Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Rain drops like tiny pats of encouragement. Hard work walking when the ground gives way. Sodden earth sucks at boots, slurps at paws. It all is as it is to Dog, happily, unless a thorn wedges in a pad, but only as long as the thorn wedges. Released, straight back to the brambles she goes, bearing no grudge. A fine line perhaps, between stupid and optimist? The determination to be dour can't be any smarter. Quality of life is the deciding factor. In a roundabout way this is why we have ice cream for supper. Homemade chocolate sauce is upstaged by the hotplate heated banana: thrown on the Rayburn hob it twitches till we laugh tears. (Next time there'll be a camera on standby: this time we were struck incapable.)

Finding some minutes to spare, a stop in a coffee shop occurs: the first in how long? Unknown. A sense of disjointedly familiar, like a friend you reconnect with and you don't know much of their recent history. You weren't with them when they bought those shoes, for example, but you would still pick that pair off any shelf as representative of their style. A seat is taken by a long window. The glass is portioned out in thick-rimmed plastic rectangles. Light shades overhead, circles within circles, echo the placing of cup on saucer. Retro modernity. A man is asking the manager how to access the wi-fi connection, is answered something about a password. There's a dash of urgency on this request. Whatever he has been typing must be ready to be sent somewhere. Staff talk, over by the till, say something about 2am; no, yes, 2am, it was. There's no door at this coffeehouse, it's designed to be an integral part of a revamped supermarket. On the other sid

Let's have an adventure we said, since the sun is shining. Just a small afternoon adventure, and then perhaps a sandwich. New territory will do us good. We squeeze a car through dark moss lanes, find a wooded valley with lingering mist: exactly the sort of place. The boys take pictures of it, for reference and for the way the light plays. We talk of these scenes, leisurely, as we pass; the path is wide and almost level. The different sorts of green; in depth and texture; how our hands feel the shade. How the firs seemed to march, down to the water, out of the backlit blaze, like out of a spaceship. This is how it looks, to us, as we stretch up hands to catch some warm rays. They come in peace. Ease of progress on this pale gravel trail. Bikes go by and toddlers on trikes tow parents. Shadow goes by, and pattern and bright sky, filtering. Dogs on leads and muddied, free: all tails wag. A pony makes a fuss, crossing the stream; we turn to watch and see our own

A sky as grey as a neglected net curtain, no wind to stir it. Sat on the front steps, a bone coloured bowl balanced on a knee: yesterday's stew. Pewter spoon and extra pepper. Bird shapes on branches gather, clatter. Up on the lawn, the old wood cart is mis-parked, and chairs askew, and teapots full of rainwater line up on the pallet table. Dew beads linger on grass. Cat, rapt by this proximity of stew, creaks over, sits on the drive. Sparkle in her age-cloudy eyes. The spoon makes a pretty sound in the round bowl, chasing the last burst of tomato. One aromatic pepper dot decorates licked teeth.

Nam-ma brushes the dirt out of the living room. Little Granddaughter has also a broom and guess which way she brushes? A fluffed line of dust and Dog hair gathers in front of the bookshelf. Little Granddaughter helps also direct the walking of Dog, from the vantage of Nam-ma's shoulders. And from the washing trug is the best place, she informs, to assist the emptying of the washing machine, though she laughs and laughs to say it. It is hard work, all that laughing.

Walk with Dog in a sort of? Rain dome? When we look up  rain falls from opaqueness The horizon made of? More of the same. Somehow this enclosure- this repetition- is no constraint.                                                                                                                                                                   

A restless night, where a volume of thunder blows away sleep. In the morning clouds stack and part and here is the sun, a warm salutation of sun. Sit down to write and the light shines direct into my eyes. What?! I ask of this phenomena: humorous cosmos, most humorous! Sigh; for I will have to push the table back to clamber out of my seat and walk every one of those five steps to the window and shift the wooden clothes horse to lean in, unwind the cord, let the blind down halfway. Shadow ivy shimmies and the breeze whispers like shantung silk.

