Little Owl was wondering aloud over dinner, who was in charge of our house. Apparently they had always thought it was mummy, but then mummy got herself locked in at the allotment and daddy had to rescue her, so it couldn’t be mummy after all. Daddy then? Ha, no. God? The government? Finch frowned with concentration. This required deep consideration. Suddenly he leapt out of his chair. He had it! The underground squirrels!
He was absolutely, deadly serious, so we all stared at him for about ten seconds. Then Big Dreamer rubbed his chin, and conceded that sometimes a curveball would come your way in life, and who was to say it wasn’t thrown by underground squirrels? So there you have it. Underground squirrels everyone. If you’re ever in doubt, blame the underground squirrels.
I shall leave you with that thought and wish you a very Happy Easter.
The children have finished school for the Easter holidays and I have handed in my last assignment for my course. I have the promise of a job with the district nursing team I have been working with, once I get my results and my registration comes through. It seemed as though I might be embarking on a peaceful lull in proceedings. Ha! Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Goodness, a lull? I might start to get complacent that I had this whole ‘life’ thing all wrapped up. I had better get myself locked in at the allotment just to shake things up a bit.
One of the things I love about getting up early and heading out on my bike of a morning is the sounds I hear. The change in the clocks meant it was dark again when I set off this morning but the air was alive with bird song. There is something about hearing sounds in darkness. They seem so much clearer and more vibrant, don’t they? All along the river anonymous creatures scurried and scampered amongst the vegetation, birds sang, and the tails of baby rabbits bobbed. A sliver of pink moon hovered low in the sky. Then, all of a sudden, there was a loud growly snorting, and out of the undergrowth burst a badger, his white stripes bright in my bike light. Caught in the wonder of it, it was all I could do to hang on to my handlebars, swerve and avoid him. Over my shoulder I could see him glaring at me down the path, just like Badger from Wind in the Willows. And just like Badger, I could imagine him shaking his walking stick and shouting, “Blasted humans!”
The allotment is a Brexit-free zone. On Saturday, one of the volunteer coordinators was fiercely enforcing it. As I planted my potatoes, I could hear her shout periodically, “I can hear you. None of that Brexit stuff round here please!” We escaped up to the fringes of Dartmoor on Sunday to a valley where there are meadows of wild daffodils. The kids splashed in the river. It was a glorious spring day, filled to bursting with sunshine. We heard a woodpecker drumming out its rhythm across the still sparse treetops. There were even butterflies amongst the daffodils.
The old Rule of Three myth worked out well for us. Finch bumped his head again this week and for the fourth time a giant egg swelled on his forehead. It was in the same spot as the very first, so maybe that does still count as three. Anyway, that should definitely be it for now. How did you get on with Storm Gareth? A bit blowy wasn’t it? A fence panel blew down in my parents garden so my dad decided there was no time like the present to fix it. Now being still in the middle of gale force winds. Off he went to the garden centre up the road and selected his panel. Would it fit in the car? Oh no. What does dad decide to do? Carry it home.
It is half term and the kids were ready for it. In fact, Finch was ready for it last Tuesday when he fell asleep in his dinner at tea time. I am always amazed at the way little children can be in full action mode one minute, and dead to the world the next. Although, I say little children, my mother can give Finch a run for his money. She has been known to fall asleep sat bolt upright in the middle of a folk concert. On Saturday we headed up to Exmoor, to a hidden valley well-known for its abundance of snowdrops. We clambered down deep mossy paths to the valley where monks from Dunster abbey are said to have planted the snowdrops to celebrate Candlemas. Rivers of white droplets covered the ground. I have never seen so many in one place. High in the trees, over the sound of the rushing stream, the birds sang. We were lucky, a passing walker told us, we had caught them just right. He had been many a year only to be too early or to have missed the flowers altogether. As I scraped the ice away from the windscreen this morning, I paused and listened to the birds singing. The sun was just coming up over the roof tops and I smiled to myself at the remembrance of all those snowdrops glistening on the woodland floor.
Oh the joys! Diabetic feet! Here I am, attending a study evening for community nurses about diabetic foot ulcers. It was both gruesome and fascinating. The essential thing I took away is that if I ever develop diabetes I am never, ever wearing flip-flops. I’ll leave you to imagine the worst. Tomorrow is a day of Law and Ethics down at Plymouth University. As a reward I shall treat myself to a full hour’s day dream in either direction. The train takes the old Brunel line along the coast through Dawlish. And yes, that will be the one that collapsed into the sea the other year. This is the view from the murky train window…
