Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

1/1/22 Saturday Last night just before midnight, Mr & I strolled down the dark lane, wine glasses in hand; spotted constellations, watched distant fireworks. This morning Dog had done several splats of foulness on the living room carpet. HNY! Also this morning: In bed, chinking coffee cups, we say- what will this year bring? We hope it’s a track and a toilet shed. On the way to work, I stop for a walk at Carlyon Bay. Far from frosts, a warmish wind blows, the sea is a stirred milky blue, the air damp. At work, I eat chocolate and mince pies and a bag of spinach.  2/1/22 Sunday 5am: Dog does dusty poop in the kitchen. Mr rises and mops. 7am: Dog arrives in our bedroom, she’s not sure why. I rise, briefly, relocating my snooze to the recliner chair while she settles on the sofa. 8am: coffee in bed, reading gardening books.  Not looking at the clock: walk before work, around the lanes in the unseasonably warm grey fuzzy air. No snowdrops to be seen, only the plucky wild straw...

Typing badly due to having (accidentally) given my thumb a lid. Have taken the plaster off now for air to assist healing. Earlier, with wound protected (under a plaster, inside a latex glove) I drove out to Paddock Garden (our land - the name has stuck) to plant strawberries and a fern, and scatter evening primrose seeds. The sky was like grey inks painted on wet paper; leaves spun fire colours from branch to ground.  This injury is inconvenient, annoying, and on my mind, so I p ondered wounds as I drove: I thought of: How I have used stoic principles to survive circumstances with grace and learning, which has served me well. (A stoic would say this, of course.) How also I had become so accustomed to nobly suffering from secret wounds, sometimes still it is hard to comprehend how to live without hurt. Hurt is comfortable. Hurt is a habit. Hurt is reflective and meaningful. Pain can be a blast of life. You (you being me, I’m talking to myself) need to stop, to assess. To recall tha...

Halloween is coming - but meanwhile here's the recent kerfuffle from our land. Plenty of pictures but none of them loaded here yet, if you want to see more have a peek at my instagram account, lisa_southard_writer, or just be patient :-) Friday 1st October 2021 Adventures on the land are big this week - contractor Thomas is digging up earth looking for the water pipe connection, scraping out turf to lay stones and make parking spaces - the change is quick and unnerving in a good way. It makes a strong contrast with our hours of wrenching wire from hedges, and the achy work of making little trenches for planting spring bulbs. The soil is not clay which surprises us - it’s stoney but rich and fine. We take lots of pictures. Dog is smitten with Thomas and attempts to follow him everywhere, completely overlooking her fear of heavy machinery and large vehicles. Thursday 7th October 2021 Work done with hands, which also means backs and legs and arms, or so the aches tell me. Not muc...

Sunday 5th September 2021 From August to September was a tumble in time, with many visits from friends and family and I wish I’d taken more notes. There are photographic records. The fields are cut, baled, the bales loaded, gone. We have fed everyone a sour bullace and sometimes a sloe and guffawed at their face pulling. We camped out and saw the barn owl’s pale swoop again. Today in the tree tunnel out from Lawhitton to Launceston I noted how the succession of warm dry days has left the leaves like dusty green leather, like the covers of old spellbooks in a forgotten library. At work we are staying in as the Tour of Britain bikes through Cornwall and roads are closed and many campers and caravans are pouring down the A30 but indoors we can have a YouTube sea and the back door open and admire the blooming pots. Writing going little by little and good, pretty much like the land progress. Wednesday 8th September 2021 The turn of phrase used here is ‘the storm broke the heat.’ Low ...

Wednesday 11th August 2021: The polytunnel is a green tangle. Cucumbers are emerging like little green balloons like we could model them into sausage dogs. Tomatoes begin to blush. The basil leaves this year are huge, like sails, an armada of flavour. Lime flowers and lemon balm and earth make a signature perfume. The garden goes feral every time we lift our attention to the land or the house- the house is currently a mess, like we’ve dumped it here, the land is getting there slowly. We are digging out the wire fencing, some of which is so grown in it might as have well have had roots. We are scything back brambles with reassurances that there will always be space for blackberry plants, just not everywhere. We are spooling up the barbed wire, carefully. Most blood is drawn by thorns. The fields will be cut in mid-August, by the Dart family who have fields nearby. They will even back the tractor in to clear nettle patches where the trees overhang. There is a chap coming for a site vi...

May lasted for years, June is over in a week, somehow. I forget the actual date and am too lazy to check it no matter how easy this is, but June is the month in which we finally have a night on the land. We are spontaneous, which here means poorly prepared. We finish teaching at Okehampton, grab food and extra wine from the Co-op, drive under a sky of orange flame and dark grey crenellations, arrive at the land as the light is dipping, then remember that we should have packed a lamp - but we find a bicycle helmet with a light, and our phones have torch apps. A tarpaulin is spread upon the dirt in the stable, topped by blankets, an airbed, some duvets. A feast of quiche and chocolate laid out on the little table. Dog has her food to scoff from a tub. I twist open the cava (thank you, Ian, gift much appreciated) the cork pings off a wall fast enough to escape layers of rope-thick cobwebbing. We drink from plastic wine cups- a toast to the land, a toast to adventures! Wobble out in ...

Friday 23rd April 2021 We go into Launceston town, park in the long stay because all parking is free until May 17th (when the hospitality industry restarts). We are early and Mr’s knee hurts so we pick a charity shop without stairs; Mr buys a faux leather jacket, I pick out a summery top. Bargains curled in hand as neither of us has a bag, we find our way to the office and ask for our trainee solicitor, a young chap in a slouchy silvery suit. He comes out of a meeting, nervous, finds an empty room, and we follow him in. There’s a big blue folder of searches and enquiries which we look through, young chap jabbing a finger at relevant bits, his hands are not steady. We think the paperwork is probably satisfactory but this is new territory so it’s all leap of faith stuff - deep breath, take up the pen, sign. We leave the signatures, take the folder, and our bargains, go to Barnecutts and choose a bun each. I pick a plain chelsea, Mr goes for a rocky road. Celebratory carbs that we c...