So that’s it, 2023 has gone – and as far as I’m concerned, the first half of it can be buried in a deepest, darkest pit somewhere, along with the Covid year of 2020, neither of which have any memories worth preserving. We lost two horses within a few weeks of each other and prior to that, in the spring, were thrown into unexpected upheaval when daughter Kathy's ex, out of the blue, cleared off elsewhere causing much heartbreak, bewilderment and other such consternations. Divorce now complete, we need to look ahead not back.

The second half of 2023 wasn’t quite as bad, but it could have been better, so that can clear off as well. The only good things that happened were Kathy forming a blossoming relationship with Andrew, a neighbouring farmer, and our horse, Lexie, making an almost miraculous recovery from an illness that we thought would be the end of her. It might re-emerge, but so far, these months later, all is well. Kathy has taken to helping round a real farm like a duck to water, assisting with sheep and cattle and driving the tractor and Land Rover when required. Oh, that was another good thing, Kathy learnt to drive and passed her test first go with flying colours. I’m so proud of her.

More good things are Rafale, the colt foal who ‘joined’ us in late May (Lexie’s foal) and Yara, an ex-racehorse, bought because we’d lost our beloved Saffy and her son Franc. Yara is an absolute delight, a gentle mare willing to do anything to please – except race. She wasn’t suited to it, hence her ‘for sale’ status. At the moment she is still ‘chilling out’, putting bad experiences behind her and settling in nicely to the relaxation of the Devonshire countryside. Kathy will start work in earnest with her now the New Year has come and gone. Likewise, Saffy’s other foal, Phoenix, is now four years old, and ready to start learning grown-up things. She has already been lightly broken and backed, but now needs to move on to the next stage – although slowly and carefully, for she has the potential to be a cracking good horse, just like her mother was.

Being positive, what else was good about 2023? Not a lot. I had a stairlift put in, thanks to the approval of the County Council. It does make our already somewhat narrow staircase even narrower, but as I now get to ride up and down the stairs, the ‘breathe in’ requirement is no longer a problem. It is SO much better to go up or down without a struggle, or being in pain from the arthritic hip and knee, both of which were inclined to give way without warning. Add in my wonky eyesight, which causes a profound sensation of imbalance … well, you can see why my stairlift is a great hit!

It came fitted with a warning ‘beep beep beep’, like a reversing lorry. I had that feature disconnected. Sound carries through this old house, and who else is there to warn about an approaching up/down elevation vehicle anyway, apart from myself, my husband, two cats, the dog and a handful of resident ghosts? The safety seat belt made me laugh as well, but I suppose it has its uses.

I’ve been told that our ghost housemaid isn’t all that impressed by the stairlift. I think the noise and disruption of having it put in upset her a little. (Apologies Milly-Molly, but unlike me, you don’t have a problem with the stairs…)

Talking of ghosts, Kathy met a new resident shortly before Christmas. Coming back down the lane from giving the horses their breakfast one morning, Kathy saw a man sitting on the fallen tree trunk that has been in our little patch of woodland since before we moved here. He was dressed in a green Barbour coat and wore a flat cap. She thought it was Andrew. "What are you doing sitting there?" she asked. Then realised that, in fact, Andrew was on the other side of the lane by the house gate… Meanwhile, the man had vanished.

And no, despite the quote of the month, gin had nothing to do with it!

Let’s hope that 2024 turns out to be a really good, happy year for us all, and if there do have to be any hiccups, may they all be little, insignificant ones!

Until next time. Life is basically all the stuff you do between that first cup of coffee and that first glass of gin.

Dateline: 21^st January 2024.

I’m not keen on winter. Let me clarify that. I dislike winter. It’s cold, dark, wet, miserable – and did I say cold? The days are short, the nights are long. If I could I would be more than happy to stay in my warm, cosy bed and hibernate beneath the duvet with Mab the cat curled on top of me, hotty-botty hot water bottle at my feet and Teddy Bear snuggled beside me. (Teddies are amazingly warm!)

The butler (husband Ron) can bring me bacon sandwiches and cups of tea, and the biscuit tin will always, magically, stay filled with chocolate digestives. And while I’m creating the wish list: lots of good entertainment on the TV. The last wish is sadly lacking at the moment.

I diligently take my Vitamin D tablets to ward of S.A.D – Seasonal Affected Disorder. The medication works, sort of, but sitting here at my desk looking out the window as Storm Isha comes rampaging in from the west, like the wicked witch in the Wizard Of Oz, the feeling of deep gloom cannot be entirely overcome. I’ll dig out my red shoes and hope a house (empty and not mine) falls on Isha before she does too much damage.

The hills over the back beyond the Taw Valley are rapidly disappearing into a thick mist of pouring rain. The wind is sounding like a train hurtling through a railway station, the trees, especially the huge Silver Birch at the lower right-hand corner of the orchard, is doing a fair imitation of an over-enthusiastic aerobics tutor determined to get that bend more supple. I hope the ash trees and oaks do okay, although they should be all right without their canopy of leaves.

Question: how do birds manage to fly in a gusting, bordering on gale-force wind? The fat balls and peanuts feeders outside the window have at least twelve long-tailed tits on them at the moment, the woodpecker comes in every so often; the blue tits and great tits have their turn. The sparrows and dunnocks and blackbirds prefer the goodies on the bird table, all partaking of filling their tummies as evening draws in earlier than usual because of the rotten weather. As dusk falls there is a lot of twittering and squabbling going on outside. Birds vying for the best sheltered spots I assume.

The full force of Isha is yet to come. Candles: tick. Matches: tick. Water carrier filled: tick. Log fire lit: tick. Hatches battened: tick. I think the idea of hibernating sounds a good idea.

