so plans change

We have permanent wet feet and soggy socks, eat too many cakes, make a puff ball pizza... and find sweet owlets in the barn and probably much more but all recollection took off with the wind

A jumble of seasons and emotions… such has been the month of May this year…

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When May is March…

Damp and dark….

“May had now set in, but up here among the hills, she was May by curtesy only; or if she was May, she would never be might. She was, indeed, only April with her showers and sunshine, her tearful, childish laughter, and again the frown, and the despair irremediable. Nay, as if she still kept up a secret correspondence with her cousin March, banished for his rudeness, she would not very seldom shake from her skirts a snow storm, and oftener the dancing hail. Then out would come the sun behind her, and laugh, and say-- "I could not help THAT; but here I am all the same, coming to you as fast as I can!”
― George MacDonald

I had such plans for my daughters long awaited visit…

After what seemed like an eternity since her last short stay, my excitement was bubbling over just thinking about a whole seven days together… comparable to a child being given the puppy he/she (if that isn’t politically correct these days my apologies) had always wanted as a birthday gift. My head was spinning with ideas and plans; long rambles on as yet undiscovered paths, intrepid adventures in wild places followed by iced ginger tea and cake (of course) and conversations into the small hours of the morning over endless games of scrabble. I had mapped out walks with the help of the map my walk app, picnics were planned with the help of the many quick and delicious looking recipes Instagram add to my feed in the form of reels every day — whether I like it or not — all to be relished in a floral haven bathed in dappled light under the branches of fresh canopies of psychedelic lime green leaves alive with the buzzing of bees. Or perhaps amid frolicking lambs in meadows spilling over with wild flowers and butterflies fluttering delicately over them. All so symbolic of the beguiling month of May, all so dreamy and perfect!

I even dragged out shorts and t-shirts, a floaty dress or two, in anticipation of warm sunny days. It was to be a week of rejoicing in spring gorgeousness!

Maybe if I’d listened carefully I’d have heard dear Mother Nature chuckling at the absurdity of such imagining’s but I didn’t. I just carried right on dreaming…

And she really made the most of it!

Every walk we took we returned with soaking feet and socks, knees too; our trousers sticking to them, annoyingly hampering every step. Returning with toes that looked like wrinkly prunes frozen and numb from being wet for so long! Warm clothes had not been even a remote thought, neither had running for cover under trees because the clouds were so heavy and so black that the rain that fell from them reminded me of monsoon days in Asia when I was travelling.

We tried to see the funny side and indeed, it worked for a day or two but our sense of humour flagged along with the branches of the trees and all the plants and I’m certain all the rabbits and hares would have had floppy ears too had they been brave enough to show their faces.

It rained, good grief it rained!

And the wind howled…

While the brooks and rivers overflowed, huge, old branches that looked like they could have withstood the mightiest of storms were weakened by the constant battering and ripped from their stays. The phone line came down and a friend arriving with her son was trapped between two fallen tress on our narrow lane. The fruit trees were shaken so violently the blossom flew in confetti like clouds and scattered over the hill, so much so that there were days when it looked almost like snow had fallen. I tried to forget the grim report I’d listened to on climate change not so very long ago reporting on a drought that could worsen as the year progressed, it just didn’t seem possible as I watched torrents of water gushing down the hill — bypassing the totally ineffective drain put in by the council — flooding the yard, continuing down the track leaving deep muddy rivulets and on to the meadow below. My little flock of sheep looked so soggy and miserable I gave in to their bleating and gave them a bucket of nuts so they could at least stay under cover and dry. Only their lambs still frolicked, seemingly oblivious to the wet and cold days. The barn roof lost yet more slates and we ran out of buckets and containers to catch the water. When I dared to peep in to check for overflows it seemed to be raining almost as much inside as it was outside — it was a worrying sight. Hubby surveyed the damage during a rare hour when the rain subsided, returning to the kitchen with a look of despair I knew too well.

And our walks were not only sabotaged by a mean start to the month of May either…

The weekend prior I had received a call from an old friend, M, who had just arrived at her home in Aubin with her beloved kitty. She had caught a cold before leaving Paris and sounded terrible and asked if I could help with a little shopping if I was passing. It was her first visit since November and her cupboards were bare… how could I refuse?

