spooky or what!

 

Moving into our extremely dilapidated and creaky old house, it seemed a reasonable question to ask Lucinda, who was selling it to us, and moving to a very nice, very new house not far away, if the house had any ghosts.

‘Well, I’ve never seen one!’ she robustly and rather cryptically replied.

So in we moved; the  whole process of which took five days, even though we weren’t moving far, and I found it all so stressful my face swelled up, first on one cheek, then the swelling travelled across my nose to the other cheek. No one was very interested, but at the same time, after having to leave several dinner parties early feeling ill, and once fainting spectacularly and inexplicably in the cellar, I discovered I was unable to eat any sort of gluten.

‘So when exactly did you become a coeliac?’ boomed my sort of friend, Prue.

‘Well more or less when we moved in here.’
‘And did you know Lucinda, your predecessor in the house, was a coeliac too?’ she persisted.

I did actually, but I hadn’t connected the two of us with any significance, why would I? Until the well meaning and sort of friend continued, ‘and I think you should get your house doused.’

 What! Why? And what am I going to do if I’m told it’s built along the wrong ley lines. Apparently it is better to be actually haunted, as ghosts are easier to deal with than imperfectly behaved ley lines!
 
Well I’m pretty superstitious anyway; no crossing on the stairs, nodding three times for a magpie, ladders, all the usual things. So when she came round again with a book, a rather chilling read about having one’s house doused for spirits, it was guaranteed to scare me, but if there were any troublesome influences, reassuringly I could have stakes hammered into significant points around the house which would divert the trouble, making appropriate corrections and ‘Diana, I feel sure there might be something amiss because when Lucinda moved out of your house she wasn’t a coeliac any more!’ 

So against my better judgement, which clearly had deserted me totally that day, I agreed for her to speak to a friend; some kind of healer. ‘He healed my dog!’ she bellowed triumphantly at me. I didn’t ever discover what was wrong with it.    

She negotiated with her friend who would come over and check out the geopathic stress levels of the house. He would need to see the whole house. ‘Don’t worry about tidying up Diana, he’s not coming to be looking at the mess.’ Well I did my best to put away as much as I could, as I couldn’t help feeling to be as profoundly untidy as I am might be construed as having a negative effect on the house. I didn’t want her friend having any excuse for finding poor energy levels inside. Our appointment was made for 1pm and Prue would come along too, so it made for an exhausting morning I can tell you. And as 1 o’clock approached I was actually feeling quite nervous. What if the house actually did have a problem? If it did would I really want to know? I definitely didn’t want to know if it was haunted, even if ghosts are apparently easier to sort out than ley lines.

And so 1 o’clock came. And went. Nothing. No friend of Prue’s appeared. And what is more, no Prue either! At first I was relieved, then gradually annoyed. Quite apart from the mental energy and considerable angst over all this, I’d actually wasted a whole morning tidying for heaven’s sake. At 4 o’clock I rang Prue.

‘Where’s your friend?’ I asked before she had time to say anything. When she did speak she was almost hysterical.
‘Haven’t you heard?’ she said, distraught.
'Heard what, Prue? ‘
‘He’s in hospital, he’s had a heart attack, this morning, haven’t you heard? On his way to your house!’

Well I know that’s terrible, but ‘How would I have heard, Prue, why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked. She said she thought his son would have rung me, but why didn’t she ring me? ‘Prue, why couldn’t you have told me!!’ I asked her incredulously, by now completely furious!

I saw her some time later in Sainsburys, where we spoke briefly, coolly; apparently he is completely recovered, but he didn’t ever ring me, and I still don’t quite understand. And I don’t know if she does either.

But a heart attack, on his way to douse my house! What does that tell you?