Apparently,when the ground is frozen with frost and ice, to save the embarrassment (and pain) of a fall, one is supposed to walk like a penguin.

I don’t think this means do a Dick van Dyke as in Mary Poppins by pulling the trousers down to half mast and performing a waddle-dance (unless you want a laugh, that is.) The idea is to keep the centre of gravity over your feet as much as possible, so bend the knees slightly and point your feet outward, hold your arms out to the side. Keep flat footed and waddle along.

In theory you won’t fall. Please don’t complain to me if it doesn’t work.

Penguins outside of zoos, live entirely in the southern hemisphere, so no worries about them being eaten by Polar Bears.

The word ‘penguin’ first appeared at the end of the 16th century. European explorers discovering what is now known as a penguin thought they looked similar to the northern hemisphere’s Great Auk, so transferred the popular name for the auk – ‘penguin’, although neither species is related. (I know, it’s complicated!)

Popular myth (and the Oxford English Dictionary) assumes the word comes from Welsh (pen gwyn) meaning ‘white head’. One does have to question this though. I’ve always thought that penguins have black heads and white tummies so ‘Pendu’ would be more appropriate (black head). The Great Auk was first seen on White Head Island in Newfoundland, though to name a bird after its location is a tad lacking in imagination, I think.

Alternatively, etymology can link the word to Latin pinguis, which means 'fat' or 'oil' and the Germanic word for penguin is fettgans– 'fat-goose'. I like that one the best.

A group of penguins whilst on land is a ‘waddle’ but in the water they are a raft. Either way, in water or out, Welsh or Germanic, to suggest ‘waddling on ice like a fat goose’ does not, perhaps, sound quite so appealing.

Until next time - unless I get blown away by Isha.

The only time I like ice is when it’s a frozen cube and surrounded by gin.

Written 18^th February 2024

My best friend, Hazel, would have been seventy-five today, had she not unexpectedly died back in 2001. That’s twenty-three years ago. I still miss her. A lot. She went to bed on 30^th October and did not wake up the next morning. I’ll never forget that day. That awful phone call. The disbelief, the shock, the deep, deep pain. I had to drive my daughter, Kathy, up to the stableyard – the horses still needed doing and the farrier was coming, but how I drove there and back I don’t know.

I worked with Hazel at South Chingford library for many years, we were friends almost from my first day, 4^th August 1969. I was sixteen, she was twenty and not long married. Even now, after all these years I can’t believe she’s gone.

Before I married, I shared holidays with Hazel, her husband and her mum and dad Joy and Gus. They were like adopted parents for me, lovely, fun people. After I married Ron, and my Kathy came along, still our families holidayed together, mostly to the Lake District where the walking was worth the hard work for the reward of a view, and where the pubs always seemed to be open. For our children these were real ‘Swallows and Amazons’ holidays, complete with boats on the lake, cooking sausages on the shoreline bonfire and riding bikes with the freedom of few rules. Many of those holidays were in February to encompass Hazel’s birthday (and cottages were cheaper in February than later months.) Valentine’s Day also often fell while on holiday and dear Gus would leave a little present by our breakfast spots at the table – presents for all his ladies and the children. Oh, the laughter we shared! The memories that remain!

Our friendship continued even though, as mums, we eventually had different part time jobs. I remember one particular weekday morning. I’d dropped Kathy at the stables as usual then called round to Hazel’s for a good gossip and lunch. We sat in the garden and talked about a particular radio programme, Home Truths which was hosted by John Peel who, sadly, passed away in 2004. This was a talk show on the Saturday morning 9-10 a.m., where ordinary people told of their extraordinary stories about life.

Hazel and I talked, too, of the future, of how we both looked forward to retirement when we’d have as much time as we wanted to sit and read all the books piling up on our ‘want to read’ list. I remember laughing with her and saying “Being bed ridden when we’re old could be a good thing – a different book every week, and the library delivery service coming to us. I’ve already started my suggestion list!”

Do I remember all this because it was not to be? Would we have remained friends had Hazel lived? I like to think so, even though she had a pretty rough time when Gus was taken ill and Joy then developed dementia. I wish, now, that I’d done much more to help ease the stress, but none of us realised how it would affect Hazel. She was, or so we thought, fit and healthy. Walked almost everywhere, ate salads and good food, but she liked salt. Was it the salt that cause the pulmonary embolism? A blood clot that blocked and stopped the blood flow to an artery in the lung. The one comfort, she knew nothing about it.

I often think of her coming here to our new life in Devon. Of the Christmases we could be sharing, of the highs and lows, of the laughter and tears. When I watch the birds squabbling over the peanuts and fat balls on my bird table I think of Joy and Gus who loved the birds. They would be able to identify every one of them. I can picture Joy and Gus sitting in my study looking out the window, or resting on the garden swing chair, enjoying the peaceful view. Hazel coming back from a walk and putting the kettle on. Of the chatter around the dinner table, of happy evenings up at the pub.

I miss Hazel and, on her birthday, I shed a few tears for the retirement that we didn’t get to share after all.


Until next time. Always speak of the past, gratefully. Of the future, excitedly. And of the present with a Cheshire grin.

Little lambs are everywhere. They do look so cute skipping about in the fields playing tag, cops and robbers or King of the Castle, while their long suffering mums look on with heavy sighs and compare notes with the other ewes about just how to control the naughty children. I wonder, like us, do these mums think their offspring are cute? There is also something lovely about hearing a mummy sheep softly baa to her babies.

We have discovered that the local dialect is ‘oos. Not ‘yews’ for female sheep. And down here a hog is a sheep or a pig, whereas other places, hogs are pigs. Little lambs also love their bottle feeds, especially our very little lamb, Daphne. (Don’t ask!)

