“It’s too cold to work in the garden on the sea side of the house,” warned Chris, opening the door for me as my hands were full with trays of plants. “There’s a terrific wind this side.”

The wind nearly tore the door off and my long hair whipped my face. I wished I had put my hair in a ponytail but it was too late – my hands were already covered in soil and I wasn’t going to make yet another trip back up and down stairs. I would manage.

The digging was hard work, not so much because of the hard earth (in fact, owing to all the rain it was softer than I had expected) but more to do with the tough couch-grass that had grown over the flower beds during the past nine months; the clumps of couch, three or four inches thick (including the network of knotted roots), resisted any half-hearted efforts with the spade aimed straight down and all my weight on the top. It required a certain knack and strength, and ability to bend at the knees and strike almost horizontally in order for the grass to yield. Before long, in spite of the cold wind and no sleeves, I was quite hot, and Chris’s words made me smile.

The wind tossed my hair forwards, sidewards, this way and that, into a tangled mass that sometimes made it hard for me to see what I was doing; I waved my hair back with a forearm, uselessly, because the wind was relentless. After a while I became accustomed to the wind and it no longer bothered me; in fact, it was exhilarating.

The first bed had been turned over and freed of the grass and roots when suddenly it struck me how lucky I am to have my own bit of earth (and our house).

“Thank you God,” I said aloud.

Then I laughed because I don’t often give thanks to God, aloud or otherwise. I thought of the poem you often see on plaques in garden centres – “You’re closer to God’s heart in a garden than any place else on earth…” – and I found myself agreeing with it. I’m not a religious person but since my father died… well, a part of me cannot accept the finality. As I watched my hands and feet work with the spade I remembered Dad teaching me how to dig the soil on my allotment – our allotments were side by side – and how to rake it to level the ground and make the soil fine.

My father would not have called himself a religious man. His favourite poem was Abou Ben Adhem by James Henry Leigh Hunt (which I shall paste below). It suited him well.

I heard someone say recently that a love of gardening is a sign of getting older; others laughed in agreement because it has a true ring to it. I thought about it while I was planting my flowers in their fresh beds and I can’t agree. My mother and father weren’t old when they worked on our garden at Gumdale; my sister was only four years old when she was given “The Seven Dwarfs” as a present for being “the little gardener” of the family; I was twenty when I had my first garden plot; and nearly all professional gardeners were young when they started out.

I came inside and the door blew shut behind me. My hands and feet were frozen and filthy so I rushed upstairs and had a nice warm shower; and while I de-tangled my hair with conditioner and a comb, I still had the nice warm inner glow from being in the garden and thinking pleasant thoughts.

Abou Ben Adhem – James Henry Leigh Hunt

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This poem comes to you from my brother, Rob, who probably didn’t write it himself, but guessed, rightly, that I might find it amusing.

The English Plural  according to….

It may still be a bit cold when the wind is up but there is no denying that England in May is breathtakingly beautiful. The hedges and fields are bursting with the joys of spring. The only trouble is that, when out on my bicycle, I have to keep stopping to take photo’s of the different wonderful spectacles of nature before me. Here are some shots taken a few days ago; I include the one of the new speed limit sign erected on our cycle track – I had to put my brakes on!

What are you to do when you’ve had a shower, just applied your “Summer Glow”, all over fake tan and moisturiser (to give the illusion of a slimmer you), and your husband calls you to breakfast? Do you throw on some underwear and chance the prospect of the “Summer glow” turning your white bra and panties a “natural” golden brown? Or do you ruin your favourite pink towel by wrapping it around your still shimmering, highly moisturised body? Or do you brazen it out?

So this morning I breezed into the kitchen in a somewhat nonchalant manner designed not to draw any attention to myself. As you might have guessed, I was quite as naked as the day I was born (just rather a lot bigger and heavier, but nice and glowing), and I sat down at the table in my usual chair opposite Chris. Without saying anything, he looked me over in an exaggerated fashion and smiled like the cat who got the cream.

“What’s up?” I challenged.

“I like it,” he said, then he laughed heartily. “You know, I thought you might say, ‘I haven’t had any objections so far’, and then I wondered about that sentence. Who are the people who would dare to object? And where would they go to register their objections?”

Incidentally, Chris confirmed that he’s in favour of a nice fake tan. And why wouldn’t he? I haven’t had any objections so far!

My doctor is a dish, and he has such a good bed-side manner (in or out of a bedroom) that once his patients get in to see him they simply don’t want to leave; therefore, it came as no surprise to me when I arrived at the surgery and found the waiting-room still half-filled with patients even though it was lunchtime and surgery should have been almost at an end. In anticipation of this scenario, I had brought along my reading glasses. There was not a “Reader’s Digest” to be seen anywhere so instead I opted for a “House and Gardens” magazine. I was looking at the photographs of a fantastic kitchen (didn’t really need my glasses after all) when two ladies – a mother and daughter – came in.

“Hello Sally!” said the older lady as she sat down next to me (and I dispensed with the magazine).

“Hello,” I answered. (I didn’t use her name because I’ve never known it, whereas she knows mine because nearly everyone in Dawlish knows me on account of me being an artist and quite well-known within a three-mile radius.)