 

 

the patter of tiny feet

The autumn nights are drawing in, I've been clearing the long border and making blackberry jelly, the first fires have been lit, Downton Abbey is back, and here at the Old Vicarage are the other first real signs of cold weather; yes, the patter of tiny feet upstairs.  Well not just upstairs; everywhere. In the kitchen, and specifically the cutlery drawer, there is a very strong smell of mice. They are back to overwinter in our warm floorboards and thick walls, and during the PCC meeting held here last week around the kitchen table, there was a terrible pause while everyone held their breath to listen to the squeaking behind the aga.

‘Did you hear that?’ said the Vicar.

‘No?....Oh, that's......um.....probably the children.’ I said firmly, shuffling my papers in a pointless attempt to hide the noise. 'Tea anyone?'

So Tabby Mo has been allowed into the kitchen, and has obliged by performing the most impressive mousing I've ever seen. From apparent sleep in a wing chair he flew through the air to land on the dishwasher which was covered with glasses waiting to be loaded. So flawless were his leap and landing he missed all the glasses, and completed the single movement across from chair to dishwasher by lifting his head with a mouse in his mouth. I wanted to clap!!

Four years ago at 1am I was woken by the earthquake at Market Rasen. It sounded, and felt, as though a train was hurtling beneath the house. I sat up holding the edge of the shaking bed wondering what could possibly be happening.  I was alone with the children, who hadn't woken and I kept looking out of the windows to see if any neighbours' lights were on so I could ring them. But far more terrifying was the sound of the mice in the walls, scrabbling and squeaking to escape. I lay awake all night shivering in fear, convinced the mice had a premonition of an aftershock so great a huge hole would open under the house into which we would disappear. I could imagine the village the next day peering into the hole saying, 'Well that's disappointing. She made quite good cakes for the fete.'

But this week something upstairs has caused me the greatest concern. I know a lone mouse makes a noise so magnified it can sound like a whole army of rodents, and up in the attics here, undoubtedly there are mice, but whatever moved in above us was, without a doubt, much much bigger than a mouse, and in the deepest, darkest part of the night when one’s imagination is at its most vivid, I could believe the creature to be far larger than I initially imagined. After another sleepless night, and dispatching my husband on numerous trips up the dodgy loft ladder, well someone had to investigate, he went to the two excellent ironmongers for rat poison and traps, while I googled pictures of rat droppings. Should they be smooth like those of a mouse, because these weren’t. He returned with a trap, and those brilliant paper sachets of poison which you don’t have to touch, just leave on the tray provided with them.

The following night was fairly sleepless again while we listened to what sounded like an elaborate  game of marbles above our heads. Over morning tea in bed I wearily suggested my husband check the trap. A good keeper checks his traps every hour, I reminded the head still buried beneath his pillow. Up in the attic the trap was untouched, but the bags of poison had been moved and partly buried under a rough pile of leaves and twigs, and beside them was a collection of conkers and walnuts, which explained the game of marbles we had heard. ‘It’s a squirrel! Oh no, poor thing! We must take away the poison,’ I exclaimed.

‘No, No, it’s like a rat, we can’t have it in the house, think of the wiring, do you want the house to burn down!’ My husband was adamant. I did persuade him to block the two most obvious holes and maybe that has worked, or the squirrel is hibernating, or has eaten the poison, but we haven’t heard it since.

 

We came home from our holiday to find Jesus had died.

We came home from our holiday to find Jesus had died. I know; sad. Readers of my blog may remember he was the broiler chicken my daughter rescued from university after he’d grown up in a boys’ student house living on beer and chips. Last week as we piled out of the car from Dorset, our lovely house-sitter informed us, after one last randy fling, (that’s him, not her) she found him flat out cold on the henhouse floor. She buried him in a grave so shallow his white tail feathers were actually sticking out of the ground and made him a cross with twigs and grass, and although it was so kind of her I’m afraid I had to work quite hard not to laugh. I love my chickens; really love them, but this one was just not that loveable.