I’ve just this moment come back from the spare stable where I’ve been feeding the two littlest lambs with their bottle of formula milk.

Daphne is the smallest of five. Yes, Mum had five lambs. And when I say smallest, I mean tiny, like a fluffy, woolly toy. Her four sisters are enormous compared to her, and it was touch-and-go whether she’d survive at first, but a warm stable and plenty of bottle feeds and she’s doing well. Far too soon for her to go out in a field yet, but Mum and family are quite happy in our spare stable. Of course, we’re bound to end up keeping Daphne and probably her next smallest sister, Eloise.

The thinking is that maybe they’ll become field buddies with the colt, Raf. I guess keeping them won’t be a problem, not now that Kathy regularly helps with the rest of the flock and can help with the essential shearing come the summer.

I don’t understand these people who condemn shearing as cruel – the equivalent of not shearing would be forcing you to walk around in a heatwave wearing a thick, very heavy winter coat. Sheep don’t naturally shed their fleece so it has to be sheared. The great shame is that the value of fleeces has plummeted because of artificial fabrics (which are made from plastics, which are made from oil) so if you want to do a bit for the environment, buy good quality woollen products.

Shortly before we moved to Devon in January 2013, I had a fancy to restart knitting. I say restart… I decided to knit something way back in the 1970s when I was an avid Tom Baker Dr Who fan. Can you guess what I knitted? Yes, a long, long, long multi-striped Dr Who scarf. The thing is, I hadn’t intended for it to be quite so long (about eight feet!) but I’m not a very good knitter. I only know plain stitch and had no idea how to cast off, so kept knitting.

I had no idea what to knit in 2013, but hit upon doing various sized squares in various colours. The ultimate goal – to have enough squares to sew them together to make a warm, colourful throw for a bed or settee. So far, all these years later, I have a couple of dozen squares in a box and a pair of wooden needles with the next square half-finished. Whether I’ll ever get as far as sewing them together is anyone’s guess. I suspect I won’t, but I dig those needles out every so often when listening to something good on the radio and progress by a few more rows. At least I can now claim that the several holes were made by moths and not let on that they’re my fault from dropped stitches.

I wonder if I’ll ever get far enough with it to enter it into our annual Flower, Vegetable and Craft show one summer? (I’ll have to disguise those holes somehow. Maybe obtain some cute patches and sew them on… flowers or bunnies, or little lambs maybe?

My next-but-one Jan Christopher Mystery will centre around a village show. This one will be Jan #6 A Mischief of Murder, where all sorts of shenanigans take place over rivalry to win the annual village Best In Show trophy. I’ll not let on who the murder victim is to be, but it’ll be an odds-on bet that one of the judges will cop it.

Meanwhile I’ve nearly finished Jan #5 A Memory of Murder. I had the murder and the victim planned from the start, but wasn’t sure who the murderer would be. Apparently, Agatha Christie was often not sure either, which is why any one of her many characters could be the guilty party. She’d decide which one was the ‘whodunit’ when she reached the finale denouement. I like that idea!

Until next time. I rather think that Devon is being slowly eaten by flocks of woolly sheep.

We have two female pheasants nesting in the orchard. Dad, or Harem Team Leader, is around too, a rather large fat fellow, who is more than aware of how striking he looks, except when he slips on the veranda rail which leads to the bird table and falls off. Rather inelegantly. Plop.

He usually reappears, feathers ruffled, has a bit of a shake and you can clearly see him thinking, Tommy Cooper fashion, "Just like that… ha ha. Not like that – like that!"

The ladies are more careful and cautious, and obviously blessed with better balance. They nibble delicately at the bird seed, take their fill then discreetly disappear back to their nests.

On a sadder note, we’ve not had many chaffinches recently, one or two where we used to get them in their tens. This is a result of a nasty disease which has been attacking them and spreading these last few years – not Avian Bird Flu (although that has not helped) but a sort of foot rot which gnaws at their feet leaving the poor little things with stumps, which in turn makes it hard for them to perch anywhere. It seems to only affect finches. Let’s hope it stays that way. We’ve deliberately kept feed on the table throughout the year in an attempt to help our little local flock, but alas we don’t seem to have succeeded.

On the other hand, the sparrows and tits of various kinds have more than doubled and we’ve had a few pairs of yellowhammers visit, as well as the dunnocks, woodpeckers, blackbirds and the bloomin’ squirrel (which I promptly chase off).

A pair of barn owls are nesting in next door’s barn – wonderful to see them back, let’s hope they, and their young, thrive. We saw our first barn owl a couple of weeks after we moved here, then the occasional one now and then, but sadly not regularly enough to know that they are thriving. Fingers crossed this will change.

On the neighbour’s pond there are ducks, moorhens and every so often I spot a heron. (He’s big enough and slow enough for me to see as he wanders along the shallow edge.) Oh, and the buzzards. I love the buzzards because they too are big enough for me to see, especially when they are silhouetted lazily soaring against a blue sky. (And shhh… it actually IS a blue sky today! A rare treat!)

Our hens are amusing as well. They are not as bright as wild birds though, especially, it seems, the little reddish-fawn pekin hen that lives with the others in the front garden up near the stable yard. Just by chance I heard her clucking away to herself in Lexie’s empty stable – Lexie being away for four days competing (showjumping) with Kathy in Wales. Hen had made herself a nest deep in the straw. I found four eggs, which would have become somewhat scrambled when Lexie returned to her stable.

