'Tis the season for openings and being feted!

Yes, it's that time of year when flower shows proliferate, fetes abound, and all over the country, gardens little and large are being opened by their proud, and sometimes timid, owners. And it's the latter type of opening I thought I would concentrate on this time, so maybe you'd like to come with me on a visit to some of the gardens around where I live. If so, grab your straw hat, your purse, and follow me, for I have the map of gardens open. I would love to have filled this posting with fab photos, but sadly, not all the owners were happy about having their gardens shown on a blog, even a modest one like mine, and it seemed unfair to display some, and not others. So you have to make do with just two photos... the above is self-explanatory, created by Maisie, the grand-daughter of one of Phoebe's neighbours and adorned with flowers. As was the little girl herself, who proudly sat next to the sign, wearing a wreath on her head of flowers from the garden, and handing out copies of the little map that she had helped Phoebe draw.

Those of you who follow the blog will know that Phoebe is seen by many as a little eccentric,

and not generally known for her love of children or patience with them, but for some reason she and little Maisie, aged nine, have struck up a friendship. Maybe it's the fact that Maisie visits only about twice a year which helps. Anyway, Maisie can often be seen wandering around the garden alongside Phoebe, with one of the cats following on behind, both of them often silent as they go from copse to vegetable patch, to herb garden and orchard. Occasionally Maisie will stoop to look closely at something, look up at Phoebe, who will then bend down and presumably answer the question posed. Nobody has mentioned this new friendship to Phoebe, they would only be met with stony glances and mutterings of 'What's it got to do with you? not always delivered quietly. And in case you are wondering, BIRD'S EYE was safely shut away in the lean-to, from where he could be heard blaspheming occasionally.

In fact the villagers were amazed that Phoebe agreed to open her garden in aid of a local charity. Unlike those gardens listed in the famous Yellow Book, where 'every garden must provide enough interest to engage the visitor for 45 minutes', there was no such stipulation here. Gardens of all sizes were open, some like Phoebe's taking that 45 minutes to walk around and enjoy, others just glanced from over a small front garden wall, with no invitation to step inside. More of which later.

In Phoebe's garden, what you see is what you get.. the plastic flowers are there still, and Maisie invented a little game, details on the map, where people had to spot the falsies from the real thing. No prizes, but as Maisie said, it was more for those who didn't really much care for gardening but were being dragged out to accompany someone who did! Nor had Phoebe bothered to weed and make it all pristine, to her mind if that was what you wanted well, there were some very famous manicured gardens not far from here to suit your tastes. In her garden, it was a work in progress still (after more years than we care to number!), it was a real garden where weeds grew, and some things got overgrown, others covered in mildew or aphids. Whilst all the people were visiting, she tended to keep out of the way, leaving it to Maisie to take the money, along with the Major who insisted on acting as chaperone!

In Mr Bartholomew's garden some visitors were amazed to see what went on round the back. Being familiar with the front of his house, the roses and honeysuckle surrounding the front door, the scent of old-fashioned pinks and lavender bushes, up till now, the only people who had even caught a glimpse of the back were his friends, or those who nosied through the yews in the churchyard. Not everyone wants to be seen doing that of course, so to be amongst the beautiful vegetable garden, which at this time of year was productive with salad crops and beans, to see the lovely old fashioned wigwams made of branches from his fruit trees in the orchard beyond, reached via a gate set into a well-clipped hedge, was a joy. There were pots of flowers too, on a little terrace where he took his meals in the summer, beneath a wonderfully old, faded umbrella, patched in places it was so old. Hanging baskets of tumbling tomatoes and some filled with petunias. He told me that he was thinking of getting a beehive, to put in the orchard, because of the plight of the honey bee at present.

From here we can meander along to Elsie Drew's garden. Now it may come as something of a revelation to know she has one, some cattier person than I might wonder that she has time to tend it, what with being the purveyor of village news and all! But Elsie's late father was a keen gardener, and their house was built at a time when houses came with big back gardens, with space to keep chickens and even a pig, to grow all the vegetables to feed a family, and so from a young age she was used to going and picking fresh produce. Although her garden may only be the size of a back yard, she has it full of pots of vegetables, anything that can be grown in a pot and then picked and eaten, she has a go with it. Her front garden is just a very small paved area as well, but with pots of geraniums to liven it up, so it doesn't take long to look at her little space, and she is one of those who is not charging, just happy to let people have a look at her garden and see there is another side to her nature. And of course, whilst people are looking, they often have private little chats, about this and that, so you never know what 'news' you might pick up!

Pru and Leonard wanted very much to open up their garden as well, but they haven't had time to work on it yet, but she has promised next year, a strawberry tea!

Some of the owners lay on refreshments of course, included in the price of admission. The most anyone charges is a couple of pounds, and they tend to be those offering tea and scones. In one garden, belonging to Laurie, she has taken advantage of extra people being around, and laid out some of her smaller pottery pieces in a little tented gazebo, and Rowena has done something similar with small knitted items... tea cosies, egg cosies, fingerless gloves, little knitted dolls. Hers are laid out in her summerhouse, a rather wonderful log cabin affair with TWO rooms! And a small verandah! Inside it is cool, a fan working to keep the air moving on this warm day, so it is a welcome retreat for a few minutes. She is serving iced tea and fairy cakes in her not inconsiderable conservatory, made in the kitchen by her sister and husband.

But there are those gardens where you just look without entering... small front gardens, thankfully not taken over as car parking spaces. One is set out as a giant chess board, the pieces laid out, and an elderly couple sitting on benches across from each other, playing. At night, the pieces, which are on casters, move into a special wooden crate-type of affair, locked away for safety down the side of the house, on the inside of the side gate, out of sight. Another garden is new, you can tell by the pristine way the gravel is laid with not an indentation from a foot, and the plants look so perfect. All grasses, different colours, and you can see, that as time goes on and they grow, often into each other, on a day with a little breeze, they will sway and move elegantly. It all looks elegant in fact... until you glance into the far corner, away from the front door, where in the shade of a Stipa Gigantica sits a carved wooden mushroom, about two feet high and at its widest point, and underneath, two small fairy sculptures, made from iron, sitting and having a chat. Not visible easily from the street, certainly not to the casual passer-by but in full view of the sitting room window, where no doubt this bit of whimsy brings a smile to the viewers face, as it does to ours, now.