So with the randy old bugger gone I felt I could stock some better birds. In the past I’ve bought my chickens at the market at Melton Mowbray. Operating every Tuesday and Friday, it is a stock market, not a pet shop. The last time I went there, I took my nine year old son and his friend to help me choose more chickens. I promptly lost the boys while I was browsing around the chicken cages, and when I finally caught up with them they were at the front of one of the auctions where the rabbits and eggs were being sold. I pushed my way to the front and at exactly the moment I put out my hand to squeeze my son’s shoulder, the auctioneer stepped forward and handed him the box of budgerigars he had just bid for and won. Unable to decide if I should be furious at his buying them, (although I was) or actually admiring him for working out the auction system, (for which, yes I was too), we diverted to buy then a cage, budgie food and the wretched cuttlefish shell thing, and by then of course I was terribly distracted when it came to buying any chickens. Hastily bidding for a cage full of beautiful strong birds, it was only on the drive home I noticed what sounded ominously like crowing from the box on the back seat.....and by the time we were home, I realised my son was allergic to budgerigars. So after the briefest of trials of both cockerels and budgies, all went to the local gamekeeper who has a huge cage of budgies, and very likely a huge freezer full then of cockerels.

So the latest girls in the orchard have come from the excellent chicken farmer in Wing near Rutland Water. Deciding not to clip their wings to give them some chance against the fox, I’d like to say they are settling in well, but they are sleeping in a pear tree at night, and resisting all my attempts to put them to bed in the hen house.

Meanwhile in the kitchen garden out of the warm compost heap came another garden guest.  Mo and Angel kept an eye on it, until Mo sent it on its way.

I’ve been gardening as ever; the catch-up after the holiday, alternately bending to weed and standing upright again for deadheading, and by the evening I do feel quite creaky, and as it’s too warm to wear boots I’ve been gardening in my crocs, so if anyone has a top tip for cleaning my seriously, um, outdoor feet, please could you let me know.........

After the biblical weather....

........the sun SHONE, for the most gorgeous weekend at last in the garden. Sitting in the quiet garden with a cup of tea and Mirabel Osler's beautiful book, ‘A gentle plea for chaos,’ was utter heaven, before some fierce candlelit croquet at dusk yesterday evening. It’s the best way to play; with a glass of wine and the falling light there are lively discussions about whether the balls actually make it through the hoops or not.

 The middle of the day is too hot for gardening, and I must remember how that feels, but when the heat is a little less I have been clearing the out of control strawberry bed where, for every plant I keep, about 6 others attached umbilically to the parent plant must be thrown away. It would be better to give them away, but for now they’re all going on the compost heap. This year the whole bed has been a rather pointless exercise as the squirrels ate ALL of the strawberries. Throwing most of the weeds over the fence, they are devoured by our very greedy sheep; they love the sow thistles, fat hen and groundsel. In fact every time I go down to the kitchen garden I’m spotted and they race up to the fence in full cry.

my beautiful bertie

Lovely Bertie and I have had this great thing going. If Angel, Dipstick or one of the other cats catch a mouse, and I happen to see in time, I would send Bertie off to bully the cat into dropping the mouse, which he would grab, and bring back to me, gently delivering it to my lap, safe if a little damp, for me to release into a pile of logs somewhere. Except for last week. Angel had caught a mouse, and Bertie was dispatched to the rescue. He deploys a wonderful and simple technique. He swings his head at the cat, hitting it, which always makes it drop the mouse. Carefully picking up this one, as he has countless times with others before, he raced over to me, the tail of the mouse sticking out of the side of his mouth.

‘Good boy, Bertie, give it to me,’ I held out my hands. Except this time he seemed to be unable to give it to me.

‘Come on Bertie, quickly, give me the mouse!’ I insisted, worried it couldn't breathe in there, while he sat in front of me, the tail of the mouse still hanging from his mouth, his mouth firmly clamped shut.

‘Bertie what are you doing!!’ I put my hands around his mouth to open it but defiantly he clenched his jaw.

‘Bertie, drop it NOW.’ And on my last command he threw back his head and swallowed it!