Back in February Kathy happened to hear some cheeping tucked within the hay bales stacked in the barn. She found several chicks – in all fourteen eggs either just hatched or about to. Obviously, the hens had been secretly laying their eggs there with one of them finally deciding to sit and brood. We knew she was missing, but had assumed that she’d made a tasty dinner for Mr or Mrs Tod.

As a by-the-by, Kathy and Lexie did well in Wales at David Broome’s Cricklands Showjumping Centre, taking several wins and a few high places, cumulating in Silver for the overall place. I’m so proud of Kathy going off, driving the horsebox, on her own. She has also completed and graduated from her Centre 10 coaching course, so is now a qualified Centre 10 coach, in particular for showjumping or general equitation. She specialises in regaining confidence, whether from a temporary small wobble or an all out loss.

But back to the birds: I recently heard something quite delightful (hilarious? Annoyingly addictive?) on Radio 4’s Today programme. It was April 1st so the presenters didn’t believe it either, but then the proof came in and I can 100% confirm… birds (in our case a blackbird) actually do whistle the first few notes from… I’m A Barbie Girl.

Although one has to wonder; are the birds copying the song or did the song writers copy the birds? No longer is it, "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" but "Which came first, the Barbie or the Blackbird?"

Listen out for it in your own bird community! (Fair warning again; the tune is addictive.) "I’m a Barbie Girl…"

Until next time. He sang a long, loud trill, merely to show off –
nothing is quite as lovely as a robin when he shows off.

Many things on the radio, and for our village events this month, are connected to the anniversary of the D-Day landings.

On 6th June 1944, allied troops landed on the coast of Normandy… the start of the campaign to liberate Europe and defeat Germany. It was to be a hard-fought campaign, and successful overall. But many who left the English coast never came back. Loved ones were lost or suffered life-changing injuries. Listening to the re-told tales on the radio of those who are still alive to tell of those events was both wonderful to hear and incredibly sad.

War and wanton destruction is happening in other places – many other places around the world, and I can’t help thinking that isn’t life hard enough to endure with the natural disasters which happen – floods, storms, earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanoes – without intentionally sending out men (mostly men) to senselessly be slaughtered? But I guess that as long as we, the supposedly intelligent species of Homo Sapiens, exist, there will always be those who hold a lust for power. I can’t help thinking that The Gods (who or whatever they might be) went wrong somewhere.

The last weekend of May is Veteran’s Day in the USA, when people remember those who died defending the right to Freedom. Our Remembrance Day here in the UK is November 11th, the day when Peace came after the first Great War in 1918. There are other things we, perhaps, should be remembering … or maybe not?

Do most of us, now, make a point of remembering that awful day on 9/11, the destruction of the World Trade Centre Twin Towers? Or 7/7, the four bomb attacks in London on 7th July, which claimed the lives of over fifty people and injured a further seven hundred. How many of us here in the UK remember the Manchester Arena? Hillsborough? Grenfell Tower? I suspect that unless we had loved-ones involved, most of us do not remember, save in passing on the anniversary of these days. Is that a good or bad thing? Yes, to remember those who died is a thing of compassion, but to linger on the hatred behind the cause of some of these events? That is not a good thing. The memory of WWI ‘The war to end all wars?’ Well, that hasn’t happened has it – despite the commemorating.

I had a short disagreement online a while back - short because I had no intention of becoming embroiled in an ongoing public argument. Someone stated that they disagreed with members of a dedicated historical society laying wreaths on the anniversary of a specific historical battle date.

Now, for one thing, this is a matter of personal preference: if someone feels strongly enough about the events of the past to lay a wreath to honour those who died back then – what business is it of anyone else? Would the attitude of this person still apply on, say, 11th November 2224?

Just as for the official Remembrance Day, laying a wreath, or buying a poppy, is a way of showing our respect – whether for the dead of the two major twentieth-century wars, or, in the case of the UK, the Falklands and Iraq - and should be no different for older battles where men gave their lives at Battle in Sussex in 1066, at Bosworth Field, Edgehill, Naseby, Marston Moor… at Culloden.

I personally always used to lay a wreath on the marker stone of where Harold II fell at Battle when I attended the annual re-enactments. Again, out of respect for those (on both sides!) who fell.

These men of our past history should be just as important to us as those who scrabbled ashore for Operation Overlord on the beaches code-named Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno, and Sword. All these men are, after all, our ancestors. We forget that those who lived, died – fought – in the past were distant generations of the brothers, fathers or husbands of those who came before us, and who are still part of each and every one of us through our DNA.

The Holocaust, the Death Camps, some people think, should not be remembered now. But the thousands who died there should not be forgotten for the past is the fore-runner of the future. History, and remembering what happened, is vitally important. But remembering is not quite the same as commemorating, is it? And when remembering is forgotten, history has a tendency to repeat itself.

Personal memories are precious: memories of childhood, special events such as births, deaths and marriages. Memories of dear friends – human or animal – lost to us. Memories of fun and laughter, of tears and fears. Whatever memories you do have, treasure them, for memories whether kept private or made public, are to be treasured.

Until next time. Memories can make my mouth smile, but they can also slip from my eyes and appear, unbidden, on my cheeks.

It is very rare to feel deep grief and sadness about the death of someone I don’t personally know. Even people I do know I don’t necessarily grieve over – I’m sad, yes, sincere condolences for the family of the departed, yes, but not necessarily that gut-wrenching pain of shock and emotional loss

For my mum and dad’s passing, of course, there was grief. For Dad especially because it was not expected, he was taken too soon and I wish I had talked to him a lot more. I regret not really knowing him. Mum died when she was ninety-two, very frail, and I must be honest, I didn’t get on with Mum as much as a daughter should. I think the feeling between us was mutual, though.

