the blubber piled on elsewhere over the years, my ankles remained firmly slender. Now, you'd think I'd be grateful for such a blessing, but if you wear flat shoes and skirts long enough to cover up the blubber, it just looks plain silly. Big body and tiny, weedy ankles that don't look robust enough to hold up what's above. Anyway, I decided that it was about time I got back on some heels and made the most of my ankles. It's not like anyone will look at me and go "Oh wow! Hasn't she got neat little ankles" and not notice the Pilsbury dough boy wobbling around on top of the ankles, but it seems a shame not to make the most of an advantage.

Erk! I had lost the art of walking in heels. It never occurred to me that I'd have to re-learn that art of walking in high heels, but that's what has happened. I have a wonderful pair of 3 1/2" high heel red sling-backs, very pretty and girly, and I'm lurching about like a stilt-walker who's had a few too many! Not a good or elegant look, I can tell you. So, here I am, tottering about on my red shoes upstairs on soft carpet, trying to regain the art of the slinky walk, the swinging hips à la Monroe and the long lost elegance and I'm failing miserably. So, this too is making me an even more grumpy old troglodyte. Cripes, at this rate I shall have to resort to wearing crimplene dresses, purchased from catalogues with support stockings over big knickers and bowl along the street with a tartan trolley. *sigh* I feel so old.

The Blue Nile

Well, I was lurking in a Tesco car park the other day, just about to jump out the car and some programme on Radio 4 was on with Annie Lennox talking about music she liked. She mentioned The Blue Nile and I have to admit that I hadn't heard of them; they played A Walk Across The Rooftops and I was just smitten. I sat, half in and half out of the car and had to listen. I dashed home and downloaded the eponymous first album and Hats and it's all I've listened to since. What haunting, amazing music and incredible vocals.

That's all. I've seen another deer, this one with sprouting baby antlers, I've had innumerable pheasants playing chicken in the lanes and apart from that, life has been dull and grindingly busy. Still, at least I have something wonderful to listen to while I'm working!

Trembling

Every morning this week I have to travel the small, winding lane that I wrote of on Monday. Yesterday, it was devoid of anything more spectacular than blackbirds and hedgerows burgeoning with campion, late bluebells and hogweed. This morning, the rabbits were skittering across the lane and a pheasant decided that it would stand it's ground and try to stop me driving up the lane. The creatures in this tiny part of Somerset seem to have no fear of humans and a stubborn determination to be masters of the road!

A balmy hour spent outdoors, with Millie the cat bumping my elbow for strokes as I looked out over the valley and watched insect life thrumming around the flowers and herbs just deepened the connection I have been feeling all week with the God and with the pulsing energy that is in the earth at the moment. There is always a week in the Spring when the roadsides and hedgerows turn from their winter drabness and undress to vigorous growth, greening and flower and the power of this is palpable. This is the week. To open up to this energy is like taking a line of coke, dancing to one's favourite music, singing with total abandon, breathing like you nearly drowned and feeling everything with such intensity it makes one gasp.

It was a weird experience; not new, but stronger and more intense than I have had before and it left me weeping; it was rather like petite mort. Not a good state when behind the wheel of the MR2. Finally, I found somewhere to stop and mopped my eyes, took some deep breaths and composed myself. This is a difficult and yet welcome experience. It reminds me of the energy and power within myself, of the rawness of some drives and urges, yet it also highlights the constraints under which I live. Most of all, and here's the funny bit - it makes me feel beautiful. I become whole, a creature of nature and without all the cerebral platitudes that hold me back, to be so in tune and without thought for the 'stuff' that fills our heads every day - that's beauty and purity. Now, if I can only find a way to hold on to that...

Glimpses of The God

This morning dawned with glorious sunshine and I jumped into my car to head off to see one of my customers. The local trip took me through very narrow single track lanes on the back road between Dowlish Wake and Knowle St Giles and was just breath-taking.

As I drove along, a small raptor flew out from the verge, straight down the lane in front of me; I'm sure it was a merlin, though I'm not Bill Oddie when it comes to birds of prey. Wow. As if that weren't treat enough, a deer dashed across the road in front of me; I was travelling nice and slow, simply because you can't see very far ahead, so there was no danger to the deer, but by then I was grinning like a village idiot with the sheer delight of seeing so much nature up close.