Noun: manifestation of a divine being a sudden intuitive leap of understanding especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence Gorgeously backlit, the morning clouds, steeped pinkish gold, shadowed dove grey. A lady with a pastel coat shouts as she passes on the park pathway. 'Blows the cobwebs!' Her dog bounces by. He has a rubber ball in his mouth. Her hair is a silver shade. Storm swells makes the news. Pictures of breaking waves, air bourn water; think of lace, of ghosts, of elemental energies, listening to the howl outside while the decorations are stripped down: a sense of rediscovery in the bared spaces. Wind sweeps the car park where people clutch onto shopping. Faces are bored, inconvenienced: or pleased to have secured a favoured flavour, a bargain, the satisfaction of having remembered they were low on milk. Above the scene a band of moon in the sky, tucked in darkness like a ring in a jeweller's box; think of offer, promise,

A vertical path leads to the little woodland; footholds scarce. Upper body strength gets you into the little woods. Two levels of trail, in this woodland: deer and badger. To follow the deer: be nimble, leap the logs, span the hollows where the bracken lies fractured, where bramble stems are snaking. To follow the badger: squat, duck, dodge the low blackthorn. Forget everything for marvels found: how muscular that mushroom and here a tree attempting flight? Watch the wind catch the root-tangle; the whole structure tip and teeter on the bank; the almost-launch; the bounce and retract. All around are failed flights: deer bound over them and skin off the bark. Slither down the bank, muddy the stream; leave the little woodland for some plain lane legwork, splash a few puddles to vary your stride. Over the hedge, edge the mud, resist the wind, the rain that hurts, push back at the air. If the tree were here it would fly: might even land in the river, splash down like a wooden dragon…

An earache cure has muted the world. Starlings in masses pass overhead, unheard. The river deep makes silent waves. Soundless leaves shake from voiceless trees. Only a recoil crack of corrugated roof, a panel loosed in the night's storm, pierces the taciturn pod. Down by the water the wind blows darkly. The old quarry wall is comprised, though it won't fall entirely for years yet. It's shale underfoot and could easily drop a lone walker into the rain swell of river. It is enough, today, to lose a familiar sense, adjust to a world with quieted starling hordes. The other path is trod, up and up, step by steep step, cumbersomely clambered, over the leaves that dropped, up while the wind blows the cloud over the valley, up to a mossed rock. Legs and ears at rest, eyes and brain roam the valley, the canopy, the lifting sky, a strangely melancholic riverbank. Adjustments; the river flow represents; the altered path, the world without noise. There will always be things

The sun's light was there, barely recognised, diffused through gunmetal grey. Storm wind shook out the deadwood, charged the lanes, loud as thunder. At breakfast, sat at the hatched grain of the old table, we looked out of the windows. A white watery disc; hazed, indistinct: no sooner perceived than lost in miles of cloudy wool. Rain in droves was blown over hedges. The tractor men drew loads; sodden fruity pong, a different kind of seasonal spice. The great wheels left tracks in the fields, knee deep at least. There was lightening, this morning, our neighbour said. Our voices were stolen by the wind: we had to shrug and give up. Paler grey and fixed, the sky, the rain seemed set in: but then the clouds tore open and there was the background as it always is: such blue. All day the cloud re-felted, the wind ripped. The blue was there. Dog took a run on the dung heap, chased the tiny birds she will never catch, earned herself a hosing and then snuck wet onto th

Nam-ma, Girl, Little Granddaughter: after buying new Wellington boots they go to Widemouth Beach with a happy Dog. Feet are kept dry. Paws and fur in the water, happy happy Dog! The sun has a turn at shining again. Little Granddaughter chases a plastic bag over the sand and every time she bends to reach it blows away again. Nam-ma and Girl would have helped sooner only they were suffering a laughter fit, poor dears. But after this is ice cream and café crafted soup. Dog loiters under a chair. Clouds cluster, the wind speeds and chills. Coffee heats. Feet are still dry on the drive home. Little Granddaughter sleeps and the wakeful others talk of fresh diary pages, cider vinegar, brisk walking, making project lists. Dog on the back seat, damp, gently steaming. New boots press pedals, vroom-vroom!

I yearn to describe weather: why would I desire that? Because it is outdoors, expansive, it tints each day's experience. These details make days and days make lives. So I always speak of sun and shade. I see it, I am awake, alive! Yesterday the sun gave us a winter bath, today the rain is drenching. Wind draws the trees as an archer draws a longbow. My son-in-law is outside ankle deep in a puddle, huddled under a gazebo, barbequing. Neither the climate nor Fat Beagle's cake theft will ruin Little Grandson's birthday party. 'Binocleers!' He likes the present we bought him. He peers through them into the winter dark treetops.