I was a disappointment, Mum wanted a boy. It’s sad to admit it, but Mum was very self-centred. ‘Me’, meaning herself, was her concern. I’ll never forget that nearly every present I gave her came with a ‘what do I want that for?’ comment. I don’t recall a single ‘Oh that’s lovely, thank you.’ Even when I gave her one of my newly published novels, she glanced at it and said ‘What do I want this for? I can’t read it.’ No, she couldn’t - like me she had Glaucoma, so reading books was no longer viable; but you don’t have to actually read a book to be proud to receive it. I no longer horseride, but I take enormous delight in my daughter Kathy’s equine achievements.

As I'm writing this, Kathy is competing in Wales, with her class being live-streamed on line via video. I’m keeping an eye on the running order: so far she’s clear in the first round so I am now waiting for the jump-off… (Update: She came 5th out of 89 competitors.) I’m not sure that ‘delight’ is the right word for the mixture of apprehensive heart-in-mouth excitement as I watched her jump, though!

Anyway: when my best friend died years ago, again, deep shock and grief. Losing dogs, and cats in the past, and two horses within weeks of each other last summer, the grief was intense. Deep, deep sadness when Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II passed. This, I think, because her death brought with it a step into the unknown future for the United Kingdom (and beyond). For most of us we had only known The Queen as our monarch, now there was to be a new King... and I must say, from where I am here in mid-summer 2024, I think Charles, Queen Camilla and the Prince and Princess of Wales are doing a damn fine job, despite their worrying health issues. Bravo Your Majesties!

But I shed a few tears in early June after a few days of anxious waiting for news about Dr Michael Mosley who went missing, and was then found, dead, whilst he was on holiday on the Greek Island of Symi.

I didn’t know him, had never met him, nor was I likely to, but he had been a part of my life for quite a while, or at least, his face and voice was, thanks to TV and BBC Radio 4. I listened every week to his "Just One Thing" radio programme where each week he explored just one thing that could help improve physical and mental wellbeing. He personally tried each one himself; some he enjoyed doing, some he didn’t, but this was the ‘thing’ about Dr Mosley, he didn’t preach, he didn’t judge, but took part himself and was honest about the outcome.

Some of his suggestions were very much of a ‘I don’t think so!’ response from myself. Take a cold shower? No thanks. Try walking backwards? Not for me; I have enough problems walking frontwards. But other ideas were ‘Okay, I’ll give it a go.’ Stand on one leg while brushing your teeth as a way to improve poor balance. Eat fruit and nuts as a snack instead of biscuits or sweets. Learn to play a musical instrument… ah, I was already giving that one a go with my piano. I still can’t play it properly, but I can manage a couple of recognisable tunes, and my version of Bach’s Prelude in C is, well, sort of like how Bach wrote it.

It wasn’t necessarily the suggestions Dr Mosley made that interested me, although many were worth a try, but his calm, caring voice that had me hooked. He came across as if he were a close friend, someone familiar and reliable, someone who genuinely cared about others and their health problems.

The few days when he was missing must have been so awful for his family, and I can’t help thinking that those last moments must have been frightening for him when the ultimate inevitability was heading towards him at speed. But in a weird way Dr Mosley’s death is comforting. It is the one thing that will definitely happen to each and every one of us, and it might sound silly, but Dr Mosley has, unintentionally of course, added one last ‘just one thing’ to his list of shared experiences.

He has gifted something to make us think about, and his death has emphasised that we all should not waste a precious second of what we have, while we’ve got it.

Rest in Peace, Dr Mosley, and thank you.

Until next time. Just one thing…Relax, unwind and leave behind the cares of the day
-- Dr Michael Mosley

It is supposed to be summer. Well, it was today, Friday 20th July... the sun was shining and it was actually hot out. For a very rare occasion we had our lunch outside under the gazebo. And very pleasant it was too. As I write, at gone 8 pm, it’s clouding over and getting cooler. I’ve asked Alexa for the forecast … oh joy; "A chance of rain." There’s a novelty.

Lunch was made pleasanter by the rather delicious cheese and pickle sandwich. Now, this is rather an important fact because the last Saturday of July is always our annual Village Flower and Vegetable show, but so far the garden and orchard are woefully lacking in items to exhibit.

No vegetables at all. The cucumbers are about two feet high – spindly stalks that not even a pixie could climb up, let alone Jack or the Giant. There are a few very small, very green, tomatoes. No peas. No carrots, no spuds. The hens have stopped laying, so that’s the 'four hen’s eggs' category out. 'Four fuchsia flowers displayed on a board'… I have one, possibly two, so there might be enough by next weekend. A specimen rose maybe? Hmm, there are several roses, but they are either tangled with bindweed or very bedraggled. Weeds – oh there are loads of them; I noticed one stem of cow parsley (or is it hemlock?) that was taller than me.

Hardly any flowers for the various arrangement classes, although my two poinsettias might be okay for the 'Foliage in a Pot' section. (They are both rather fabulous, though I do say so myself, but are poinsettias foliage plants or flowering plants?) Husband Ron has a couple of not bad hanging baskets he could enter – he won last year, and the year before. It all depends on whether the pub will enter their beautiful cascade of flowering baskets. Ours look like a shrimp against a whale in comparison.

Cakes? Scones? Jams and lemon curd? I’m a hopeless cook, so forget those. Crafts? Nope, I can’t sew. Or knit.

Daughter Kathy has some rather good photographs to enter, and I DO have my home-made gin – Damson Gin won last year with Apple and Blackberry coming second. I’ve a new batch of both this year. But can I hold out for another week and not drink it?

