The promise of sitting outside under sunny blue skies and the need for a sunshade suddenly translated into real time in the first week of July.

Although I do long for a stretch of warm and clement weather, I flop over like a rag doll when the barometer climbs above 26 degrees. My brain overheats and I am no good for anything. I couldn’t live happily in a country that was both very hot and humid, as I am without energy, drive, curiosity … a sort of stupor paralyses me, sweat drips constantly down my face. Bill Bryson (one of my favourite writers) calls this ‘perspiration incontinence’. I wish I had thought of this phrase – it’s just so perfect.

John loves the heat but feels the cold. He has ancestors from Mesopotamia, mine are Nordic.

Having said that, it was great to be able to enjoy sitting out in the garden, surrounded by flowers. There seem to have been fewer insects this year. Even though wasps can be tiresome, I missed them buzzing around with their beady eyes, visiting my lunch, sipping at my glass of cider, like old ladies fussing. And they do, rapier like, kill many garden pests. I expect some old ladies have done the same with hat pins …

Last year, we had scores of ladybirds on the hibiscus. I have only seen two to date, and they are peely wally orange rather than carmine red. But it’s good to see a huge variety of bees on the blue thistles, which have spread to twice the size this year. A gardening friend has dug hers up as an invasive species – but the bees love them, so they have a stay of execution here.

OUT AND ABOUT

I always go to the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. This year it was middling. Last year was better. But it keeps me ‘au fait’ with the lie of the land. Although a lot of people complain about it, I think it’s good to have a mix of styles and talent. And you are free to decide for yourself what you like – without knowing who did what, until you check the listings for the artist, price etc. I always look forward to finding a ‘gem’! One was a print by Susie Perring called ‘Ripple Effect’, which is still one of my favourite buys ever. It gives me a splash of energy every time I look at it. Thank you, Susie.

This is the second time I have seen Bill Nighy close at hand. If I see him a third time, I shall pluck up courage and say ‘hello’ !

The BP Portrait Award exhibition was excellent this year but I didn’t agree at all with the judges’ verdict. Visitors are allowed to vote for their favourite portrait online at the gallery. The one I liked best was a self portrait by Daniela Astoni. It came second with the visitor vote. I liked the one that came first too but it had a slightly travel advertising quality about it, whereas the second and third (also a favourite of mine but not to put on the wall) were, to my mind, more painterly. I was glad to see that all the paintings collected at least one vote from the visitors. John liked Daniela Astoni’s self portrait very much too, so I ended up buying a print of it, which they sold in the National Portrait Gallery shop.

I went to see the Vermeer + Music exhibition at The National Gallery. This concentrated on his ‘musical’ paintings – ‘A Young Woman seated at the Virginals’, ‘The Music Lesson’, ‘Guitar Player’, ‘Woman with a Lute’. The Academy of Ancient Music sent a small orchestra, who played seventeenth century music in one of the rooms. It was evocative of the time Vermeer painted and maybe of how he felt about the women who played these instruments. There are stories behind these paintings.

Although ‘The Girl with a Pearl Earring’ (Vermeer’s most popular painting today), wasn’t in the exhibition, she came to mind as I wandered round. I very much enjoyed the historical novel of the same name, written by Tracy Chevalier in 1999, which was made into an excellent film, starring Colin Firth as Vermeer, Scarlett Johansson as the girl, Griet, and Cillian Murphy as Pieter, the amorous butcher’s boy. I am drawn to Griet’s simplicity and the mystery of her gaze, which one can’t help but think is unrequited love for the painter. That one glowing pearl earring is symbolic too – she is forever holding a candle for a love she cannot have. I noticed some pearl necklaces in the shop on the way out. Somehow, they seemed to have that special glow too and I was tempted to buy one. I wear it a lot.

Vermeer always reminds me of one of his contemporaries, Carel Fabritius, who worked in Rembrandt’s studio for two years and later moved to Delft. Vermeer knew Fabritius and was influenced by him. Sadly, Fabritius was killed aged only thirty-two. If he had lived he may very well have had his name alongside those Dutch painters we celebrate today. But there was a huge explosion of the Delft gunpowder magazine, which destroyed a quarter of the city along with Fabritius and his workshop.

Very few of his paintings survived. The ones I know and love are ‘A View of Delft’, where he experiments with perspective, a self portrait done in the year of his death and ‘The Goldfinch’. This last painting is often mentioned for its simplicity and clarity and, for me, the transitory nature of beauty and life. It holds my breath, just like ‘The Girl with a Pearl Earring’. I was interested to see that Donna Tartt’s new book is called ‘The Goldfinch’ and a picture of the bird is on the jacket. She must have been drawn to this painting too.

