Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

The object of today's wonderings is not an object. She is a baby of seven pounds and fifteen ounces: by the time of writing this, about five hours in age. While I am wondering I am wandering: around the lanes, before breakfast, where I see the harvest has begun in one wheat field, but not finished, the rain has seen to that. Green berries are gaining blush and size. Dog follows badger scent sagas. Some bits grip so deep her tail freezes. In the afternoon my car is delegated transport for children to reach the beach. Boy loads the surfboards, hmms at clouds. Dog is relegated to the boot space, next to the bodyboard, to make room for Boy and friends. At Widemouth South the shallows are warm and lively with the foam of little waves. Between the lifeguards' flags the sea teems with impossible numbers. A fan of empty sand, I find this blast of close quarters humanity endearingly cheery. If Dog and I play over by the rocks, it is only so I can throw her ball without cl

Visual metaphor for feeling crushed... Everyone has days, I believe, where anxiety is niggling underfoot and close to causing a fall. Perhaps it is because it is not appreciated that the anxiety returns? Maybe it is the sense of all the hostility that lingers in the world, the fragility of all you have? It is the flipside then, of appreciation: the unpleasant side of not taking life for granted. It does not seem fair, that fatheads can live untrammelled. Fingers tap on desk: thought occurs. To have confidence in a thing, is that to take it for granted? I have been without lots of things; the washing machine is a good example. I have one now. It works, and I am grateful every time, for every turn of that drum. I love what I have, have no need of dissatisfaction. Except, I don't love that anxiety. Fingers tap on desk. When the dice are always rolling, the thrill wavers. The lack of security frustrates. I would have a haven, a place for buds to grow un-nipped, for ro

At first the rain was of a mild grayish sort, a good sort to wander a shore under, watching surf roll, the light all low contrast monotone. It's after the car parking is paid for and we are walking the cliff top path to Widemouth South that the Super Rain strikes. Swimming is superfluous by the time we reach the sea. Every thread on our bodies has reached maximum saturation. Nothing to do, but run in the warm sea and laugh. Back to the car park, more of a squelch than a walk. There's a lovely café here. No one has remembered to bring a wallet. There's a small bag of change which is counted out at the take away window: enough for three portions of chips. We peel off wet things, wrap towels, sit in the car with our chip boxes and plastic forks, listen to the buzz of car fan, the slide of wipers, wait for the rain to drain from our eyes, finally get to watch the surf roll: blue and white.

(Don't like heights, but that is me on the big rock.) There's not an inconsequential cloud here. They are things of marvellous substance. Sunlight blares between. Such loud weather. It calls us to the moors, to seek a good walk and a vantage point. Once I saw the glow-edge of the Northern Lights: the sky was shaded purple: it quite surprised my eyes. From the top of Feather Tor, in the unnerving tug of wind, the shades of this heaven are not unexpected, yet hold that thrill. After deeds of mild daring and a vanilla cone, we drive slowly home in phenomenal torrents.

Fresh cut hair flares rakishly. Sweet stodge of bread and honey behind a fine smile. Sky full of giant cloud poodles. No rain, only heat falls. Physics says hot air rises, of course, but I am sure it is hotter lying here than it would be riding on one of those broad backed clouds. All the fire exits are open for evening air. Boy and I are in the third hour of hall space rented from the Okehampton Table Tennis Club. I have opened my coffee flask while he commands the warm-up and I say to the parents assembled: 'It's lovely, having an assistant.' Under rain, the hall roof is a drum skin. Lights dim and flick. Under thunder we must mime: this kick, this block: to a line of faces: avid, awed, timid. The hall roof is played like timpani. I have always loved a storm and shut the doors reluctantly. I am glad to hear the bellow of it. Feels a long time in the making, comes with such clearance. 'Are we safe?' Asks Harry, in the lull. &

The eighth month begins bright. The forecast is a line of cloud, the doom-laden rain-spilling sort. One sullen puff emits lightening forks. I tell Boy he is banned from the planned room clean and must be outside instead. Carpe diem is a phrase birthed for a temperate zone. One does not need the forecast to be correct. It stands as excuse and impetus. Lovely washing on the bobbing line: all my paper weighed down on the pallet table (my eraser is stolen by a wind, but found again caught in a grass clump under the rusty garden chair.) I hear chicken cacophony next door: they have broken free and are drinking from the paddling pool. I don't know that they were responsible for pushing the folding chair into the water, nor do I know that they weren't.