Whole!

little magical one

Little Magical One, is the beautiful and poetic Arabic name for Alchemilla Mollis.The leaves of the plants collect sparkling jewel-like beads of water which were considered by alchemists to be wonderfully pure and containing great healing properties. It is perfect for edging paths, it likes the shade and makes wonderful ground cover, is amazingly resistant to rabbits, and the frothy chartreuse green flowers make the most fantastic and long-lasting cut flower filler. Known here I'm afraid by the more prosaic nickname, Alcoholic Molly, notice how the glistening beads of water cling to each point of the serated edged leaves. Delicious and yes, magical!

raindrops keep falling on my head...

No wonder the British are obsessed with the weather; last month was officially the wettest June since rainfall records began in 1910. But as Sir Rannulph Fiennes said, ‘there is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing,’ and I’m afraid we gardeners just have to agree; we never know what to expect, and we just get on with it.......

My favourite colour combinations this year are purple mauves mixed with the purest of greens. This year I've grown beautiful purple podded peas, vibrant fresh parsley, exotic fast growing kohlrabi, and purple veined brassicas. And what could be more romantic than stepover apples, interplanted with lavender, carpets of fragrant thyme, and soothing spreading sage, easily achieved within a border only 2’ wide. Absolutely perfect for edging paths or lawns, productive and pretty, what more could anyone want?

happy days

What a wonderful day, not sunny but soft, damp and warm, the most perfect growing weather. A beautiful day to be in the garden, don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t possible to move peonies, it is! These came from the long border last year, to be looked after in the kitchen garden. Bella has been sorting out the compost for me, and look who I spotted in the orchard! Oh and it’s a wonderful day for a birthday!! Picnic anyone? Xxxx

border control

Gorgeous weather today; summer has crept up softly, warm and fulsome, smiled all day upon us, and I have spent hours in the long border pulling out the sweet rocket which is going to seed, and planting the last of the potted dahlias, more cosmos and pink verbena. I staked everything earlier this month with lengths of hazel bent into arches over the young plants, and the taller things seem to be largely still upright, so it seems to have worked. Alongside the rocket which comes back every year, however ruthless I am, there are masses of lovely tall white agrostemma, Swanlake, also self-seeded from last year, rubbing shoulders with cerinthe, foxgloves and galega, all back without anything to do with me. It is beautiful.

it must have been an angel

Well, there was hardly time for it to become a raging debate here, and now it doesn't matter if they were red or grey squirrels, because Angel has eaten them. I wasn’t the only one to be transfixed so compellingly by my little squirrel friends. I have to report, to my horror, I have found three squirrel tails left at the back door and I’m afraid all blame for this is levelled at our beautiful tabby cat Angel, mostly because I caught her eating one of them. She’s normally very good at feeding herself on rabbit, although maybe she was bored with the same food, and thought, oh no, not rabbit again, and maybe it is easier to catch a squirrel than a rabbit! Although I would have expected a squirrel to put up more of a fight than a rabbit might. A quick word of caution here. While it is lovely to have a cat and then have kittens, and we had all the fun of playing with them until they went to good homes, it leaves the mother constantly wanting to provide. So Angel decided to hunt then not only for herself, her brother Dipstick, and Uncle Mo, but us too! Her mother Millie was the same. In one memorable week she caught the complete range, rabbit, mouse, rat, mole, squirrel, blackbird, all neatly presented to us on consecutive days, fortunately outside. But today Angel is now officially the smuggest and fattest cat possible, and there may be strawberries after all.

