I was planning to start this blog with some musings about being rather sleepy and warm in the library, where mum has the wood burner stoked to thermonuclear levels. Nestling down in my seat, I patted myself on the head smugly for remembering to scan my recent “tree” blog to check for any photographic overlap. However, as I opened the page the dread words “the Christmas cakes are in the oven” began to flash on and off in radiation leak red. Reader, I veritably teleported out of the comfy chair and through to the kitchen with a blue light flashing on my head and an accompanying doppler wail. Thankfully, Auntie Zee’s cake recipe is very forgiving and the extra hour and a half past the designated (and utterly forgotten) checkin time proved just right! I can also report that I was absolutely correct in my assessment that the red Christmas tree silicone cake mould from the Lidl treasure trove aisle was THE VERY THING. Cake binge drinking will therefore now commence and continue until a suitable icing design concept has arrived. Unfortunately, with all the culinary excitement and the coffee I brewed whilst washing the cake tins, my mellow library moment has rather passed and I now find myself scanning the photographs I had downloaded wondering what in the blue blazes I originally meant to say. What follows is, I’m afraid, in theatrical parlance, “improv”.
With mum hors de combat Lyra and I made a few recent forays out round the fields (she detests a tussocky headrig walk). The long stubble field by Kersfield, where the wheat had been laid flat by storms earlier in the year, has developed a curious striped aspect, with broad bands of rough grass emerging between rows of bleached stubble. Our route runs across the stripes giving a crunch- swoosh, crunch-swoosh soundtrack. Lyra is less interested in the soundscape than the smellscape. On one outing she paused by the little wood at the corner and seemed utterly mesmerised by the aroma of her paws. She stopped stock still and sniffed first one and then the other with the air of a lady at a perfume counter, swithering between free samples. I feared for the worst but a cursory inspection indicated no immediate fox poo peril and so I strode on, heading south. Ignoring my cheery call of “this way” Lyra snapped out of her reverie and ran determinedly north. Her tracking skills led her straight to something unspeakable to roll in and she emerged swaggering and sporting a full head and shoulder fox scented henna tattoo and a less than innocent expression. Ah well.. Some measure of revenge for the soaking I got at the back door, soaping madam down, was gained in capturing for posterity the fourth birthday outfit Lachlan inflicted on the poor hound. This was worn for a scant two minutes and her expression in the commemorative photograph rather speaks for itself.
The cats took the opportunity of mum’s hospitalisation to lay immediate claim to her bed. (When at home mum is at great pains to keep the door firmly closed to avoid any unwelcome headless rodent/bird/rabbit gifts.) One of the first tender maternal messages from the hospital bed was a directive to effect a feline eviction and thorough search for “deid yins”. This I dutifully performed, earning a malevolent stare from Snuffy. I note that the Rabbit Room two doors down is now festooned in feathers and fluff and at least two headless corpses and one gall bladder have been extracted from the wreckage. Unfortunately, having had the rat man spray us anent moths, we are banned from hoovering and so the circumstantial evidence must remain in situ. I am somewhat tempted to draw a small chalk outline of Jerry and Tweetie Pie on the carpet and block the door with black and yellow tape.
On the home front, a new crispy vegetarian pie was invented for the good ladies and gentlemen of the Berwickshire Literary Festival (recipe uploaded) and I bottled up some hazelnut vodka (which turned out surprisingly well). We still have some roses blooming, against all odds, and the chrysanthemums are doing so well I am starting to feel optimistic about a few lingerers for Christmas. I plan to cut a few tomorrow and see what comes up again. Two rather fine larches have added a golden glow to the back track and at last we have some bright pink spindles on the spindle trees. I have finally lifted the last of the dahlias but have yet to brush them off and swaddle them for the winter. I need to generate some more shredding first and, if nothing else, this may inspire me to get on with my tax return so that the source materials can be added to the mound. A scant half hour weeding last week made it plain that it’s much too cold to be in contact with soil so on fine days I have limited myself to sweeping up and carting off dead leaves from lawns and paths to the leaf mould bins. I disturbed a sleepy mouse last week and had to guiltily rehome him under a brand new heap below the chestnut tree.
Down on the Hirsel lake the swans are gathering. They patrol the shore in elegant V formations, with the massed ranks of ducks, coots, moorhen and Canada geese drawn up at the rear. There is still one, slightly shame faced, late cygnet still to change its feathers. Poor thing, I imagine it beset with well meaning Aunties and wishing passionately for transformation. The cows have moved down to the field next to the walled garden, but seem unimpressed by the winter jasmine and white corydalis blooming against the sun warmed bricks. They gather amiably under the oaks waiting for Alan and the next bale of straw. I caught sight of Alan in the field above the river where the older cows are a few days ago. Doubtless assuming himself unobserved, he had quite abandoned “dispassionate farmer mode” and was tenderly petting one of the older Islas. And “nane the waur o’ that” thought I smiling.