Warm wind strolls down the wide city street, carelessly spilling scent: damp water fountain, frying onions, spice, some eye stinging thing that might be called perfume, a simmer of old bin, traffic fumes, baking bread, coffee steam, syrup. Beyond the dust and smell of streets a series of double doors admit the public to the steel and glass sky high wonder with the smooth floors, where shops line up indoors, where the street odours must sneak at the edge of the coolly conditioned air. A grey clad force with bright armbands and earpieces keep a presence. Nobody runs up the down escalator: but this is a calm time of day. Maybe in the afternoon when caution and tempers are thinner there will be drama. Past the bag selection in Primark two friends are walking, leaning confidentially close. 'I can't stop thinking about him.' ' Aww .' 'His girlfriend -' That's all that was overheard: one snippet of a story that seems plain enough. Yep, drama

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words

The rain comes from that fabulous sky, from those broad beamed cloud-stacks; raindrops like pouts, cover the sighing earth in wet prints. Bordering on stormy, we note, and retrieve the garden chairs from a short wind powered journey. The waves may be lively… why, it's been a whole day since last we were on a beach. A plan is not quite made, it only unfolds. Espresso pot babbles: we can't find the lid for the pink flask. The silver thermos will do. Who needs a table when there's a flat rock waiting?

Sleep itself seemed a hot blanket, to be shrugged aside: a sluggish gesture, not quite successful. Half awake and able to hear a glass of water calling, a cool clear note of antithesis. Irresistible is forgotten, though: the stairwell window, undressed, shows the world as though swallowed, lost in the belly of a ghost. -Oh yes, a glass of water. For a few hours, the heat spell is broken. Settle under a better sleep .

Grandad sleeps on the sofa. It's a nest in a mess of happy neglect. Little Granddaughter has succumbed on the sun lounger, under a rag-rug blanket, in wet clothes, holding a favoured toy. Dog drinks the paddling pool water, returns to loll in shade, leaves Granma to keep watch. Other than the heat, all foes are feasibly sleeping also, but Granma has a large coffee, just in case: it makes her invincible. Granma is coconut scented and may look paint spattered: a side effect of Little Granddaughter's thorough approach to sun screen.

The lane hedges are smartly cut: they have a sour-fresh smell. On our walk, the reprieve of cool wind is brief. Heat sticks. Cloud builds. Stand a while by the cut-open house because such a place reeks of fascination. See the rose print curtains; drawn open for a morning that lingers in their poignant witness; and the bared stairs where feet changed direction when they did remember what they were going to do after all. Why is memory so easily lost and found in a stairwell? Footings for more space are dug: those old memories will tumble down, be mixed in. Even when the specifics are gone, the vestiges of history hold; lightly haunt. The field is a wider space, where we can open our arms to catch spouts of wind. The crumbled barn has no doors but its spaces are like eyes: you can look through them, view the world as the barn views it. This evening rain comes. Tepid drops on warm tarmac; they make a low mist, they sparkle in headlights. Imagine tho

Sleep was so deep that dreams could not be fished. A sense of dreaming lingers though. A bowl of breakfast poured. A door opened. No sign of a storm in the night. The ground is dry, things are where we left them. The sky is puff and pearl on blue: that background cornflower colour so popular on postcards. Flock wallpaper of the gods. Lazy smile. I'm outside. It's my wallpaper too. Clouds last all day, into the decorous drama of night.

Beyond this horizon a distant strum: we are confident of a storm. Feel the heat caught in cotton print, as the washing is gathered in. Birds are perched, noisy in a ruffled hedge. Brief relief: cool zephyr smoothing over stifled skin. One t-shirt left on the line, just to watch it dance. Car windows wound up, garden furniture herded to sheltered spots, blankets bundled indoors. Watch, and wait.