As I left the gallery, I noticed the strutting Gallic cock on its plinth, fixing Nelson with a beady eye in Trafalgar Square.

BIT OF A MELTDOWN

Can I really be longing for rainclouds? I am so hot I want to be a nudist. Lots of the neighbours are on holiday. My brain is addled and I begin to see flying saucers down by the summerhouse.

I felt the aliens were watching me intently. Will I be spirited away? Oh dear, I am too hot to panic. Later, I went inside and read ‘The Humans’ by Matt Haig – again! Much recommended.

END

Back in central London after our rural rides, I found myself walking up Bond Street, surrounded by dinosaurs. Am I getting into the dinosaur era myself now? There are some wonderful clothes around, which I am obviously too old to even consider. But I’m still alive enough to appreciate them on other leggy, glamorous models, tottering along the sidewalk.

In the evening, we were invited to a party in Notting Hill with no dinosaurs … only the international jet set. We came home on the number 9 bus via Kensington …

in the company of ‘not the international jet set’ – however, you never know Who’s Who these days … and that straw hat certainly looks like a one-off, unique piece!

END

We set off in driving rain. Just out of London on the M4 there’s a spooky petrol station, where I always feel caught up in a time warp. It’s blocked off by trees on all sides, eerily silent and never busy. The sort of place where time stands still – in a creepy sort of way – where you might suddenly find yourself lost in a different dimension with no voice and no way of getting back. But the petrol costs the same as everywhere else …

Heavy lorry spray and boy racers to contend with en route but the deep velvet tones of Jeff Lynne soothed my stress levels. We finally turned off on to the M5 and made a welcome stop at Buckfast Abbey, on the edge of Dartmoor. One of the monks, Brother Adam, kept bees and made honey here for over seventy years. Now he has gone and we were told that the abbey didn’t have beehives any more. A sad state of affairs, even more so given the alarming loss of bees worldwide at the moment.

After a hot and refreshing cup of coffee, we bought some honey from Exmoor bees. There is a specially good ‘monastery’ shop which sells products made by monks from abbeys all over Europe. Worth investigating – it’s in addition to the other gift shop at the entrance.

A decapitated stone head lay casually asleep on the grass as we went into the abbey grounds. Rather reminiscent of Easter Island – but a squashed version … I wonder where he came from because he doesn’t resemble an abbot – more like the man in Berwick Street market who used to sell me delicious pineapples.

There is a beautiful horse chestnut nearby, now in all its candelabra glory. It made me think how much we take trees in the landscape for granted. I hope it doesn’t have the disease that many of the horse chestnuts in London have succumbed to. Both bees and trees are suffering and we need to take note and make changes now in our selfish lifestyles if we ourselves, as a species, are to survive. We are so interdependent on the physical world – why are we so destructive of it?

As we left the M5, the roads became more and more narrow – we were squeezing between high hedges bursting with colourful wild flowers on either side. This reminded me of childhood holidays and the rising excitement of arriving somewhere new by the sea. We weren’t disappointed. The Henley Hotel is on a cliff top and we were welcomed with tea and cake in the garden. Breezy, grey clouds turning to white, sea air and snatches of blue sky. Energised again after the long drive, we walked down the steep hill to the sea and Burgh Island.

The tide was out, which meant we could walk across the sand to the island (of Agatha Christie fame). She based her mystery ‘Evil Under the Sun’ here. There’s a large art deco hotel, fenced off in its own grounds, covering almost half the island. It was here that Hercule Poirot solved a murder whilst on holiday. I recognised it immediately from the TV production. Agatha Christie actually lived a little way up the coast in a big white house called ‘Greenways’, overlooking the estuary near Salcombe, where the river Dart meets the sea.

At high tide, a sea tractor conveys the guests to and from the mainland. It was to be the best week of the summer so far, although we didn’t know that then. Evening sun silhouetting the surfers, fresh fish for dinner, a lighthouse winking on the horizon as the sea disappeared into the twilight. And ‘The Humans’ by Matt Haig waiting patiently in my case to be read. I wasn’t aware then of this added treat that lay in store …

As we walked over the cliff tops on the sea side of the island we were rewarded with more and more blue sky as a warm wind dissolved the heavy rolls of grey. And no bodies lying in secret coves.