The sandwich has potential though. For the Men Only class: 'A sandwich'. Now, will the judges be looking for something large and exotic, or plain and simple? We’ll go for plain and simple. Granary or wholemeal bread, thick slices of Cheddar Cheese and a lashing of Branston Pickle. I’ll find a nice china plate, and make a label: 'A Farmer’s Cheese and Pickle Lunch'

I might enter the six sprigs of parsley, although I’m not sure what counts as a "sprig".

The Village Show isn’t just a "thing" that our village organises; villages up and down the country have their annual show – be they held in the village hall, the vicarage garden under marquees, or on the village green. They’ve been going for years, with categories and rules that are more or less the same now as they were post-WWII. Our super Show Secretary (Alison) has loaned me a bundle of old minutes and schedules dated to the early 1970s because the next (sixth) Jan Christopher Mystery is to be A Mischief Of Murder and will be set around the village show. No spoilers, but Aunt Madge and Uncle Toby will end up as judges.

So, hopefully not too much sun this week, and a light, refreshing rain please. I need those fuchsias to bloom. If you’d like to browse this year’s schedule, and see a few entries from previous years, go to our village blog… Enjoy!

It will be nice to win at least something, but if not, there’ll be the consolation prize of the gin…

Until next time. Creative doing beats creative thinking any day.

It’s been a month of disappointments. I didn’t do as well at the annual village show as I’d hoped, several 2nd and 3rd placings for my hydrangeas, fuchsias and parsley but my damson gin didn’t do as well this year as last. Oh well, never mind, at least I didn’t have any qualms about drinking it this time. (No hard decision about ‘should I keep this for a special occasion?’)

No sign of being summoned for my hip replacement operation, not that I’m expecting one yet, and anyway I’m off to South Devon in early September for a long weekend away at Dartington Hall, for the Historical Novel Society Conference. I’m sort of looking forward to it, but not quite. For one thing, one of my dear author friends, Anna Belfrage, won’t be there. (Read her books – they’re good!) which is a shame as Anna’s great fun to be with, and we’ve been exploring a possibility of her Graham Saga slightly amalgamating with my Sea Witch Voyages. It wouldn’t be the first time! Several years ago we wrote a joint short story together called Ships That Pass, set somewhere in the Atlantic in 1661.

‘But wait a minute!’ I hear you cry, ‘Jesamiah Acorne wasn’t born until 1693, so how could he be around thirty-two years earlier?’ Ah well, you see, Anna writes very brilliantly about time travel. And that’s all I’m saying for this particular short story. Read it and discover more for yourself.

For our joint possibility, it’ll be more of me writing but using Anna’s ideas, maybe some of her characters as background guests. You see, Jesamiah now needs to find himself a (moderately) legal occupation to follow, so merchant trading seems an obvious choice. He has a fast ship and a good crew, an established Trading Company (the Graham Trading Company, to be precise) might fit the bill nicely. Only I was looking forward to chatting to Anna about the potential possibilities over a bottle of wine or two. I guess there’s always Zoom…

I’m not looking forward to the travel there and back either. Yes, it’s Devon, but Devonshire be a BIG place! By train it’ll take me about 2.5 hours. It’ll be nice to catch up with other dear writer friends though.

Another disappointment was the ghost book I thought I was writing. It seems the designated publisher had different ideas to mine. I wrote personal experience encounters with friendly ghosts. They suddenly decided that they wanted non-personal encounters with probably less than real ghosts via other people’s (so-called) experiences. In other words, spooky supernatural stuff, whereas I had concentrated on friendly ghosts (as I’d outlined in my synopsis.) They expected me to ditch 70% or so of what I sent them. I said No.

I’m more than happy to accept an editor’s input, especially where grammar, punctuation or continuity suggestions are concerned, but to produce something I don’t want to write – and hadn’t wanted to write from the get go? Nope. I cancelled the contract and will publish the book myself. Probably a better version, to be honest. I feel bad about letting other contributors down though. But I will still be including several super local pubs that have interesting clientele from the past, the publicity will just be under my newly-perceived role as a ‘Freelance Writer’, not via a traditional publisher.

A disappointment - more of an annoyance - was expecting BT to fit us with the new digital-type telephone connection. The engineer came to change everything over, but half the required equipment hadn’t arrived. Some had, in a big bag, and stupidly I assumed everything was all together, never thought to check what was actually in the package… So I’m now awaiting another engineer on a different date. Not that I’m particularly keen to swap over, but I’d rather get the disruption done and dusted – especially as I have a suspicion that once changed over, half (or maybe none) of what I already have will then work.

Daughter Kathy has had some triumphs, as opposed to disappointments. Particularly she achieved Gold in her particular over-35s showjumping classes at Cricklands, Wales recently. So proud of her.

So, I guess I’d better get on with re-writing the ghost book to my specification, write that next Sea Witch Voyage, and I have the next Cosy Mystery to ponder as well.

Disappointments? Who has the time for them? (Not me… although I did, initially, curl up in a quiet, dark corner and have a good cry.)

Until next time. Disappointment is never a thing you look for, but it has a wonderful way of clearing the mind.
-- Stephen King

Rather an appropriate quote this month, for the wind is blowing a bit of a tantrum outside as a write this. The weathermen never say, but whenever there’s a hurricane 'Across The Pond' in the US we get what appears to be the residue of their storm’s tail here in the South West. And we’ve had a lot of high winds this year, seemingly one after the other. I particularly notice it while sitting here at my desk because I can’t have the glass back door open. If I do it’s like sitting in one of those test wind tunnels where scientists experiment with wind power, or one of those huge fans they use on film sets to bring windy Special Effects. I’m particularly thinking of that scene in Singing In The Rain where Gene Kelly is singing You Were Meant For Me to Debbie Reynolds.