Not to be left out, a buzzard, who had been perched on a tree stump not far above the side of the road took off, swooping within a few feet of the car. He was handsome and so close it was possible to see all the lovely patterns on his feathers. "OK, I thought, things can't get any better than this" as I continued to amble the car along the lane. Not so, as the rabbits hadn't had their five minutes of fame and put in an appearance!

Just as I crested the hill and stared the gentle descent towards my customer's place, with the most astounding views over a valley towards slightly misted green hills, the last player in the saga took their leading role. The 'road' I was travelling is a typical back-of-nowhere road in Somerset and has grass growing up the middle of it, through the tarmac. Sat right in the middle of the road, on a patch of grass was a partridge. Now, I don't know much about partridges, I even had to check in my bird book before being sure it was what I had seen, but what I can tell you is that they are not the brightest birds on the planet!

The partridge decided to run along the road in front of the car. Now, any sensible bird, even the daftest pheasant, will dive into the hedgerow when faced with trying to outrun a BMW, but not this partridge! So, imagine the scene; a country lane, sunlight dappling through leaves, birds singing and this poor, dim partridge, bobbling along the road in front of my car, which was now travelling at fast-partridge pace. Luckily, the track I had to turn into appeared and I left the bird to recover.

As I approached my customer's door, a swallow began swooping and diving so low that I felt as if I could reach out to touch it. I wasn't with my customer for long and when I turned out of the track, guess who was waiting for me? Yup, the partridge was waiting where I had left him, as if he were ready to take on the race again! I couldn't oblige and turned the way I had come, but with such a smile that I shall remember this morning for a long time.

There have been many discussions about faith and belief in other places and somehow I haven't had the time or enthusiasm to join in. This morning is why. This, to me, is all the evidence of being within a whisker of the God that I need. I was surrounded and touched by the sheer magical beauty and power that Herne is so why would I rail against some silly intellectual who's blinded by the light shining from his own behind? My feet are in the earth, the sun is on my brow and the Goddess and God are present - that's good enough for a simpleton like me.

Gardening

Phew! It's humid. I have been pottering in the tiny garden, trying to organise it better and I think I have succeeded. Only time will tell if I have managed to move plants about without killing them - I had rather hoped that we would get lots of rain to water them in nicely without resorting to the hose pipe, but no such luck.

I have moved one of the rosemary plants to a sunny corner, shunted the variegated Weigela against the back wall where it won't smother the smaller plants, dug up the triffid, called that because I can't identify it, and the ice plants are now re-planted in front of the tall peonies and seem to be making a gradual recovery.

My new foxglove, a present from TGW, is now in the ground beside the new white Centaurea. By moving the rosemary, I made space in the little herb bed for my comfrey and there was even space to squeeze in a sage purpurea and the little coriander plant that has been clinging on to life for the past week, hoping I might treat it better.

All I have left to plant now is the sprawling lilac, my marjoram and the yellow geum. There's space for the geum but I'm not sure which little gap to put it into, so I shall wait until I'm sure; goodness only knows where I shall fit the marjoram. The lilac is going to be more troublesome, as getting near the wall requires one to wade through lilies (I thought they were crocosmia, but TGW tells me they're not) and I don't think the earth is high enough beside the wall. I shall probably end up planting it in the one raised bed I have, so that it can gracefully trail towards the lawn.

Yes, a lawn. Before I took a sharp knife out with me, it was more like a sea of dandelions, but I think I managed to get them all, dagger through the root, before they went to seed and the grass will be cut, just as soon as I can tear myself away from the keyboard to get all red in the face again!

Finally, after rather longer than it should have taken, the garden feels like it's mine. There are still lots of fuchsias from the previous owners, but they don't dominate quite so much now. I have managed to open out the small space we have so sitting on the bench means I can see more than the one plant in front of me. It's a feeling of great satisfaction. All I have to do now is to water everything again, put away the tools and then spend a few hours trying to get the bottom of my feet back to skin colour!

Blagh Day

You know... one of those days when the air is still, heavy and humid, you can't be arsed to do anything and the things you have planned all feel like too much. That's today.

Yesterday I had masses of swatting to do as I was supposed to receive a vetting call at 4 p.m. that would allow me to take on another course to teach. I got my head down, vacuumed up the gems of wisdom and was parked at my desk, headset on, mug of hot tea beside me, ready for the fray, only the call never came.