I love this about history: the stories; oh , best of all the stories: from conqueror to waif: from tectonic shifts of geology to the hatching of a rare egg: the feeling of otherness that one can glean from trying to understand another time, another place; the awareness of basic human experiences like love and financial insecurity, the shock of mortality, the inspiration of courage shown. Only… if it were to gently rock to a stop... not a frozen in its tracks stop… perhaps a boat at a mooring on a fine weather day… The focus, then, would it fall on the oddities of nature? What if 2013 were most memorable for unusual cloud formation, for admirable sky colouration, for the best spider webs on record? Do think of it, for sometimes one has had enough of the debris, of the way that people can be scattered, hurt, abandoned, lost, misdirected, miss the point, forget that all this has happened before in different clothes and make up and the outcome was not happy, it never will be

Sunday Afternoon December sun turns the landscape silver nitrate: the day like an exposure for a scene: between river and quarry pool where the wall is crumbling. We came here when the wall was covered, unknown under earth and moss. We came here when the earth tumbled, the slate blocks shining, the tree roots, exposed. We came here when the water pushed through stones and through the dark roots, the fingers fumbling. Monday Morning White noise in the chimney hollow, tapping rain on window glass, strands of ivy shook loose, soft soot thuds. All the electric is strangled: torches found, candles lit, fire stoked, the fuse box investigated. The storm takes a pause, as though distracted. The lights cough back. No sign of settle in this weather system. The calendar is close to running out of pages. Miles and miles we walked this year. Today I will polish my boots.

Elmore Leonard advises against opening a book with the weather or wasting plot time describing objects or places. For conversion to film that is sterling advice, naturally, and there's no reason why a reader can't be an involved part of that snappily paced adventure on paper either. One is allowed some fun, one hopes. It's Christmas, so I'm out on a round of visits and meals and this afternoon have been paddling in the sea sipping port and brandy out of a hip flask, so I don't have a copy of the book I want to talk about with me and these words might have an uneven pace, a drift and giggle gait. Clouds drift, beautiful puffy ball gown clouds, the sky is a Wedgwood dome. We're at Bluebell Barns admiring the mackerel shoal sculpture. Later the solar light will catch them shimmering silver in make-believe waters. We are warm on the corner sofa with a clear view and strong coffee. Three dogs sleeping. I shall get back to the point now. The Years is the last b

Christmas is a time for messages, Queen Lily asserts, waving a glass of dry sherry, so here's mine: The pressure to conform is oppressive unless you ignore it, as is the pressure to react. The will to help, the ability to love, these are what makes you beautiful, what justifies your place in the world. Nothing you put on your face, in your wardrobe, in your bank account or display in your house or garage adds to you at all. But if you are a painted fancy rich curator in a big car I can still find something I do like about you: maybe you have a penchant for fun and a well stocked wine cellar? Every time a line is drawn between them and us the world stays divided. Learn by mistakes, lead by example and raise your glass, or your nice cup of tea, or wheatgrass shot or champagne flute; that's incidental, you probably realised, and let us toast the future of happiness, not just for Christmas but for always, at the heart of a healthy and truly wealthy world. Cheers!

In a lull of storm a stroll to the river to see how it spills: fast, capacious. The nouveau delta valley is dangerous and charming. Bright raw wood dots the dark undergrowth: trees fresh weather-felled. Stern faced cloud sails our way. Water tumbles through the quarry wall. Later, maybe, the wall will tumble down, dissipate, river swept. Meanwhile the pool is calm, reflecting a bloom of sun.

Exeter: Granma Grace laughs. Mr apes her instructions that this bag must go to those people, that bag to these people and the envelopes on no account opened before the event of Christmas Day. 'Or you will die,' I add, mock-sombre. Her eyes blue-glitter. 'Yes, that's right.' Mock-sombre right back. Little Granddaughter adds tomato sauce to her pasty platter, then cries, for reasons unknown. 'Well, if you talk to me I can help, okay?' Girl shrugs the drama aside. A glass of water brings some respite. Boy fetches biscuits. Exmouth: Mr and Little Grandson play rugby in the front room. Baby Boy is there, sleeping in a Moses basket. They play with a soft ball but just to be perfectly safe they shhh don't tell Mum . Launceston: Girl, Little Granddaughter, eyes of brown onyx; walking home, blowing kisses. Lawhitton: Boy looks at his list of cards to finish. Sighs. He helps unload, reload the car. Po

A walk on the safer side, today: no ponies lurking amidst twilit bracken and bones. Over the arcs of cut-crop fields clouds tower. They have storm left in them. A storm shortage is unlikely. Dog has a beauty day, first a whole body mud wrap then tea tree foam, cold rinse and an ear trim. A mild chill brews in my head and back indoors it is all about wrapping up. This jumper is bobbled from use: comfortable and flecked gold. Presents stack under the tinsel tree, labeled. This time last year, we review: Mr Craig gave us the beautiful shock, the surprise wedding! We were thinking of our friend who was touch and go after a car crash. Ian Rice was poorly, we were used to it, it was just a fact. Little Godson on the phone, telling us about snow and a kestrel that hit a pigeon. The pigeon survived. Two magpies, I saw, out walking: one for sorrow, two for joy… This year: Baby Girl joins her parents for anniversary celebrations, the young man who survived the crash