Little Granddaughter scoops, slops, pats, makes a cake of wet sand. She sings Happy Birthday, leans in to blow out an imagined candle, knees bent and hands splayed. Boy is in the ocean, recording the low roll of surf over a smooth rock. Dog fetches the ball, this is important work. Slaves to our art, each of us. It is good to break for lunch. We sit on a blanket with pasties of a dangerous heat. Eventually we get to eat them. *** Granma Grace is up and dressed in the hospital ward. Cool air blows and the nurse brings ice for her water glass. 'I thought that was it for me,' she says. 'But I've got more Great Grandchildren to meet, it wasn't my time yet.' We speak of getting a new chair, for when she is back at home, and getting rid of the little sofa, which is comfortable but too low to get out of with ease. She will keep the chair that Grandad Gordan once favoured. She talks to it, she tells us, imagines him there, rubbing his

Linen on the line is pegged. These trousers have stood under speedy equatorial sunsets. Here, spider-spun cotton: a shirt that has floated in the Bay of Bengal: bought on the streets of Malapuram. It flails now in the heated howl that blasts also through the house and slams a door and all of it evokes a beach under the brew of a tropic storm. Every piece of washing hung gets an extra peg, and is left to dervish-dance. The wind is a puppeteer: garments, like puppets, have a history, a seeming life. We calculate it will be July 20th 2015 by the time we've viewed ALL of Boy's India adventure photos :-) 

Heat: a plethora of drowsy and a dearth of sleep. Where dreams can't form, there flourishes reverie. This I like about heat. Despite our amateurish ventures into grooming, Dog is heavy coated, and that is why we leave the steamy lanes for the cool and wakeful woods. No grass scorch here, only the bone dry mysteries of some dead branches amongst fountains of green leaf, the fresh arch of ground cover ferns. Oh, look, an open gate: and that is why we edge the waving crop field. Tall grasses keep our feet cool, the rest is hot idyll. In the cattle field the beasts sprawl. We take the first descent to the river. Things seem to spring to being, most dreamlike: the trees, the gaping gate, the tree root steps down to the water. Unplanned and obvious. I think of last night, after work: we stopped on a cliff top, watched the sun set into low cloud, the sea was gentle, it sounded like breathing. Tell me something I asked: and the sea whispered: Mermaids exist. You are one

Roused reluctant by the alarm I set; am dressed before any real wakefulness arrives. Here I am on the doorstep and seem prepared, so Dog and I walk the lanes before it gets too hot. Over the river a tube of mist thickly sits: I wonder if the river itself is all mist. I wonder what the fish do about that. Habit kicks into a run halfway round. Dog has that roll to her eye that says she will oblige even though you are clearly wrong. Perspiration reaches saturation point. Stop running, before I turn to mist.

Maybe the heat simmered up, steamed away a peaceful night. I'm not the only one to wake ill at ease. My uncertainty, I think, originates in economics, though true lines of feeling are easily blurred. There is a need for some uncertainty in life, lest one grow a skin too smug and die of it. When the balance has over-tipped; either way; to right this: a two pronged attack. Firstly, make a list. Done: tick. Secondly, stand in a river. My old trainers are now my river shoes. Adidas , they are. No name on the swimsuit. Clothes in a backpack wait on a rock ledge. Dog leaps into the water, agitates mud, I can't see where to tread at all. A walk of faith: waist deep, hands trailing under the reflective surface, twitching at the sudden touch of weed, the unnerving quality of cold gloop. 'Okay, river,' the confession begins. 'I come to seek balance and peace and acknowledge that this is something only I can find for myself, within myself, so I don't kn

Dog's nose is dry as the dust laden lanes, so we drive to the river path. Common sense also chooses wading over walking, so at the river we are straight in, sliding on rocks till we're swim-deep, swimming till knees knock on rocks. Dog tacks from bank to bank, tail wagging like a loose rudder. We ogle the writhe and wring of tree roots, the sense of serpentine motion. We cheer when jumping fish full breech. All the way to the bay of the Oak Dragon these adventurers press, and each jumps twice from his whiskery nose. Each jump has a wooden nod. Even Dog clambers on the arched oak back and makes her own splash. Back at home, Cat's food bowl mysteriously empties. Dog feigns a modicum of surprise, then sleeps in the shade of the little fir tree.