The day had started well. I set myself goals to get through the chapters I had to learn, and as a break and treat between chapters checked Whitewicca and Skitched my pictures of Pembrokeshire into small and manageable sizes so I could post them here. Calls rolled in for my other business and I took a number of bookings, which on any normal day would have me grinning, but after the missed call, it was rather like someone had stuck a pin in my balloon.

In the evening I took up the hems on three dresses. At a towering 5'3" short, I either make alterations or look like I'm wearing an ankle length arrangement and I always trip over the blooming things as I go upstairs! I had a pretty good day and got lots done.

Today, I was supposed to be meeting up with someone and spending some time in Bath but neither of us felt up to it so we postponed the trip. It took all my energy to heap the ingredients for bread into the bread machine (note: I'm not even thinking of kneading dough!) and now, I just feel all limp and weary. I hate this sort of muggy, airless weather and it's worse after spending two days in Atlantic breezes.

On a cheerier note, I tried out the new Patchouli and Sandalwood soap that I brought home from Wales and it's as scrumptious to use as it smells in the packet. Lots of foam, no drying or tautening of the skin and the most luscious aroma - this is definitely a soap I shall hide from Kim. There's no point in wasting a nice soap on a man with no sense of smell, is there? That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it!

I think I might just be able to rustle up the energy to crop and resize some of the rather nice pictures I took earlier in the week for one of my projects - can't post them here as they will soon be on display elsewhere!

Goodness, I hope the wind gets up or the sun burns through - I have a wonderful foxglove, a present from TGW, to put in the garden and a couple of other plants I treated myself to while in Wales. There's a lovely garden centre called The Perennial Nursery, just north of St. David's and they had a comfrey that called out to me, a cheery yellow geum, a white Centaurea to go with the blue one I already have and Kim fell in love with a low, sprawling Californian lilac that will hopefully be persuaded to trail over the side wall.

Sadly, my garden is so tiny, I now have to do the work of moving some of the bigger plants around. There are several large plants all clumped together and stifling some of the smaller, more delicate ones and they all need shuffling about. This is probably about the very worst time of year to move anything, but I shall just have to hope that I don't manage to slaughter too many of the plants I would like to keep. Once done, I shall have space for all the other lovely things waiting to call my pocket handkerchief home. It would just be so much easier with a decent supply of oxygen!

Who Said It Rains All The Time In Wales?

This is not my experience. I have been to Wales on three occasions now, if one excludes the trips to ferry ports en route to Ireland. The first trip was to spend Christmas in a cottage and, yes, it did rain all the time, but it was December and somehow, that seemed forgiveable.

The second visit to Wales was about five years ago and I spent a week on the Pembrokeshire coast in bright sunshine, warm, balmy days and had a very relaxing time. On Monday, Kim and I set out for a short break, staying near Newgale Sands in Pembrokeshire and far from raining, I came home with sunburn!

This part of Wales, and it's the only part I know, is absolutely lovely. Driving past Port Talbot leads me to believe that it isn't the ugliest part by a country mile. With Atlantic breezes and crystal clear waters, it is a place I could spend a lot of time, given half a chance.

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The place we stayed was my friend's "shack" about five miles inland from Newgale, a quiet country location surrounded by bluebells and campion. A near-tame pheasant roamed the lawns croaking and strutting and I managed to get to within three foot of him to take some pictures; what a tranquil place.

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On Tuesday we took a slow drive up the coast, past Solva and St. David's and happened upon a lovely bay at Newport (not the big Newport near Cardiff, but a small settlement set on a horseshoe bay), where we had a wander around and lapped up the sunshine.

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Then, onwards to Castell Henllys, an iron age settlement that has some wonderful roundhouses built on the original sites and postholes.

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We sat on the benches around the central fire and watched the swallows, who had made their nests at the tops of the roundhouses, perform aerobatics while the sun beat down and the birds sang. (Still no wet Welsh rain). The stream at the bottom of the hill on which Castell Henllys is set...

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bubbled cooly and it was very tempting to dabble one's hot toes after the climb up the hill, especially as I had started to look pinker than my T-shirt!

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(rubbish self-portrait poking a D40 in my own direction!)

The entrance to the settlement has a wonderful totem

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and an educational centre that is a really lovely eco building that I'd happily copy to live in. Best of all, on calling into the shop for a bottle of water after our climb, we found some absolutely gorgeous soaps that were locally made, with none of the usual nasties like parabens and SLS. The smell was just divine and I couldn't resist stocking up with some of the more luxurious ones and a bar of cook's soap, which is just fab for getting onion and garlicky smells off your hands. The Soap Shed is a small business with great products and I shall certainly be using them again (though I wish they'd get a proper online shop function going).