The trees are not Autumn Colours yet, but most have got that distinct yellow/brown tinge about them and with these winds I expect the leaves will be off sooner rather than later. We’ve picked the blackberries from the hedges, (well those that the ponies and our friend’s lad haven’t eaten,) and they’re now stored in the freezer awaiting the picked, sliced and par-cooked apples. Apple and blackberry crumbles await… (That’s the blackberries in the freezer, not the ponies or almost-two-year-old Riley!)

I love autumn colours, reds, golds, browns but I don’t like the shorter days. Later dawn is acceptable, if only for the fact that the two roosters don’t crow so early!

We’ve been lucky this last week of September, though: rain, yes, but not too much of it all at once, unlike many places here in the UK where there’s flooding. Touch wood, our only occasional flood is a puddle by the front gate. The way our hill is set, rainwater gushes down the lane but is then shrugged sideways into the fields.

How anyone can doubt climate change is a mystery to me, the weather has dramatically altered since we moved down here to Devon back in January 2013 – these winds, for instance, they’ve been getting stronger and more frequent over the past five or so years. I don’t remember having to check that the hatches are battened down so often pre-Covid. In fact, it was during Covid that we decided to treat ourselves to a wooden gazebo for the front patio, rather than rely on the cheaper but less nice-looking and un-robust tent-like ones.

We spent a lot of time outdoors under these flimsy ones during Covid, then when restrictions started to be lifted, even more so because friends could visit us safely outdoors. But we had to replace the darn thing twice because strong winds killed it. After that second time the wooden one was purchased, and it has 100% proved itself to be a good buy. The only problem this year, it’s not been warm enough to sit outside that much, even during what was meant to be mid-summer.

My disappointment is that I’ve not been down into our woods for about two years now as I can’t get there; arthritis is prohibitive, so they’ve been left to the ponies, the deer and other wildlife, which includes the brambles which have probably thoroughly taken over. I suspect the Windfall stream and the waterfall are in full spate.

I mentioned our waterfall in A Meadow Murder, the fourth of my Jan Christopher Cosy Mysteries. I couldn’t resist it, my character, Jan, climbs up the waterfall (which is about ten feet high) during the summer when the water itself is quite low. This isn’t fictional – I climbed the waterfall that first summer we lived here. Like Jan I couldn’t resist it. And yes, like Jan I got a bit wet. I won’t be climbing any waterfalls now though, not unless I actually do manage to get a hip replacement.I’m on the waiting list, but how long the list is? Who knows?

I have one question about very windy days which I’ve never found an answer to: When the wind is blowing a rampage outside – if the winter peanut feeder can get swiped off its hook, if the flowerpots can get blown over, if the open back door gets slammed shut (again), if the garden chair goes sailing across the veranda… how come the little birds, sparrows, tits, dunnocks etc don’t get swept up and tossed about like pieces of paper? They seem to have absolutely no trouble when flying from trees to bird table, despite the wind.

Until next time. Wild is the music of autumnal winds amongst the faded woods.
-- William Wordsworth

The other night there was the most enormous bright moon – the Hunter’s Moon, not the Harvest Moon of my quote, though you can easily change the words if singing the original song*. October’s full moon was expected to be the brightest supermoon of the year. A ‘supermoon’ happens when the moon is closest to earth, so it appears to be much bigger and brighter than normal. Most of which, as the moon is rising above your visual horizon, is actually an optical illusion. But I won’t go into that here.

Called a Hunter’s Moon because it occurs when hunters would have been most active, the autumn cull, preparing for winter and so on, it follows the summer Harvest Moon - another bright moon which would have benefitted the harvest by prolonging enough light to keep working. The Harvest Moon, which is also known as the Barley Moon, is the full moon nearest to the autumnal equinox (22/23 September), rising anytime within two weeks before or after that date. The Hunter's Moon is the next full moon.

Indeed, back in late June we were bringing in the baled hay right up until 10:30 p.m. because the full moon was bright enough to see by. It was lovely to be in our top field as the last few bales were loaded onto the trailer. The sky a darkening blue, the moon casting silvery-gold shadows, the birds gradually falling silent as they found their roosts. The only disappointment, I was hoping to see an owl fly over. I suspect there were deer down in our woods – keeping well away from the noise of the tractor.

The lunar calendar has twelve or thirteen full moons a year - well, sort of. The moon completes twelve full cycles of its phases in about 354 days, eleven days short of a calendar year. So, every two and a half years, the difference makes an extra thirteenth full moon, a relatively rare occurrence which we call a 'blue moon'. (So the moon doesn’t suddenly turn blue!)

The names of seasonal moons are recorded from the early eighteenth century, although I think many people assume this dates back to much earlier Celtic tradition. All the same, the names are quite romantic.

January's full moon is the Wolf Moon, February, the Snow Moon, also known as the Storm Moon or the Hunger Moon.

March is the Worm Moon, with the Pink Moon for April, when an abundance of wildflowers are pink in colour, although the Celts knew it as the New Shoots or Budding Moon, while Anglo-Saxons opted for Egg Moon, which presumably refers to hens beginning to lay and may account for Easter eggs.

May is the Flower Moon, Hare Moon, Milk Moon or Mothers’ Moon. The Strawberry Moon for June, when wild strawberries ripen, or to some it is the Rose Moon while, for Anglo-Saxons, it was time to mow meadows, so they called it the Mead Moon.

The Buck (or male deer) Moon follows in July, for when antlers start to re-grow, but summer brings storms, so we also have the Thunder Moon. By contrast, Anglo-Saxons knew it as the Hay Moon, because that’s when they cut the hay.