In spite of being at the doctor’s, the lady was very bright and cheery, and her good mood was infectious (so to speak); all the other patients, who had been waiting patiently ahead of me and the newcomers, perked up and took notice of the lady who spoke, not in hushed whispers, but in vibrant tones; and little wonder because she was undeniably much more fun than “Devon Life” or “House and Gardens”. The pretty blonde sitting opposite looked across at us with the eagerness of one who is keen on a distraction from the boredom of waiting (there were still three people ahead of her in the queue for our gorgeous doctor, not to mention the patient already in with him, keeping him for as long as possible). The blonde’s husband had disappeared on the pretext of “Just going to get another ticket for the parking”, but that was ages ago and everyone suspected that he had gone for a drink, or a read of the paper, or anything less tedious than waiting (of course, he hadn’t bargained for the party atmosphere now in the waiting room).

A young woman and her tattooed and pierced boyfriend came in and sat down at the far end of the room. They didn’t speak but they looked on amused until the girl was called in by the nurse, and then the young man carried on smiling on his own. An older lady, who had been there all the time, moved from her distant seat to one of the ones opposite; perhaps she moved because she thought she would be called soon, and therefore get in quicker to see our lovely doctor (and have him for longer); or maybe she hadn’t heard the conversation too well from her remote seat and she hoped to be a part of the gang having all the animated chat.

In truth, the chit chat was mainly about our bubbly lady’s stroke last year and we discovered that her daughter is called Alison, and I thought that Alison was at the doctor’s because of a sore throat but actually Alison’s husky voice was the result of a tracheotomy mishap after she had come out of a five month induced coma during her fight for life with pneumonia. Also, we established the order of the queue and how long each had been waiting; oh, and we discussed our beloved doctor.

“You look very well, especially considering you had a stroke last year,” I said and all the other people in the waiting room either nodded their heads or agreed with a lowering of their eyes.

“And I’m eighty-one now. I’m okay but I find that I get a bit unstable when I’m walking. The double vision has gone though.”

“Why don’t you use those walking poles that look like ski sticks?” I asked.

“Oh no!” she laughed and held her hands over her face, “I have one of those wheeled walkers with a seat. Anyway, I’d rather not draw attention to myself.”

“But think how sporting you’d look going around the town with poles,” I persisted.

We all laughed, including the tattooed boyfriend of the girl in with the nurse.

“So your speech wasn’t affected by your stroke then?” I asked.

“Oh yes it was,” Alison got in quickly,”Now you can’t get her to stop talking!”

“Yes, it’s true,” her  mother agreed, “But that’s only because I live on my own.”

And if Alison and her mum happen to find my blog and read this, I’d just like to say that my wait of an hour or more seemed only minutes, thanks to them. Another thing, sorry if I kept you waiting for a long time but you know how it is – I found it hard to drag myself away from our adorable doctor.

Here are some photographs for those of you interested to see how my canal painting in acrylics is getting on. The work slowed down considerably when I began painting the bigger boats; only a day or two more… hopefully. However, it usually takes longer than I predict.

It had rained in the morning so we didn’t get the bike ride we had hoped for and hadn’t had time to take when our visitors were with us at the weekend. While I had stood at my easel all day long I noticed that the weather was improving and, by the afternoon, the sun was shining but I was too involved to break away from my painting until the evening.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested after dinner.

At first Chris seemed reluctant, it was getting late – perhaps after eight o’clock or even later – but he looked out the window to the pretty sky with clouds edged with pink, and he smiled.

“We won’t have long, but yes, why not?”

There were few people around to enjoy, or to mar, the beautiful evening – we felt it was for us – and the young lovers, the swans and wildfowl.

The flowers are so beautiful in England at this time of year – take our Nellie Moser (Chris assures me that is the correct name for our big blue clematis) for example… Well, don’t actually take it – it looks rather nice on our wall.

What a wonderful afternoon! My sister, Mary, and I visited Rosie on the farm. After lunch we went for a walk in the fields; of course, we took the four dogs – three gorgeous black labradors and tiny Sasha (variety unknown to me) – and a day-old chick (Rosie thought the chick would enjoy the sunshine and fresh air. Sasha was a tad over-interested in the chick – she licked her lips every time she managed to get up close to her – but the chick survived in the safe hands of Farmer Rosie. The llamas thought it was a funny thing to take a chick out for a walk but then, the chick may have thought it was indeed strange to go for walk on an English farm and find a couple of llamas in a field…

Yesterday was a Sunday, quite literally, as a matter of fact; the sun came out for the fourth day running, and out with it came the lovers of Dawlish. The town, beach and brook area was filled with people, some locals and many tourists; but they all had something in common – they were not rushing and bustling, but lazing, sitting, sauntering and generally taking their time to enjoy the atmosphere, the beautiful scenery and the company.

Out walking with our Malvern cousins it struck me, yet again, how quaint and friendly our home-town is. Tony has a leg injury which precludes him from walking quickly, and which suited me very well because I love to observe everything around me, have the occasional chat with folk I meet and take lots of photographs; that is, if there is time. As you will see from my photo’s, yesterday’s sunshine brought out all the lovers.There were young lovers walking hand-in-hand and older lovers sat side-by-side; lovers of swimming and lovers of sun-bathing; lovers of short skirts and lovers of yellow shorts; lovers of dogs and lovers of black swans and wildfowl; lovers of trains, boats, motor bikes or even old Vespa scooters (there were about fifteen of them out in convoy); lovers of chips and lovers of pasties; and nearly all of these lovers were also lovers of ice-creams, including all the members of our party, three of whom loved their cornets of Devonshire ice-cream from Gay’s Creamery, whilst I preferred to wait for a soft ice-cream. It was lovely!