So, there I was, surrounded by aromatic soaps, with pink, tingly skin and feeling very chilled. We headed back for the evening and just had a quiet time reading and listening to music. The shack has no television or telephone and it was just delightful to make conversation and not have the beast in the corner dominating the evening.

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Next day, it was off to Newgale to try out the temperature of the Atlantic. This was chilly, but amazingly invigorating. Two days after the Bank Holiday, the place was empty and as luscious as I remembered it from my previous visit - just the occasional surfer or dog chasing sticks and ropes and dashing into the waves. Happy days!

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After a few other visits, the compulsory woollen mill, a pottery that was closed and so on, we headed into Solva to the Ship Inn for a very good curry (the back of the Inn is run by Indians who do high quality food and substantial portions) and an aerial display that was quite fascinating. There were a number of buzzards soaring on the evening thermals and they must have come close to a crow's nest and suddenly one very brave crow took on two buzzards in a Battle of Britain style dogfight. The crow couldn't compete with beak or tallon, but managed to fly so much more nimbly that he zoomed under the wings of the buzzards so that they lost their lift and wobbled enough that they eventually decided that it wasn't worth the trouble and moved away.

Crow 2:0 Buzzards

And still no rain. What's all this strange mythology about it always raining in Wales...? Crumbs - it's so good in Pembrokeshire that I could be very tempted to get a place there. Still, I had better not tell anyone about it or they will all stop going to Cornwall and ruin the place...!

Beltaine

Greetings on this Beltaine morning!

The sun is currently breaking through a chink in the leaden grey sky and lighting the leaves on trees in my line of sight. The leaves are glowing a fresh, bright green on one tree and on the other, a rich coppery colour; set against the dark grey of the sky, it looks utterly beautiful. The light is bouncing off the roof of a garden shed in silvery layers and the leaves of my neighbour's bamboo are dancing in the breeze.

Today feels like a new beginning. It's not just the hackneyed idea that I ought to feel something fresh and new today, but I really do. I spent two hours with a Medical Herbalist yesterday on my first appointment and as part of the process, I had to tell her all about my life, my illnesses and medical history. That was a fascinating thing to do; apart from anything else, it made me realise that we present ourselves in many differing ways to different audiences. I tried to be as objective as I could, and realised that I have been, on the whole, as healthy as a horse throughout my life. That was a nice discovery.

Rather than taking notes in the way the medical profession do, Shelly, the Medical Herbalist, just let me ramble and flicked through her tick boxes and paperwork as I did some real stream of consciousness talking about me. She's an incredibly articulate and intelligent woman and her ability to let things flow without getting in the way of the process was fabulous. I left feeling like I knew myself a lot better and understood my situation more clearly than I have for a number of years. I know that I'm not floundering around in this morass of menopausal ineffectiveness and that I have, without being hugely conscious of it, been putting structures and strategies in place to get my life to how I want it to be. That was just such a great thing to realise!

What was more remarkable was that I felt so energised and was bouncing around on my chair as I was talking about this, that and the other. It feels as if life is starting to trickle back through my veins.

I did something new as well today. After writing the top part of this blog in the morning, I headed off to the beautician and as I had a manicure booked, I sat back and enjoyed the pampering. When it came to selecting the colour for my nails, she whipped out a deep purple nail varnish and looked hopeful. Now, anyone who has known me for ten minutes will know that one of my favourite rants is about the 'fashion pagan' dripping with pentacles and purple nail varnish! I have never worn this colour on my nails as a matter or principle, but today, I decided to give it a go. I rather suspect it looks as though I have trapped my fingernails in the door jamb, but there has to be a first time for everything and this is my salute to the purple hat!

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The Lady must have seen the funny side of things as, on the way home, all traffic was held up by a gang of Aylesbury ducks waddling very slowly over the main road to the village so that they could dabble in a large, muddy puddle. She waited until I had got into the house before the skies opened and then, as the rain stopped, we got a double rainbow over the village! I took a picture and it's hard to see the upper rainbow, but to the eye, they were very bright and clear.

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Hey! Maybe I should stick with purple polish rather than my normal scarlet...