One small front garden has been given over to nature, with a small pond, wild flowers seeding themselves everywhere, plants beneficial to bees and other insects, a little log pile in one corner, a rest home for bees to overwinter, and one for ladybirds too. This garden probably doesn't take too much looking after, nature does it for you, and it had people sitting on the wall, waiting to see if the frogs would make an appearance... everyone knows there are frogs in this pond, at night, at the right time of year, you can hear the males calling to their loved ones. I guess you'd have to be a female frog to appreciate it!

But it's not only gardens that are open, for the local allotment society have opened up their patch. Here you can talk to the owners of the plots, and as with the gardens, there is so much variety. Some are growing a mix of fruit and veg, others just one or the other, the most colourful being those who grow flowers in there too. There are those belonging to a couple of young mothers, feeding their families and seeing this purely as a larder, then at the other end of the scale are Sue and Norman, growing for prestige, to see who can get the longest carrot, the heaviest marrow, with all manner of weird and wonderful growing methods involving drain pipes and so on. You can get advice on growing, even purchase some of the produce, and later in the evening, the barbecue will be lit and people will sit and socialise over a burger or banger, a glass of cooled cider or beer, or home made hedgerow wine, elderflower champagne maybe if you are very lucky.

Not only are we helping a local charity by visiting these gardens, but it gets you meeting and chatting to people you might otherwise not have a chance to see. People you have perhaps passed in the street, nodded to out of politeness, and now, you know their names and can maybe spend a little time having a mardle. You come home perhaps lighter in purse, but with jars of' home made preserves, or a cake or two as well, having spent a lovely summer's afternoon.

I hope you enjoyed this brief visit to some local gardens... maybe we'll do it again next year? Or maybe, just maybe, I might open my own? This photo below isn't it, sadly, but the front of one of my favourite places for a holiday, in cider-growing country. I just like the photo!

Village tittle-tattle, news from Orchard Farmhouse and hearts a-fluttering!

When you want to know what's going on in a village there are several ways to go about it - you can join a group like the WI, stay behind after church for coffee in the vestry, hang around the post office on pensions day, sit at a table in the local and earwig barside conversations, stand at the village school gates - although in these times it's best to do this if you have a child to collect or drop off, or be with someone who does - browse the magazines in the newsagent, or the shelves in the village shop when there's a queue built up. Better yet, in our village life is made so much easier... you just ask Elsie Drew. No need for introductions to this lady, you've heard me mention her before!

So it was thanks to Elsie that we heard Hugh (Mr Bartholomew to her) had been seen driving Tilly (that's Miss Asquith to her) and her cousin, who arrived last month to help look after Tilly while her ankle repaired itself, around quite a bit. Elsie says he must have hated having that gooseberry of a cousin, but that things are back to normal and he is still spending an awful lot of time at Tilly's cottage. How Elsie knows this, we aren't sure, for they live at opposite ends of the village. But we know from past experience it's best not to ask how she knows. Someone did once ask 'But how do you really KNOW this for sure?' to which Elsie's response was to turn her head slightly to the left, wink with the right eye, tap the side of her nose and then make a closing zip movement across her lips. Which probably means she doesn't really KNOW anything at all doesn't it?

It was Elsie who told us about the possible strife in the village band, all thanks to a flighty young piece called Marilyn, who has big blonde hair and plays the cornet. Now for most of us the band is just something that's always been a part of this village for the last couple of decades or so, playing at the fete, local fundraisers and travelling to other villages in the area to do the same. It also plays carols at Christmas here and outside the village, and occasionally has been known to take part in competitions. But as to the mechanics of how a band works, the hierarchy and so on, most of us are ignorant. Not Elsie of course, and how she knows all this, or even if it's correct... who knows? But apparently this young woman, single, in her twenties, plays the cornet and is in line to be next principal cornetist. The significance of this was lost on us, but apparently this exalted position is usually combined with being the head of the band, so it is a position that most young members dream of and aspire to. Marilyn came into the band and within a month was made up to principle cornetist. So, we asked, does this mean she will be the band leader soon? Elsie shook her head. This was apparently what was so mystifying and in her book, and 'I'm not alone in this thinking I'll have you know', it was just a ploy on the part of the present leader of the band to ingratiate himself with her. Royston, for that is his name, is a bit of a fusspot, a figure of mirth to many younger members of the community - the older ones are more discreet about how they feel! He is inordinately proud of what is really a very boring looking uniform, and struts about the place, full of his own importance. It was reported that one day, when he had taken his nets down at the living room window to wash them, he was seen hoovering the walls of that room!

When Elsie heard this, she nodded her head and said it came as no surprise to her. She was in the village shop at the time, and Daisy asked her what she meant, despite getting a warning look from Esme which loosely interpreted itself as PLEASE DON'T ASK. 'Well, that sort are always a bit fussy about their house aren't they?' Again Daisy just couldn't stop herself... 'What sort?' she asked. 'Them homosapiens' said Elsie, seriously. Daisy had to excuse herself into the back room where she put a cushion over her face and laughed uproariously. In the shop Esme had a slight uplift at the corner of her usually downturned mouth as she informed Elsie about what homo sapiens meant. Any further speculation and discussion was brought to an abrupt halt by the arrival of Reverend Green, shared vicar of several small parishes in this area, and one of the few single men who was safe from Daisy's clutches, as she said she could never be serious about a man who wore a long dress sometimes.

On to things we do know for sure, and that is that Gerry-the-yurt-dweller has moved on. As swiftly and ignominiously as he arrived, only this time in the dead of night. Pru and Leonard went to bed and the yurt was just visible through the trees; got up the next morning, opened the bedroom curtains and no yurt. They hastened down to the orchard to see what sort of a mess had been left, but apart from the indentation where the yurt had stood, the flattened and shortened grass, there was no sign that anyone had been there at all. Sighs of relief all round, and seen by Pru as the icing on the cake of their imminent move into the farmhouse. They expect to move in at the end of the month, and have planned a big party with marquee (not yurt!), lots of food and drink, in the garden and orchard, with music too.. though from a music system, not the band, about which Royston apparently feels a bit miffed... according to Elsie!