Note the light on the far horizon … through the binoculars, this seemed to be a brightly illuminated enormous ship. A ‘Marie Celeste’ mystery …

The hotel had only half a dozen rooms. There were three couples having breakfast the next morning. I identified them by the newspapers laid out at each table. FT/Times, The Daily Telegraph and The Daily Mail. The DTs were from London (I eavesdropped!) and kept to themselves as if they were rather special compared to everyone else. They talked ‘importantly’ in low voices and didn’t make eye contact. On the table next to us was a stocky man in his sixties with a big smile, sparkly blue eyes and a bluff manner. His partner was quite a lot younger and they obviously delighted in one another’s company. It didn’t take him long to lean over for a chat.

Roger and Gemma had been ballroom dancing in Torquay. He told me he had lost his wife a couple of years ago and met Gemma at dancing class. They did a lot of coast walking and told us how to climb down the steep cliff at the back of the hotel. Roger obviously still had a great zest for life – he and Gemma drove off with a flourish to Dawlish in his sparkly blue Porsche for another ballroom dancing soirée. He kindly left me his cliff walks map.

We could have stayed put and clambered up and down the rickety steps on the cliff face but we decided to explore further afield and drove to Overbeck’s garden, which is on another cliff top near Salcombe. Twisty, tiny roads, big drops to the shoreline and cars trundling large boats, trying to push us into oblivion. The road up to the garden was steep and zig zagged. And we actually had to park on the edge of the drop. This garden had to be good – and it was.

Overbeck’s garden was bequeathed to The National Trust by the last private owner – Otto Overbeck (1860 – 1937). He was a scientist and inventor and a great collector. See John’s blog to find a photo of the Polyphon – an enormous musical box which uses giant metal disks with coded punched holes to make music of the time.

Like the Victorians, Overbeck had a fascination with the natural world and collected lots of insects and butterflies. Apparently, ‘beetling’ was a very popular pastime in the Victorian era.

A. A. Milne (1882 – 1956) wrote a poem about a beetle, which I used to know off by heart. It encouraged me to do the same thing as a child but with a ladybird – which also – happily – escaped.

‘I found a little beetle; so that Beetle was its name,
And I called him Alexander and he answered just the same,
I put him in a match-box and I kept him all the day …
And Nanny let my beetle out,
Yes, Nanny let my beetle out,
She went and let my beetle out,
And Beetle ran away.
She said she didn’t mean it and I never said she did,
She said she wanted matches and she just took off the lid,
She said that she was sorry, but it’s difficult to catch
An excited sort of beetle you’ve mistaken for a match.

If you want to hear more, look up ‘alexander beetle poem’ …
There is also an ‘electrical rejuvenator’ machine in the house – invented by Overbeck, which he claimed would help stave off the ageing process. It helped to make his fortune. He died aged 77.

During WW1, the Red Cross were able to use the house as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers. There are photos which show them sitting outside in the sun surrounded by kindly nurses. There was no record of any deaths. Fifteen of the soldiers ended up marrying Devon girls. Today the lawn is full of children, playing ball. The sun is still shining.

There is also a Tea Room, which proffered welcome refreshment. We sat by the large window, overlooking Salcombe and the estuary and watched the yachts, which looked like white feathers floating on the blue sea, reflecting the white puffs of cloud above. I had a ginger beer with my sandwich which perked me up. John bought a bottle of lemonade for an old man standing in the queue behind us. He perked up too.

Outside, we passed swathes of ransoms (wild garlic) under the trees. They have a pervasive smell which seems to get under your skin – not quite Chanel No. 5 – but very ‘natural’. Some older relative once commented on me when I first met John – ‘She’s very natural – is she foreign’?! Another great-aunt compared me to ‘The Birth of Venus’ painting by Botticelli … Oh dear, it’s often said that youth is wasted on the young but one can’t do much about it later …

‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date
from Sonnet 18, William Shakespeare.

The sonnet carries on though in optimistic mood and I felt the same as we explored the gardens, which are beautifully terraced with glorious views of the sea.

We walked along terraces up high and down low and then through the trees until we came to the edge of the property. It was mid-afternoon, hot, still and silent. That time between 2pm and 4pm in the afternoon has always felt magical for me. Things have been achieved in the morning and there’s still plenty of time before evening sets in. Even if I’m in the middle of doing something, those two hours are when I feel most relaxed and at one with the world.

Despite cold winters, exotic types of palms and plants seem to be able to survive here and it’s quite special to have such a mix. We were lucky that as the spring flowers were late we got the best of both worlds.

Then it was time to make a heart stopping three point turn in the narrows and it was a relief to finally get down the winding track to South Sands – a small beach full of children, boats and dogs. There is a large car park behind the trees. I would leave the car here on another occasion and walk up the hill – what is called a ‘Devon’ mile!

