Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

26/2/22 Saturday Last night we all had baths; Mr first, he likes the water hot, then me, then Dog, who protests the idea but settles in the warmth in spite of herself. Her ear fur was shampooed and conditioned, on account of all the undergrowth that needs combing out of it. She has her own towels, one for drying, one for putting on her bed to soak up the extra drips hiding in her thick coat. It’s surprising how much laundry Dog contributes to the household pile. At lunchtime, all clean and glowy, I go for a walk to Charlestown. Wave spume coats the harbour walls, the sea is stirred up, opalesque and green.   27/2/22 Sunday Coffee in bed with land plans- then up and walking the lanes- cut through the fields to see the old fallen oak down by the stream. It is bare and smooth and big, against a blue sky- a sky that is all the heavens, all the universes: infinity. The stream runs clear, noisy. Birds scoot through the scrub. It’s a close-your-eyes-and-step sort of a day, full of good faith,

5/2/22 Saturday A leisurely start. Hold my hands around the ceramic glaze of a favourite mug, breathe in coffee steam, hear the birds caw and chitter, see the soft sky all still, all pale blue and foam.  Run a shower, let the water run warm then cold. Awake! Bags packed but not for work.  Mr has hosed the car clean, it sparkles like an iceberg.  First stop on this weekend’s adventures is to drop Dog to her stopover (with Youngest Son and Daughter-in-law, to be revered and pandered to whether she maintains continence or not). Dog does not even pretend to be sad as we leave. Next stop: Newton Abbot Leisure Centre, for black belt training (achieving a black belt is one thing, maintaining it is another). Last stop: Bristol, home of my brother, my sister-in-law, my bonkers niece. We have brought them the god-food of our homeland: Cornish Pasties, raw and oven-ready; they have the oven heated and ready. 6/2/22 Sunday Coffee, no leisurely time; clothes on, bags in car, drive to venue: Hutton

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 San

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 strawberries t

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 that ha

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