August is a fishy month: the Sturgeon Moon. Sturgeon used to be widely eaten by the Native Americans, particularly those living near the Great Lakes. The summer haze though also gave rise to a Red Moon.

September and October take us back to the Harvest and Hunter’s Moons.

November gives us the Frost or Beaver Moon. Beavers are at their busiest building dams and lodges for winter, or were traps set in November? It is worth remembering that beavers used to be native in Britain, and that their re-introduction is believed to be helping prevent many of the present flood problems. I think it’s a bit of shame we don’t call this month the Otter Moon, though.

December isn’t always cold, but the moon for this month is still the Cold Moon. Better names are the Long Nights Moon, or, my favourite, the Oak Moon. To the Celts, this was the Wolf Moon, which nowadays is the January Moon.

It has recently been discussed whether Stonehenge (and many of the smaller Henges) were in fact erected for the rising of the moon’s phases, not necessarily the rising of the Midsummer Sun. Something we can only contemplate, and will probably never know for certain.

My only problem with any bright, full moon is that on many a night I have woken and gone to investigate which outside light has been left on, only to discover it’s the moon reflecting off the greenhouse roof or one of the stable skylights. It’s good to wander up the lane of a late evening, not needing a torch, relying only on the beauty of our moon.

* According to Wikipedia
Shine on… shine on Harvest Moon (for me and my gal).

Today, writing this, is the 20th November. Not long, now, to Christmas and then New Year. I can’t say I’m sad to see the back of 2024. Hopefully, 2025 will be an improvement. I don’t like winter. I’m not keen on the cold and I hate it getting dark early. I mean, dark by 4.30 p.m? Really? And wet winters mean muddy fields. I’m not keen on mud either.

On the other hand, winter skies mean bright, bright stars, and many of the constellations I can see and identify. Although now I have wonky sight I can’t see the fainter stars anymore, which is exceedingly frustrating as I’ve always enjoyed star-watching, especially since we moved here to no-street-light Devon. But I do like my comfy bed of a morning; snuggling beneath the cosiness of a toasty duvet, tentatively reaching out an arm to grab the cup of tea which The Butler has brought me. (Honorary title for My Other Half!)

Other Half was not in my good books on the day of writing this: He lost most of his teeth years back – he’s ninety this month – and acquired false teeth back in 2016. Never wore them because they didn’t fit, and never went back to get them sorted. (So first annoyance on my part, that was a LOT of money totally wasted.) He decided on a whim to try them out this morning and because they didn’t fit, forced them in … and couldn’t get them out again.

So what to do? Doctor’s surgery won’t touch teeth. A & E won’t touch teeth. Dentist? All appointments full, and anyway Other Half has been removed from their client list because he hasn’t been there since 2016. (Well, he doesn’t have many teeth, so what’s the point?) I did suggest he could try WD40, which worked very well at releasing the stuck wing mirrors on the new horsebox. He didn’t think much of that idea. *Laugh*, can’t think why.

Talking of which - because the new horsebox is much bigger it has a higher ramp, so we’re getting the younger horses used to it. Which involves a lot of standing around in the cold while said horse stands at the bottom of the ramp staring into space, contemplating the meaning of life.

Not far off two-year-old Raf, first time, wasn’t too bad. He eventually decided that the bucket of tempting food was worth heading for, so, one hoof at a time, went slowly up the ramp. All well and good, but then he had to get down again. Halfway descending he thought it would be a good idea to simply jump. Launched himself upward as if he were a Harrier Jump Jet, cartoon-like, all four feet bunched together. Not a good idea when the landing spot is concrete. He skidded a bit, but thankfully was unharmed. Hopefully a tad wiser?

The second day, today, he spent ten minutes ‘thinking’ before deigning to walk up the ramp, then refused to come down again. Mindful of his ‘launch’ strategy, Kathy opted to stay well out of the way, and left him to make his own mind up. The plan worked. Sedately, he walked down the ramp and was rewarded with a juicy pear for being a sensible boy.

Almost five-year-old Phoenix, yesterday, took twice as long to entice on board. The problem with her - as with her Mum, our dear Saffie (how we miss her!) - Phoenix is not food oriented, so tempting buckets don't work. Eventually, (with some arm-waving encouragement) she went on. Today, she more or less walked straight up the ramp. So, Result. Next step will be a trip out in a moving lorry.

While Kathy swapped horses over, I sat on the lorry step, (bundled up in my fabulously warm Equidry coat – I highly recommend them), and contemplated our bit of the lane in its Approaching Winter Unfinery. (No idea what the opposite of complimentary noun ‘finery’ is. Suggestions welcome.)

The big Field Maple, half in our front garden, half bordering the lane, and the oaks and other smaller trees are mostly browny-goldy-red, but not quite their full autumn colours, although the frost last night and the sudden drop in temperature will soon sort that out. The next strong wind and the leaves will all be off.

What struck me, though, was the busy activity of the birds. No idea what they were I’m afraid, my sight isn’t good enough to identify little feathery things flitting about, but I guess we’re talking blue tits, great tits, sparrows, dunnocks, a robin or two and a few chaffinches. Although there are very few of those around - a horrible disease that rotted their feet having killed many of them. The survivors are starting to come back, though.

I was intrigued by the sound – not of their tweeting, (do we have to call it ‘eXing’ now, Mr Musk?), chirruping or occasional squabbling, but the flutter of their wings as they zipped past me - which was fascinating to listen to. I’ve probably said this before, but aren’t our wild birds absolutely wonderful?

Season’s Greetings and cheers everyone – I’ll be back with you in the New Year. When the red, red robin comes bob, bob bobbing along…