Since the economic downturn, the property market has been very quiet as we all know. There are quite a number of houses in the village that have been for sale for over a year, but also several have sold in recent months. One of them was a rather sad looking end of terrace cottage down one of the quiet dead end roads leading off the village green. Unlike the rest of the terrace, which consisted of five other houses, this one was double fronted, and one could see that in it's time, it must have been a very pretty little place. There is an old wisteria which still puts out masses of purpley flowers each year, a couple of roses clamber across the front wall and around the front door, and there is a lilac tree at the end of the drive. This cottage has a private drive, the one at the other end of the terrace has a drive which allows access for the people who live in the middle three, to get around to their parking space and garage behind the terrace, so it is seen as the most desirable of the terrace. It was lived in by a retired school teacher, Harold, who had a stroke and needed to go into a residential home this year, when it became clear he couldn't really look after himself.

And so his home, Lime Tree Cottage named for the lime tree that stands at the bottom of his back garden, went on the market. Inside it hadn't been maintained properly for years and there was a lot of work that needed doing, though nothing major or structural really. The heating needed bringing up to date, windows changed, new electrics and a whole lot of cleaning out and decorating, and it was priced accordingly. It had only been on the market three weeks when the SOLD sticker was placed across the FOR SALE board erected in the front garden by a local agent. Being where it was, you couldn't see what was going on unless you lived in the terrace, so it was only when a new face appeared in the village shop one Saturday morning, and then in the newsagent on the Sunday, that people knew who had moved in. Well, he didn't have a sign on his back saying he was the new owner of Lime Tree Cottage, no, someone in the newsagents asked was he a visitor as they'd not seen him before. No, he told them, he had just bought Lime Tree Cottage. Elsie was quick to get to church and couldn't wait for morning coffee after the service!

He is tall, blonde and with grey eyes, wears silver rimmed glasses, well-built though not muscly or fat, very nicely spoken but with a definite Norfolk twang underneath, and age is about late forties. No wedding ring so obviously not married, and he only bought masculine newspapers, a small pack of cigars and a bottle of milk that Sunday. Elsie has a remarkable memory, and I am sure it won't be long before she knows his name, occupation, where he was born, does he have family, a wife, prefer tea or coffee..... and when Daisy sees him her heart will definitely be a-fluttering.

A tale of a couple trying to get rid of a man, and a spinster trying to find one.

Work at Orchard Farmhouse has been moving on apace, thanks to the generally fine and dry weather we have had in this area, no rain for several weeks now, though the strong winds did send some large sheets of bright blue plastic flying across the fields where they got caught on hedging, luckily. Pru and Leonard have done so much work in what seems a relatively short space of time, gutting the old farmhouse, though managing to retain some of the original features. Life in the caravan has become a little fraught at times, mainly those times when there was no escape, and when even all the tempting items to be found in various catalogues did nothing to raise the spirits. But these things pass, and now we are accustomed to seeing vans and lorries going up the long drive carrying materials, and a few luxuries too, mainly from the local reclaimation centre. (Funny how what would probably have been called once a scrap yard now has this upmarket name and image!) Terribly tempting these places can be, as Pru found to her cost. She went in looking for some old fireplaces, wanting to reinstate them in the master bedroom and main guest room. Leonard left her to it whilst he looked at the old hand tools and gardening equipment, but later he regretted not keeping a closer eye on her, especially when he saw several items being loaded into the trailer and the back of the four by four. Not only had she found two fireplaces, but an old butler sink, two fabulously over the top mirrors, an old dresser which was being delivered later by the owner of the yard, and several boxes of books, china and old tablelinens. He knew better than to question her choices, or ask where she thought they would go in the grand scheme of things.

But when they returned home, Leonard and Pru both regretted having gone out together, for there was a yurt in the orchard, and a rather battered 2CV which had obviously driven across the field to get there, was now parked on the edge of the orchard. Pru looked at Leonard, Leonard looked at Pru. Neither was too sure what to do, both hoped the other would take the initiative. Leonard knew this, and knew too he was expected to be the man and go and get this sorted out. He went to their caravan to retrieve the two labradors, and manfully strode across to the orchard, Pru following closely behind.

There was the sound of strange music coming from inside the yurt, not loud at all, so Leonard harumphed and Pru shouted 'Oi' trying to sound a bit rough and ready, rather than the lady she was. The labradors, not being used to this noise, barked loudly and began to leap about on the ends of their leads. The music stopped and a silence fell. Leonard called 'EXCUSE ME' in a very loud voice. A few seconds passed and eventually a man crawled out of the yurt, a rather hairy person with dreadlocks in his head, several facial piercings too. Well, as Leonard explained in the pub later on, he was rather prepared for the worse, expecting some grunts or foreign language to come out of the man's mouth, instead of which there was quite a cultured, 'I say old thing' type of voice, which rather threw Pru and Leonard somewhat.

It transpires that this man, Gerry, is a wandering poet, going around festivals and so on, giving recitals, busking in parks and on beaches, anywhere he can...during the finer weather. The rest of the time he goes back to his normal job of gardener/handyman. 'He's not without money it seems,' explained Pru, 'so more or less able to do as he pleases. He only works as a way of breaking the monotony, he says.' Mumbles of 'All right for some' came from several of the drinkers at this point. 'Quite' muttered the Major, who everyone fully expected to start on one of his rants, but who was strangely quiet, and has been for some time now. Those who know him know they will find out the cause for his unusual reticence to pontificate on most subjects, when he's ready.

Well, Leonard and Pru said it was all very well, but they would rather this man left, at which point he began to mumble something about the farm having belonged to his ancestors, that he came here every year and nobody bothered him. The locals all said this was a load of tosh, there had never been anyone camping or living rough there on a regular basis, and this man was a nutter if ever there was one.