I couldn’t, and against my better judgement didn’t but most definitely should have done…

I am a terrible nurse, a shameful admission but absolutely true, even my children agree. Ordinarily I will make every excuse possible to not be in the company of sick people, not even in the same building if possible! Administering home remedies is a passion though and worthy of risk — perhaps a way of compensating for my lack of Florence Nightingale characteristics, who knows…? Hence, delighted to be able to help even if it was only intended to be a quick hand over at the door. I arrived at M’s laden with a veritable apothecary — I didn’t for one minute expect to find such a frail and frightened apparition greet me at the door.

I hadn’t intended to stay, long enough only to ensure that she had all she needed but on seeing and hearing her in such a shockingly fearful and incoherent state, once again I couldn’t say no (when will I learn?) when she tearfully asked if I could change her gas bottle and turn on the heating in the cave, bring her up some logs for her stove and explain what she she should do with the food and remedies I’d brought her.

Two hours had passed before I left, more than sufficient time to have picked up her germs! Two days later M called me to say she had tested positive for Covid. The day after, although I had avoided another bout of this wretched virus, I had all the same symptoms - Kleenex shares must have rocketed!

My blissful, carefully choreographed week with my daughter was not going to plan, I felt terrible, far worse than I had two weeks prior when I too had Covid. By the time we’d staggered through the door soaked through to the skin for the third or fourth time in as many days and I’d opened the hundredth packet of tissues only to find ‘stove’ was joining in with what had become a very generalised bad mood, it was obvious; our adventures should be confined to other pleasures.

Beginning with keeping the only form of heating we have in a better mood which meant raking through the debris of too big logs and too long branches left in the corner of the barn (the few square meters that stay dry), a stove fed with good dry fuel is a happy stove. It was quite a job but one that in the end made us smile. We gathered and chopped and sawed, clearing space for next winters fuel as we worked.

I found a ball of fluff.

It was alive…

Baby screech owl… adorable and vicious!

And then we found another… unusually, the nest was on the ground. Abandoning the logs and covering the nest over again, we kept an eye over the next few days and hoped that mum could return, which she did and within days they were gone. I spotted one of the owlets one more time on a high window ledge and heard them often as they made their high pitched calls in the woods.

And of course, when we were finally able to sit down in front of a warm and well behaved stove our thoughts turned to food..; so we made warming soups and homemade bread, cakes and cookies, all walnut of course…. and tonnes of them!

Spiced apple and walnut cake and walnut cookies…. Batch 15 !

And the day before we had to say farewell we found a giant puffball in the old chicken field and a since Instagram isn’t so hot on puff ball recipes, we invented our own — we made puffball pizza. It was tasty, earthy and surprisingly filling too.

Food from the wild….

And so my darling girl left us, again…

Unbelievably, the day after she’d gone I found another giant puffball, this time behind the barn but decided to leave it to spore — I read that they hold the record of being able to make more offspring than any other living thing containing trillions and trillions (I’m not exaggerating) of spores, so I watch daily, waiting for the telltale signs of smoky dust to disperse and lets be honest, the world needs more puffballs!

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This month of May has been slate grey mostly, turbulent, indecisive, rude and downright difficult and I don’t just mean the inclement weather, although it certainly joined in. I think, after such a very long hot summer last year I was expecting a repeat.

It didn’t happen though and now, as May rumbles literally, even as I’m typing, to its inevitable end, I’m wondering just what tricks June might be hiding…

No matter how May has been, the meadows have been glorious.

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This has been a long time coming; I have been writhing in a pit of despair over the last few weeks; you know… the one where you doubt everything you do and say and write, where you’ve lost faith in your ability to create anything worthy of showing, the one that is so profoundly deep that you have no idea how the devil you’re ever going to climb out again… and then just this morning I read this post; ‘You’re allowed to call yourself a writer’. It was just and exactly what I needed to pull myself out. The words that really gave me a necessary slap in the face were these; ‘I’m focused on being the verb and not the noun: after all, a writer is someone taking part in the action of writing. It’s a doing word so I try to focus on the doing.’ Now all of you who know me, will recognise the pertinence of these words I’m sure… I am a ‘doing’ person, I do ‘doing’ endlessly!

You're allowed to call yourself a writer...

The post above was sent to me by my lovely friend Debs, who writes about ‘Moodling’ — yes that is a really is a word look it up! You’ll find her here — the timing couldn’t have been more synchronised! Thank you Debs - truly thank you.