Warmth In Winter

8/1/22 Saturday

Arrived at work via the Hospice Charity shop donation site, having made a push to clear space in the home office/storage room. This is part of our tussle to become tiny-house-ready, therefore it counts as land journey progress. 

I showered this morning and, wary of cold creeping in, had my wet hair shoved inside a woolly hat; glad of the warmth as I was dashing through rain to gift a pile of picture frames. 

At work:

Outside the rain is sloshing. We can hear some sort of banshee wind. Dark drops suddenly. I’ve let my hair down, it’s still damp. I ate the last leftover Xmas satsuma and made tea from the peel. I’ve checked moon cycles for the best pruning dates. 

I’ve ordered myself a superb raincoat and it’s out of stock.

9/1/22 Sunday

Zipped to work hopeful of collecting driftwood on the way down but time and weather gently gathered into a Not-Today.

On the way home I notice the absence of Xmas lights- usually someone forgets- and think fondly of how the inflatable Santa of Bugle village would twerk in the wind. Beauty imbues starkness too though.

10/1/22 Monday

A mild, mizzly day. At work we must wait for someone to come and fix the bathroom light. 4pm currently and no one has appeared. I have been for a stroll to B&M to investigate garden storage, they have none, and come away with a modest bagful of things to plant at home - echinacea, lupins, peonies. Edibility to be investigated. I have checked the weather and this week looks less rainy so there is a chance of moving the Rayburn to the stable.

11/1/22 Tuesday

Woke to river mist snaking up the valley, edged with dark winter branches. 

Drank coffee, of course.

Mr was itching to get going with the bottom hedge at Paddock Garden while I needed a home day to settle in, so we divided up. Now we have a clean house and a stretch of managed hedge. While he worked the resident robin was curious; I had a dog and a few startled spiders at my feet. 

My raincoat arrived; it’s splendid.

12/1/22 Wednesday

Woke to a sunlit whiteout of mist, studs of frost on the cars. 

Mist all through the trees, swathes of ivy strung like lanterns 

Mr brought pasties home for lunch, a hot treat.

Today we did garden chores. I have a vibrant nettle buzz because I forgot my gloves.

Littlest grandchildren came over for tea, Grandchild 6 clutching her nail kit. Grandchild 7 helped deliver a basket of eggs which is how several broken eggs hit the driveway to be slurped up by an approving Dog. [Eggy farts are forecast.]

I cooked fish fingers, waffles, and baked beans while they painted my toenails, my feet, their fingernails, and the kitchen floor. Grandchild 7 even painted his nose. After food, there was the welcome distraction of art. G6 drew sharks eating people and snakes pooping on bad people and a tiny mermaid and ghosts. G7 drew roads for his cars and a shallow pond for driving through. He had a meltdown on leaving as he was made to return all items to the toybox, only for us to realise one of the cars was actually his that he’d brought in his pocket from home. It was returned to him: justice prevailed. 

[Eggy fart forecast was correct.]

13/1/22 Thursday

Am woken by Mr bringing coffee: reluctant, pull up the blinds; am greeted by bright frosty wonderland. Nasturtiums and lime blossoms thrive in the polytunnel. Garlic grows in the old bathtub veggie bed. The old bathtub pond is frozen over in zigzags where the iris leaves have poked through. No sign yet of lawn crocus, but the repurposed fishing tubs have jabs of hyacinth stem. 

Dropped car to garage for a service; fingers of ice in the fields’ shadows; buy a baguette on the way home to slather in butter and dip in leftovers soup. 

14/1/22 Friday

Morning arrives in last night’s finery: ermine mist, prisms of dew flung through the greenery, silver frost at our feet. Sun rises in a sapphire sky. Out to the land we go. The ground sparkles. It is not so boggy. 

‘I think I can do this,’ Youngest Son says, so we hitch the trailer to his car. He drives to the stable without incident. We can feel the sun on our faces. We do not know how we will get the Rayburn from the trailer into the stable. Mr says we need a few round fence posts. Between us we get the trailer rolled as close as possible, unsticking the wheels from the mud by laying down cardboard; then tip it onto three rollers, and shove, and wiggle, and shove, and there it is, on the paving slabs I readied last year. We are whooping and high-fiving. It’s damp in the stable, a fine layer of pale green mould is swathing here and there. The Rayburn is wet so unlightable as yet, but here it is. All the doors stay open for sunbeams and air. Mr and Youngest Son take the freed-up trailer to buy another ton of gravel for the lower parking bay. The curious robin hops and keeps watch. Spring’s flowers jut their leaves from the cold ground. Dog and I stay to tidy up the tarpaulins that were mostly successful in fending off rain from the old stove while it waited for its new home, and we tidy the stable to make room for the grand inaugural lighting. There’s a bit of renovation and a chimney to consider, but meanwhile: here it is, proof of hope on a beautiful day, warmth in winter, family love. Dog’s tail wags over mould and old china, she feels it too.