All this happened a few weeks ago, and despite their best efforts, despite being polite and brusque by turns, Gerry and his yurt are still taking up space in the orchard. Whenever he nips out to the next village (where he has to shop as Esme has refused to serve vagrants as she calls him!) Pru and Leonard think about taking down the yurt and dumping it at the road side, but neither can figure out quite how it's put together, and are afraid of the consequences of doing it anyway. So they fall back on the politeness for a few days, going up to the yurt several times a day to ask him to leave... putting letters on the windscreen of the 2CV... shouting at him to GO AWAY. Nothing, so far has worked, but now they've decided enough is enough and the law is being involved, with hopes that this will resolve the situation sooner, rather than later.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the village, in the village shop, Daisy's hopes of finding a man have taken a step nearer realisation. Everyone in the village knows that Daisy wants a man, and whilst it sounds a bit crude like that, what Daisy wants is a gentleman and a gentle man, someone to take her dancing, out to dinner, to the cinema, to woo her, and eventually to bed her, not to put too fine a point on it. Everyone also knows that at some time or other Daisy has been out with most of the eligible, and one or two ineligible, men in the surrounding villages and hamlets. Not that there are many eligible ones, which is why she fell prey to the other sort, on a couple of occasions. She reads the columns in a certain magazine for people over fifty, hoping that an advert will appear that will 'speak' to her, of a man seeking just such as she. Months go by, and although there were one or two who looked possible, the reality of the words behind the ads proved to be less than honest. The usual thing, 'own hair and teeth' turned out to have little of either, so technically he wasn't being untruthful, but wasn't the impression Daisy got naturally. 'Enjoys the high life and having a good time' turned out to be a Lothario looking for an older lady to add to his 'present collection of lovelies' as he put it. Not what Daisy wanted either, she wants to be the one and only, and why not?

Then one day she overheard one of the young women in the village - a single mum - talking to her friend whilst waiting their turn in the post office, about this chap she was chatting to on the internet. 'Ooh, you want to be careful you know, there's all sorts goes on there!' her friend pointed out. 'Oh, don't you worry, I'm not about to meet him or anything, not yet anyway.' Daisy got to thinking that maybe this was the route she should be following... trouble was, she had no idea how to use a computer, and the only one they had was for Post office and shop use only. She could remember the day the letter came for Esme, telling her she had to go on a course to learn how to use the new computer that was being installed, 'to make life easier, keep up to speed with modern life' were amongst the reasons given for the computer arriving the next week. Esme had railed against this, she was of the old school, though stopped short of quill pens and double entry ledgers thick with a coating of dust. She couldn't see why things couldn't stay as they were, but Daisy pointed out to her that they had to keep pace or get left behind. It was a phrase she'd read somewhere and thought it suited the moment, though it caused Esme to look at her rather oddly.

When the idea came to her of using a computer in her search for a man, she knew that the one in the back room wouldn't be any good, for Esme had access to it, and this was something she had to do in private. Not secret, she told herself, just private, there was a subtle difference.

So armed with her library books, one fine morning last week Daisy took herself off into the nearby market town, ostensibly to return her library books, but she knew there was an area of computers for public use. Not that she knew what to do, but ever the optimist Daisy knew she would find one of the librarians willing to help her get started.

It being market day, when all the buses from the outlying villages descended on the town, the library was busier than usual, and after handing in her books, Daisy slowly strolled over to the bank of computers. Most of the seats were occupied, there was just two empty ones. Daisy chose the one by the window, thinking she could sit and stare out, look as if she was thinking about something. Sitting down, she took a notebook and pen from her bag, and then just sat staring at the screen. She hadn't a clue what to do, and suddenly she felt useless, and sad, and ridiculous, who was she kidding, find a man, at her age... daft old woman. She put her notebook back in her bag and just then a male voice said, 'You all right there Gran?'

'You cheeky young .... I am not your Gran, don't be rude.' Well, as Daisy told me, in confidence, later, this young man went bright red, apologised, and then in a very pleasant voice, which didn't go with the trousers hanging off his bottom and shirt hanging out and hair that could have done with a good stiff brushing, asked if she really was all right. For some reason she couldn't explain, Daisy then apparently went on to tell this young lad of about 18, this perfect stranger, that she was looking for a male friend on the internet, only didn't know how to even switch the damned thing on! Darren showed her everything, helped her sort it all out, got her registered on sites, and an hour sped by she said. She now knows how to get 'locked on' again and find the sites, see if there are any responses or any 'newbers' to look at - as you can see, she hasn't quite got the hang of the terminology yet, but she's not too bothered either.

So Daisy's hopes of finding her man have moved on apace. Of course, I am telling you this in the strictest confidence, Esme would have a blue fit if she knew what Daisy was up to, but you have to admire her don't you?

Someone gets carried over the threshold, someone gets a new gardener, and several get a new garden!

The dawn chorus has been added to lately with the muffled BOOM of the bird scarer in the farmers fields nearby. Which seems a waste of time to me, if you saw the numbers of pigeons that descend on it from time to time, all of whom are layabeds and so don't hear the BOOM, and probably wouldn't care anyway.

I was in the shop the other morning, enjoying a mardle with Daisy, when in burst Elsie, making the little bell almost tinkle itself out of its bracket. I love the sound of this bell, much preferable to one shop in the next village which has this awful buzzer concealed under the doormat, so everyone who steps on it makes this loud BUZZ, and you can imagine the fun local children have, running in and out! No, a little tinkly bell is much more civilised and more suited to spinster ladies. Sorry, one 'unclaimed and unattached for now' lady and her 'quite a bit elder' sister! Daisy's words, not mine. Anyway, whenever Elsie bursts in anywhere, you can bet your bottom five pence piece that it's because she has news to impart, ie gossip.

'Guess what I just saw, go on, guess, betcha can't can you?' came out, all of a rush. Daisy and I looked at her, then at each other, then shrugged our shoulders, and before we could say anything, Elsie informed us that she had just seen Mr Bartholomew carrying Miss Asquith over the threshold of her little cottage! Daisy and I didn't know what to make of this, was Elsie hallucinating, had she been at the nettle wine again or what?