strawberry roan perhaps

There should be a bumper year of strawberries at The Old Vicarage this year. Unlike last year, there has been more than enough rain, I've managed to organise the runners I saved into sensible rows, I’ve netted them, and laid the strawberry trusses onto straw. All we need now is some sunshine to ripen them. That’s if there are any left to ripen of course, because they are disappearing fast! And the culprit for this, for once is not the chickens, or the dogs, or opportunist blackbirds or even the numerous jackdaws, but squirrels. Every time I walk down to the kitchen garden I see three squirrels. Every single time. And every time they are either eating a huge unripe strawberry, or flying back to their tree house with the biggest one they can carry stuffed hard into their mouths. And the awful thing is, I don’t mind. I don’t think they are very old. It’s almost as though they’ve just worked out the whole business of survival.  And while I see them all the time, they are really hard to photograph, but after HOURS of trying, here are a few pictures, and although my friends tell me there are no red squirrels on the mainland south of Northumberland, to the untrained eye, these are the reddest grey squirrels I’ve ever seen. Hmmm what do you think??

This little one is very grey, and very cute, but there go the strawberries.....

gardener required

The Old Vicarage is in disguise. Roy, our wonderful lovely postman, tells me if we aren’t able to trim the yew trees by the gate we should perhaps rename our house through building control.

it will be green

‘When I die I shall go to May,’ wrote Monty Don in the beautiful Ivington Diaries, ‘it will be green. Not environmentally correct green, for things will just be, without measurement or judgement, but actually the colour green in all its shining faces.

The oilseed rape fields, overbright sulphuric yellow, their heady oppressive pollen suffocating the fields of Leicestershire and Rutland, are lost to me.  I too, rejoice in the green, the fluidity, the mesmerising soft promise,  ‘the shifting, growing hymn of light and colour and leaf.’

And here, with my love, is my tribute to May.

orchard cuttings

jesus

Home from university for Easter, and my daughter has brought a chicken home with her. Apparently the boys’ house near her ‘adopted’ a chick, one of those fast growing broilers, heaven knows where they found him. Early on they dropped him, and thinking he had died, they were about to bury him, when he burst into life again, so they named him Jesus, I know, I know!  He's been growing up in their house, I know, on a diet of beer and chips, and knowing he would be spending the Easter break alone in the back yard of a student house with only a loaf of bread occasionally thrown over the wall for him, my daughter has managed to kidnap him and bring him here. Jesus (yes, I’m so sorry!) is settling in well, he’s a bit of a bully, but for the first time enjoying proper chicken food and fresh air.

of chickens and men

My lifetime of keeping chickens began as an army wife, when, living in an army quarter we had to register all our pets.  My husband, then adjutant, and with three chickens in a box on the back seat of the car, was told by his 2IC we weren’t allowed to keep livestock in our army quarter. We’d done some serious homework on this, however, and pointed out that, legally, livestock does not include poultry. Poultry are definitely pets, insisted my husband. Having lost to us on that point, the 2IC glared at my husband, picked up his pen and rather sarcastically requested their names, which is how Alpha, Bravo and Charlie came to be our first hens, living happily in an old dog kennel in the garden, until our Staffordshire bull terrier puppy, Angus, couldn’t bear the sight of them any longer and murdered Bravo while I was on the phone. Alpha had to go to the vet who sprayed artificial skin on her badly wounded back, (the fee for doing so could have bought exactly twenty more chickens) and shortly after that, went with Charlie to live with my parents when we emigrated to Scotland.

moving (hen) house

Moving everyone south...........

...........my husband had the brainy idea to put the hen house on a trailer, and drive the six hours south with the hens inside. He managed to do the difficult bit and get the hen house onto the trailer, while I was left with easy job of rounding up the chickens and putting them in. He thought we’d be able to coax them in with a few bacon rinds, but in reality I ended up tearing around, furiously grabbing at them, eventually catching each one using a landing net. We didn’t stop at all on the drive down; we never did without a hen house perched on a trailer, why would we with one? It was quite a jolly trip with plenty of cheerful waves and honking from fellow drivers, and when we reached our new home in Rutland we could see why. The main door to the hen house had worked its way open and the chickens had been clinging breezily to their perches by the open door to the motorway. Perhaps it was my job to check the door was secure too, I never found out, but at least they were all still there.