Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

I am in the hammock, resting. Dog’s important work, about which she is so enthusiastic, is to spit bits of mulch into my wineglass.  My arms vibrate from the catch-up of strimming hedges and edges - how the wild sidles up, mouth open, ready to swallow us whole! Tenacity to admire, and good to be sure that if we take flight things will grow. Our wilderness is fertile.  Because of storms I had shifted my hammock stand chandelier to the shelter of a tree. It suits that space as much, dangling crystal foliage.  Hard green pods appear on fruit trees - all but the pear, nursed back from a near fatal fireblight, but that is in full leaf. To be at peace here one must embrace the noise of birds, for they can’t all sing.  A wind whips flame; across the fire pit a twisted log crouches, salamander-esque.  Fat gnat-ish things fly. The swifts will be in flight soon to gobble them up.  I am in the hammock, resting.  Hedges and edges neat enough. Beans planted out.

Summer must be sliding in behind us, slowly turning up the dial.  Primroses over-bloom, droop, even the bluebells are heavy.  Elderflower buds besieged by black-fly.  The lawn cut one minute and replacing every daisy head, every pimpernel, every dandelion with great sleight of hand.  Bees are in on it, prepared.  I am running for the hosepipe, feeling hypnotised. Azalea pink, chive flower purple, the fine stripes on citrine gooseberries - such awe is struck, such spectacle, such skill.  Take an interval in the hammock, the silky hot hammock, too hot for a blanket this time - see how it is as though one could take a butterknife and slice through anything - until the breeze comes, draws across, makes a cooled crust.

Last night, as I was leaving work, fingers of mist reached from the moors to snatch the road; and the road was almost lost. It became a ghost trail,  yet  still led home.  The sky was a void, backlit by an unseen half-moon. I had seen moon and sky clearly by day.  In the garden our van glimmers, by the light from an open door. Mr notes that the outside bulb needs replacing.  In the van, he says, the insulation is all in place.  He has some dust in his hair. He looks up. Dog is round my feet, her tail knocking at the bags I’m dragging.  Oh, says Mr, we won’t be seeing any meteoroid showers tonight! It’s good to be home, post-heat, post-work, pull on pyjamas, put feet on couch.  Turn on the projector, we can watch the sky from here.  Well, I can. Mr and Dog are fast sleep. I have a glass of nettle wine. I’m watching tigers hunt. I’m watching the sleepers smile.  Day view of the van, insulation installation in progress - easily as shiny

Air temperature rose and fell. People are reading this like runes. What joy, what doom awaits? I am not speculating, only trying to work out when best to catch up on late planting.  The polytunnel is a steamy breathing earthy space. Seed trays are incubating.  Peek repeatedly under repurposed plastic and crockery hoping for that poke of green.  There’s one self seeded tomato - how smug it stands in the scatter of egg shells, though the nasturtiums tumble around a hundred times bigger.  Lime shoots pee-oww from every crack of bark; we made soda from the first batch, it has a fresh-bitter bite.  Dandelions are strong and fast - from their flowers I made a mock-honey. No wonder the bees love these florets! Today in the dampness I felt that the earth was holding warmth, and pressed boot soles into soft clay-mud around the empty horse field - while Dog snuck off to feast on things unknown, hiding in the rising crops, sheepish in recall, wolfish in lip

I get in the van, wiggle the driver’s seat - because today I am the driver. I check, I can reach the pedals. Note: headlight controller here, wipers there, horn may be employed by a palm strike, brake is the one in the middle - it is very much like a car, only longer and higher. And all we are doing is rolling merrily down the A30 to visit family, no stress of punctuality, no test to be passed.  Emerge from drive, take the corner, no troubles.  Take deep breath: it’s only a dual carriageway, not even a motorway, and there’s nothing exactly to be nervous of, not when you address the vagary. Tis only new, tis only the healthy worry of stepping into a new phase, of becoming Van Driving Me.  Admittedly, when the window trim came swiftly loose and smacked the side window I was unnerved. But after we stopped and checked and it would not pull free, and we fixed it back with electric tape (all that was available) it was bearable. It might come loose again but would not be fl

            Mr, having reduced his salt intake and increased his exercise regime, has gained some attacks of debilitating cramp.  Nocturnal cramp. A midnight that bites. Pained, not entirely wakeful, he spirals down our stairs to stretch it out - misses the bottom step, crashes into the oven, knocks a crock of fruit tea over the kitchen floor, breaks the crock, the best beloved iron pot that his Mum gave him, that I make all my syrups in, that we use every day, for everything. Mr has sadness, cramps, and a bruised knee. We throw bath towels to the floor, soaking up spilt tea.  Put the broken pot back on the hob.  Accident? Omen? We try to sleep and find it difficult. Somewhere upwards of our bed the moon is waning. Early morning mist and frost we see: we too are bleary, we too are cold. Coffee must brew. It is slow, but the sun strengthens.  Washing pegged to line. Wind blows fresh, not cold.  Dog shares our restlessness so we go down to a f

I am scared.  We have worked hard and scrimped and saved and now we’re spending the money. Like a magic trick: pouff!! It will be gone. Now we pray to the Universe that we are not mistaken. We open our eyes wide to see the curviness of the learning ahead. Those are some hourglass figures! We have paid the deposit, made the necessary investigations concerning insurance, and the specific details of conversions.  A long wheel base Ford Transit ex-fleet highway maintenance van stands on a forecourt with a SOLD sign. It has a head dent and it smells of a diesel spill. It has a chem-loo which you’ll thank me for not describing. Low mileage, service history in full. Fair price. Is this really happening?  I’m lurching into this experience like a learner driver kangarooing their clutch control. It seems that we have bought a van, yes.  The man who puts windows in is about to be booked. From collection we have 90 days to convert it to