'Are you sure Elsie dear?' asked Daisy.

Elsie sniffed, which she does a lot really, usually more out of high dudgeon than a case of the sniffles. 'How could I be mistaken about something like that pray Daisy?' she said, in what she calls her 'best voice' usually reserved for the vicar and senior members of the WI - which she only joined because they occasionally meet up with a certain other WI with 'Royal Connections' as she puts it. 'How could anyone mistake seeing a tall, distinguished, quite handsome considering his age, gent (and this confirmed our suspicions that secretly she fancied him herself, despite comments about men being useless lummoxes etc., etc.) carrying a small, genteel lady over a threshold attached to her cottage. Go on, tell me!'

Well, of course we had to concede defeat, but needless to say both Daisy and I were intrigued to say the least. We suggested Elsie ought to go round on some pretext or other, find out what was going on. She said she wasn't as nosey as some folks, so them as wanted to be nosey could just go ahead and be so... said all the while staring at me!

We were trying to figure out, in as disinterestedly a way as we could so as not to appear nosey, how we could find out the reason behind the over the threshold carrying, when Esme entered from the back of the shop, announcing she was just going to take a few essentials round to Tilly's cottage, just to keep her going until her cousin Martha arrived tomorrow.

Three heads turned towards her. 'What?' she asked in that snappy, snitty voice she sometimes uses... well, her normal voice actually.

'Why does Tilly Asquith need essentials, why are you taking them, why can't she come herself, and why is her cousin going, and why do you know all this?' asked Daisy.

'Heavens Daisy, it's like twenty questions living with you sometimes. In no particular order Tilly needs a few essentials taking to her because she is incapacitated with a badly sprained ankle, sustained when she was out walking, and slipped on the stile going into Sprocketts Field, which was wet due to the rain. Luckily she was with Hugh at the time, and he had his mobile with him... you know he only just got it recently and it took him ages to figure out how to make a call. But he rang the local surgery, helped Tilly hobble down there, luckily only a short walk from the new surgery as it happens. The doctor then ran them back to Tilly's cottage, Hugh carried her indoors, and then Tilly rang me to fill me in on all this. Her cousin is coming up from Oxfordshire to look after her, but won't arrive until tomorrow. Does that answer your questions Daisy, satisfy your curiousity Elsie?'

Of course it did, thank you Esme.

My friend Rowena, she of the ribboned, braided hair and penchant for fancy walking sticks, has had to give in and get herself a gardener. Many years ago she was involved in a car accident which left her with a permanently damaged left knee, which seems to get worse as she gets older, though she is only 55. When she was in her late forties, she and her husband divorced, and she bought one of the old outbuildings belonging to the Sykes family farm, no longer farmed and sold off, piecemeal, several years ago. A strange sort of set up in that none of the barns are close to each other, but each stands in it's own little plot of land, some bigger than others, and there has been much speculation over the years as to what they really were used for. Anyway, she bought herself one on a largish plot, bought mature fruit trees to create a small orchard, some hens, and rare breed sheep. She had the building gutted, and whereas one of the others close by has been renovated in a modern style, Rowena's is full of interesting objects picked up on travels overseas sometimes with her ex-husband, and the usual flea markets and charity shop finds too. Trained as an accountant originally, she now makes a living designing and making knitwear, some of it from her own fleeces. Over the years, her other main hobby, her garden, has grown and developed, and she has her own organic fruit and vegetables, salads and herbs which she gives away or swaps for other things, a cottage garden bursting with flowers, and a beautiful lawned area, where she plays croquet! By herself usually!

But then she had the accident and although for several years she has managed to look after the garden, of late it has been too much, and she has made the decision to get a gardener. As luck, or fate would have it, in the latest issue of our village magazine was an advert put in by Dilys, a lady gardener newly moved to the area and looking for work. Rowena rang her, and the next day when I was visiting and sharing some of her delicious coffee, Dilys came over and the two hit it off immediately. In return for a small wage, and a share of the produce, Dilys is taking over the garden. Rowena naturally gets first say as to what she wants from it, and will go and pick it herself, but the rest Dilys can use. They will make joint decisions as to what to plant and where - for now Dilys is going to plant cut and come again leaves, herbs, and other veggies as they decide on together. The tomatoes are already started and coming on, as are peas and beans, but Dilys has plans to introduce different beans next year, not the usual broad and runner types apparently. Rowena had been fighting against getting help in, but knows that now was the right time after all, for her angels had sent Dilys. Or fate. Or nothing more than pure coincidence, depending on your outlook.

We are an area blessed with lots of sites full of allotments. Some of them are decades old, matching the age of the delapidated buildings on them and the gardeners are even older. You can see a variety of buildings, from the neat and tidy real potting shed type, to one made out of old packing crates, belonging to an ex-Serviceman (both shed and crates that is) and which looks like it should have fallen down years ago, but which has stood over ten years now, and makes for interesting reading, destinations painted on the odd one or two, comments scrawled on it by fellow allotmenteers too. On fine days you can see people working their own allotments, or standing around sharing a flask of tea and having a chat, putting the world, and their absent allotment neighbours plots, to rights. Several women now have their own allotments too, and on one site it took a while for the male gardeners to accept them, so I was told. The women were ignored, and so formed a little group themselves, often sitting late into a summer's evening, a bottle of wine and a plate of sandwiches between them on a rickety old table, the ladies themselves on a variety of old chairs, enjoying the late evening sunshine before heading back home. It seemed this looked an attractive way to end the day, and gradually the men began to talk to the women when they were working on their allotments, to the point where you can often drive by in an evening and see them all chattering away, and at weekends, spouses and children come along too, creating a lovely family atmosphere, everyone getting involved in the work of the allotment and sharing the food and fun after.

For residents of a certain village though, they have been given their own, very new site, on some unused land owned by the council, where small allotments have been fenced off, each with a spanking new six by three shed as well. The site is a lovely open one, very slightly on an incline, but not enough to be a problem, and nearby is the old parish church. You can imagine working in your allotment, listening to bell ringing practice on a warm summer's evening, and offering up a prayer maybe for a good crop.

More about the 'babe magnet', the blossoming B&A friendship, a wild cat strike and a reading group meets.

I'd love to be able to tell you that the mystery surrounding the mysterious telephone box call had been solved.... Laurie had told me she was sure she knew who the man was, but now she has become rather cagey about it, saying she was wrong, it wasn't anyone I knew. Which sort of indicated to me SHE knew him, so it may not be anyone in the village anyway. Those who thought the Two T's might be involved in some illicit menage a trois, or that he was having an affair, were way off the mark, nothing could be more unlikely. So that one will have to be laid to rest for now, which in a way is a relief. Well, would you want to know that maybe a friend's husband was having an affair with her sister? .
However, I can tell you that Mr Bartholomew and Miss Asquith, aka HUGH and TILLY (and thanks once again have to go to Elsie for overhearing their private conversation and passing on this information about their Christian names!), are getting on famously it seems. He drove her to an art exhibition in one of the neighbouring villages last weekend, and they were seen walking, her arm delicately linked through his, around the village last evening. It's hard not to have an 'Ah Bless' moment when you see them together, it really is. But they do look as if they fit together, and it gives hope to all the getting-on-in-years bachelors and spinsters of this parish.. well, except for Elsie, who has said she has no room in her life or her house for men, 'cluttering up the place as they do, with their smelly ways and lazy habits.' Probably sighs of relief amongst the eligible men of these parts then!
There has been consternation though, amongst the inhabitants of one of the nearby villages, as there have been rumours of a large black, puma-like cat on the loose, living in woodlands on the edge of the village. Recent rumours of a bear living in woods in another part of fhe county proved to be false and were down to some group or other.. 'acting rather irresponsibly as these sorts of people are wont to do', according to Major Hutton... who else? But the cat is another matter. Described as being as big as a large sheepdog, black all over, though some say it has white markings on its body, with a long body, long tail, small head. One person claimed to have seen it pounce on a rabbit in the fields, but most people who have seen it, though that amounts to less than half a dozen, claim it roams along the edge of the trees. Of course, tales of these wild black cats abound all over the country, one wonders if there is actually some truth to them, or just folk jumping on the bandwagon for their fifteen minutes of fame in front of a microphone or reporters notebook.
This was one of the subjects we talked about after the reading group meeting. The group was very recently set up and met for the first time only this week, and among its members are several people already known to readers of this blog. There's me, along with Phoebe-the-eccentric, Lizzie-the-writer who goes in for mini marathons for charity, and long rambles with local walking groups, and Esme, part owner of the village store with her sister Daisy (Esme always being thought of as the tall pointy one, and Daisy the small round one!) and by far the more serious of the two, happy as a spinster whereas Daisy longs to be kissed.
Then there's two other people you haven't met yet... first, my very best friend Maggie. She and I have known each other over fifty years, and for almost all her life she lived in the same town we grew up in. I moved around a lot, she stayed put, only ever coming to Norfolk on holidays to stay with some rich relative, an Uncle. After looking after her parents when they became ill and subsequently died prematurely really, one from cancer the other of a broken heart, she decided it was time for a big change. Never married, never wanted to be, happy, independent, with a wide circle of friends who she wasn't too sorry to be leaving behind as she was looking forward to the adventure of making new ones, she came to live in Cargrave Manor. Her rich uncle had died and left her his rather small fortune, and so she was able to buy an apartment in this lovely old country house, recently renovated and turned into four good sized apartments. Hers is the whole of the left hand side (as you look at the house full on) on the first floor, with bay windows, a wonderful balcony built over the old garden room below on the ground floor, two bedrooms, large study, wonderful views of woodland and sea (just). She earns her living as an alternative therapist, working out of a practice with several others, and leads the life of Riley, according to her.
The other member is another of my closest friends, Ian. An architect, 50 and single, and my neighbour. He's prone to moments of madness... like coming home from his office in the middle of the afternoon on a fine sunny day and whisking me off in the BMW for an ice cream on the sea front at Hunstanton. Working for himself has it's perks, he says. And it's attractions for women too. He was married once, but she upped and left one day, no word of warning, just went leaving him a 'Dear John' and since then, he has vowed never to let any woman get too close. There have been lots of long term relationships since we've known him, mostly with much younger women, all legs and blonde hair they used to be, though there was one exception to the rule I remember, but I think she was a bit too feisty and political for his liking, especially as she was of a different political persuasion! There was one relationship we thought was going to be the one to break his own rules about not getting too close. They were together over ten years until quite recently... she wanted more than just living with him, but according to him when he told me she had packed her bags and left, she was a lovely woman, but 'that spark wasn't there, you know?' and he looked at me, rather too meaningfully some would say. Elsie for example, who never lets a nuance pass her by! Anyway, he is quite happy living on his own now it seems, and decided he would like to join the reading group when I told him about it. This is good, because it means we won't just pick female fiction, but will be forced to look at other genres too.. it is so easy to just stay in your comfort zone, when it comes to reading and most other things.
So the six of us have agreed we will meet once a month, at Maggie's... she has the space, there is no problem with car parking, no interruptions from spouses, children or animals, and we can sit on her balcony once the warmer weather and longer evenings arrive. For now, with a chill in the air, we sit around her log fire and the first book we discussed was 'STILL ALICE' by Lisa Genova. Probably not for the faint-hearted, this is about a Harvard Professor, Alice, aged fifty, who begins to forget little things. She puts it down to the menopause, even though there are no other real symptoms of it, but when out running one day, she suddenly finds herself not knowing which way to go to get home, on a circuit she has done every day for years. Then she knows it is something more serious, instinct tells her what it is, and when it is confirmed as EOAD, Early Onset Alzheimer's Disease, how she deals with it will be the key. The book is sad at times, heartwarming at times, positive at times, bleak too, and the author has really seemed to get inside the head of someone 'losing their yesterdays', as it's put. After we had done the bookish bit, we then sat and chatted about what was going on in the village, and the area generally, and left several hours later, full of home made lemon drizzle cake and excellent coffee. What a lovely way to spend an evening!

A story of love's not so young dream and 'Forever Young' keeps a stiff upper lip.

Along the lane to the church are several cottages, and in Church Cottage, the one nearest the old church, a pretty white painted cottage dating from the 19C, its front door festooned with red roses and white honeysuckle, lives Mr Bartholomew.

Mr Bartholomew, always known by his full name, is a retired bank manager, now in his mid-seventies. A tall gent with somewhat military bearing, and it's said by those who knew him when he managed the bank in the nearby market town, that he ran the operation like it was a military unit. Not a man who suffered fools gladly, who could be a bit gruff at times, nor a man who leant the bank's money willy-nilly, yet for all that, he was much respected, and liked by his staff and regular customers alike. He has been retired over ten years now, giving up his flat above the bank to live out here in the sticks.

Because he is called by his full name, don't get the idea he's a bit of a snooty old gent, or reclusive in any way. He just seems a man who commands respect somehow. It's true that he keeps himself pretty much to himself, doesn't go to the local more than once a month for lunch, isn't a member of any groups in this village or the others around here. He's a regular visitor to the library, and a glimpse through his front door, open on a sunny morning whilst he works in his front garden, will reveal a hallway lined with bookcases, so we know he's a reader. And should you pass him out walking in the village, or on an errand to the post office perhaps, he will always smile and say 'Good day', but makes it clear he's not a man to hang about on the street having a mardle, as they say in these parts.

We also know he's a keen, and very good, gardener. Not only are there roses and honeysuckle around the door, but neat flower beds filled with cistus and hydrangea, old fashioned pinks and lavender... the smell is quite heady on a warm day. There are no weeds daring to poke their way through the Norfolk Red bricks laid in a herringbone pattern, that makes up the path leading to the front door. Behind the house is a well-stocked vegetable garden, with wigwams made of old branches, up which grow purple podded and green runner beans, amongst the peas held up with twiggy pea sticks, nasturtiums grow alongside salad crops and leafy cabbages. Green and red tomatoes tumble out of hanging baskets and grow in his greenhouse. He has a small orchard of trees, one each of cooking and eating apple, a pear and a plum, fruit bushes too with different currants. Nothing grown in large quantities, but enough to keep him supplied. The garden can only be properly seen by those who are lucky enough to be friends with Mr Bartholomew.. the rest of us can just glimpse it through the yews in the churchyard.

In his garage sits an old Volvo, which he lovingly washes once a week, spending hours on the inside and the outside, putting most of us to shame. Well, all except for 'OOH-ME-BACK', one of my neighbours who sometimes walks almost bent over like an old man (yet he's far from being old) and at other times manages a sprightly walk to the local. But if ever anyone asks how he is, his reply usually starts with 'Ooh me back's been playing me up again', hence his name. Yet he can spend a whole day cleaning his car, surrounded by buckets, cloths, hoover, and rubbish bag.

Anyway, back to Mr Bartholomew.. of course we were all curious about him. Rather like Jane Austen we assumed that as he was a single man in possession of, well if not a fortune then a portfolio of stocks and shares and a good pension at least, he would be in need of a wife. Maybe he had had one, 'been there done that' kind of thing. Maybe he was a tragic widower, though he didn't look tragic. (Though what does a tragic widower look like? Gaunt? Big sad eyes constantly red-rimmed from unshed tears? Unkempt? Certainly none of these fit Mr Bartholomew). Maybe he still had a wife, tucked away somewhere... a mental hospital, suggested the same drama queen who thought him a tragic widower at one point. Short of asking him of course, there was no way any of us would find out. A man of few friends, and none of them local for they all arrived in cars, sometimes staying for a few days, so clearly not from these parts, not a man to invite confidences nor offer them, so all we could do was guess, and imagine.

But then something happened to Mr Bartholomew. Those of us who notice these things, namely the drama queen, who I shall tell you is Elsie Drew, self-styled purveyor of village news aka gossip-mongering, has said that every Thursday evening he has been seen in his sitting room window, looking out. How does she know? Well, that's choir practice evening in the church and what better place to gather 'news' than when a group of people are gathered together like this, so not surprisingly, Elsie belongs to just about every group and society hereabouts. Sometimes he goes in the church and sits, listening to the choir practising. He has also taken to going to the library on a certain day, at a certain time, has joined the local history group there which meets once a month on Monday evenings.

It seems he is rather taken with one of the newcomers to the village, who belongs to the choir, the local history group too. Miss Asquith, a retired school teacher in her early seventies, arrived in the village in the autumn of last year, having left her home in the North of England for a new life in the area she had always holidayed in with her late husband. (Thanks must go to Elsie for this information!) As with most villages, once the dark nights set in, although people still go about their business, curtains are drawn early and a lot of it goes on unnoticed. Mr Bartholomew keeps his open on Thursday evenings, and on Sunday mornings, as the choir and other church-goers saunter past, he can be seen sitting reading his paper, or pottering in the front garden. He has been seen smiling, ever so sweetly - and for a man of his bearing this comes as somewhat of a surprise - at Miss Asquith, who returns it, sweetly, which is more becoming a lady of her bearing, a smidgen over five feet, slim build, well-dressed, pleasant, open happy face. Of course, Elsie has them married by now... the rest of us will just sit back and see what develops, but it gladdens the heart to see love, possibly, blossoming for a couple in their seventies.

Of course, not everyone is interested in such matters, some people are too consumed with their own lives. Take 'Forever Young' for example. She disappeared for a few days recently, and we all awaited her return, if not with bated breath exactly, with some interest shall we say. Because whenever she has gone away for any length of time before, she has always come back not quite the woman she was when she left. Some of the changes were not evident to anyone except her 'intimate' friends shall we say; after all, who wants to go flaunting their cellulite (or sudden lack of it) in public? And most of us could have done without the graphic description of the gunk that was sucked out of her by this medical version of a Dyson apparently. But the flap of skin under her chin disappeared, and we all noticed that. Then she acquired these perfect bag-free eyes all of a sudden. A breast implant job meant she was away for a longer period and was quite happy to flaunt the new boobies as she called them on her return. This time she came back protesting her innocence, she had just gone to visit an old school friend she said, with a stiff upper lip. Of course she hadn't had botox, she said, still with a stiff upper lip. Perhaps she'd have done better to stay away longer, let the swelling die down a bit. Because it did, and there was hardly much difference really, though she said it improved her kissing technique.. which was too much information really!

Two T's and a slice of hot gossip please!

When it comes to going out for morning coffee, afternoon tea or a light lunch, we are spoilt for choice in this area. There are several coffee shops attached to garden centres, some in old converted buildings, a couple in bookshops, but my favourite is one owned by Violet, and attached to her studio/gallery where she displays work by local artists and craftspeople. Here at various times of the year you can find examples of batik, watercolours and acrylic paintings too, felting, wood-carving, hand-knitted bags, wonderful cushion covers in silky fabrics, and the pottery done by Violet and Laurie, a tall, willowy blonde in her fifties who hails from California.

Out of season it's quiet, which makes it an ideal meeting place for the knitting group I belong to, along with the aforementioned Laurie, my good friend Rowena, Lizzie the freelance writer, Sue who's married to the vet, and Daisy who, together with her sister Esme, spinsters both, owns a village store in one of the other villages in this area. When we're not meeting at Violet's, we meet in each other's houses... summertimes in gardens or summerhouses with the buzzing of bees, splashing of fountains, and birdsong accompanying the clickety-clack of our needles, the occasional giggles breaking into the gentle hum of conversation, drinking sparkling wine or iced tea. In winter we might meet in Laurie's large kitchen, all sitting around her big old table by the Aga, mugs of home made soup to hand, or in Sue's conservatory, a huge iron edifice attached to the old vicarage where she and vet husband Peter, three children and several pets live in what looks like continual pandemonium to an outsider.

Anyway, out of season like now, it's usually quiet in Violet's coffee shop, nobody to bother us and nobody for us to bother, so it was with a sigh of dismay that I opened the door, walked into the warm, cinammony smell of the coffee shop, and espied the Two T's as they're known, sitting at one of the tables, papers and OS maps around them.

I should perhaps briefly introduce them to you.... they have an almost-unpronouncable surname, one you have to be really careful saying or you'll end up making an embarrassing blunder, so people just started calling them Mr and Mrs T, or the Two T's. They see it as their job to keep these streets safe for the rest of us; they initiated the Neighbourhood Watch schemes in all areas of this village; they were instrumental in getting community police introduced to the villages around here and a mobile police station to visit one of them as well on a regular basis; they were involved in the setting up of a team to keep the green areas planted, weeded and generally tidied; they bought several benches and had them placed at strategic spots in the village for people to just sit a while; in short, if there's anything good going to be done around here, then the TwoT's will be in there somewhere, rallying the troops, getting things done. A nice couple, but despite all their involvement in the village, nobody really knows anything about them, they tend to keep themselves to themselves when not embarking on some village project or other.

Anyway, it looked as if they were up to another scheme now and I was a bit worried our liveliness would distract them, but as I moved over to where two tables had been pushed together to accomodate the six knitters, they gathered up their papers, almost furtively as if they didn't want me to see them, and hastily made their exit.

I smiled over at Laurie, sitting with her first cup of coffee. There was an air of excitement about her, she looked as if she couldn't wait for me to sit down, flapping her hands at me, beckoning me over, making sure I sat close to her. It seemed she had been privy, accidentally, to some juicy titbit of gossip, had been keeping it to herself all week trying to decide what to do, whether to speak out or not, and wanted to tell me now, before her courage failed her and she once again began havering as to whether to spill the beans or not.

Looking over her shoulder to make sure Violet wasn't around, she leant in towards me and I almost expected her to adopt a phony French accent and utter those immortal words...'Listen very carefully, for I shall say this only once.' Of course she didn't.. but what she did say certainly had me listening carefully.

Last week her car had broken down, she'd had to leave it with Vic at the garage but needed to get into Norwich, so had to go on the bus. She lives away from the centre of the village, at the other end to our wonderful Phoebe, in a beautiful converted barn. Luckily there is a bus stop not too far away, and alongside it, a rather dilapidated red telephone box. As you can see from the photo, it's a bit lop-sided, sadly in need of paint, but even so, has much more character than these glass and plastic things that BT replaced them with. (Perhaps the Two T's ought to have a campaign to restore these red telephone boxes, most villages around here have at least one of them, all falling into disrepair, but still operational.)

As she was waiting for the bus, the phone in the box began to ring. This is one of those dilemmas isn't it... do you answer it or pretend you can't hear it? Worse if it's in a busy public place, but here, isolated really, easier to ignore it. However, Laurie is an inquisitive soul and of course, had to answer it. Before she had chance to speak, this rather husky male voice at the other end spoke. 'Look babe, I can't speak long.. she who must be obeyed is due back any minute, said we had to be at someone's place by six and you know what your sister's like about time-keeping. Anyway, I'm going to have to cancel tomorrow evening.. I know, I know... I promised this time nothing would stop me coming over, but it can't be helped, it's a work thing babe, sorry. We'll get together soonest babe, promise. And when we do....' and here he made a deep growly noise which he presumably thought was sexy but sounded more like a St Bernard with laryngitis according to Laurie. Then he suddenly hissed 'Bye babe' and the line went dead.

Laurie said she put the phone down when she saw the bus coming, but something about the voice was bugging her all week. She was sure she recognised it she said, and then last night, it came to her. She knew who this man was, knew who the 'she who must be obeyed' was, and her sister too. And we all knew them!

I was about to urge her to tell me more, when the little bell tinkled above the door, and in walked Sue and Daisy, and the moment passed. 'Later', Laurie hissed at me, smiling in greeting to our friends as they neared the table.

Well, 'later' hasn't yet arrived.. Laurie has been called away for a few days, and so here I sit, wondering who I know who has a sister, who's particularly fussy about time-keeping, and more importantly, who could possibly be married to someone cheesy enough to call a woman 'babe'?