Back at the hotel there was tea and cake in the garden, followed by wine and a delicious dinner. If you stay here don’t miss it! Martyn is a ‘chef’ extraordinaire. And Petra a hugely welcoming hostess. John did some writing on the book while I immersed myself in ‘The Humans’, sitting in a comfortable armchair in the window nook, looking out over the bay.

There are a lot of good writers but although I know they are good, many don’t appeal personally. I feel I would get on with Matt Haig. He sees the world in a similar way to me and I can’t put down the book! Yet I don’t want to finish it … and I sort of wish I could have written it myself. I think it will make a good film.

On our way back yesterday I saw a signpost to Loddiswell – nearby is an Iron Age hill fort called Blackdown Rings. The new day was sunny and breezy and after almost bulldozing our way through high banks of nettles and overgrown pathways, we finally emerged at Blackdown Rings. Iron Age hill forts needed panoramic views all around and this was how John identified its location.

There was a small, empty car park – no charges – but we put some money in a donation box by the stile. Ahead of us were a flock of sheep. I’m quite nervous of big animals ever since we were chased by a herd of bullocks in my childhood. It was because they spotted the dog. We had to race across the field and throw ourselves over a 5-bar gate. They had jostled us, lowing like drunkards and now, with lolling tongues, they peered at us sullenly, disappointed that we were just out of reach.

It reminded me of reading a book called ‘Crowds and Power’ by Elias Canetti. It was considered a classic. I find crowd behaviour terrifying, even when peaceable.

Luckily, the sun was hot and the sheep, crowded together under a tree for shelter, ignored our approach.

There were still bluebells everywhere and I wondered if that was the same when the Iron Age people were padding around, surveying the panoramic 360 degree landscape. There are also the remains of a Norman Motte-and-Bailey in one corner and I knew John would be up there in a trice. He always aims for the highest spot. The silence was profound – adding to the beauty of the surrounding countryside.

We move on to Dorset tomorrow and wanted to walk along the sands, so it was back to the hotel and the rickety cliff staircase.

Down on the beach with the tide going out – soon we will be able to walk around the headland to the island. Meanwhile, right by the water’s edge, we came upon a shoal of fish, some of them twelve inches long, their fins breaking the surface of the water as they swam around in a leisurely fashion, enjoying the warmth of the shallows, the sun on their backs. Grey mullet, we thought.

We clambered up into the garden at the back of the hotel and watched a small boat going out fishing before making our way to the dining room. I never like saying goodbye but this has been a great start to the week.

DORSET

We set off early as we wanted to see some friends on the way. They live on the banks of the river Dart on the edge of Dartmoor and have built a ‘Mies van der Rohe’ type house, which is spectacular. At the cutting edge of design, yet fitting in with and even miraculously enhancing the landscape.

However, the car was once more tested to its limits as we took a turn down to the river. The unmade track was made up of ancient, deep potholes, grass two feet high in the middle. Wrong direction – steam coming out of our ears. Urban car bewildered yet continuing stalwart. The right direction wasn’t much of an improvement but finally the arrival was worth the aggro! The river is clear, moving fast but with deep, limpid pools for swimming.

Next stop, Plumber Manor – near Sturminster Newton. This old house sits amongst a haven of green. We crossed the river by a small white fenced bridge and parked under an enormous tree. The family have owned this site since the time of William the Conqueror and the present generation of it made us very welcome. Our bedroom was at the top of the stairs, where a portrait of Charles II inspected us closely. John is related but on the wrong side of the blanket. Could hardly wait for dinner and bed – both delicious and comfortable … zzzzzz ….. sea and country air offer very sound sleep.

We were recommended to go to Milton Abbas where there’s an abbey, a school and a ‘model’ village. Up on the top we had a wonderful view of the surrounding countryside at Bulbarrow before swooping down into the valley – we are getting better at driving along narrow country lanes!

Devon is somehow the extrovert county, Dorset the introvert. Both are fabulous but today I was entranced by the magical quality of the rise and fall of the landscape, rolling us up in a green and yellow carpet, dappled in sunlight.

After exploring the old abbey grounds, now part of the school, we drove round into the village. This was the first ‘planned’ village in England, it is said. Lord Milton, who was 1st Earl of Dorchester and owned Milton Abbey, decided to move the original village, as it spoiled his view. It was relocated at Luccombe Bottom with the help of an architect and the landscape gardener, Capability Brown. The original village was demolished. Just the buildings … town planning was in its infancy but I think the villagers survived …

Next stop Blandford Forum, where we parked by the river and walked up to the High Street. I noticed a bookshop and found Agatha Christie’s ‘Evil Under the Sun’ for 2.50. A ‘must’ after visiting Burgh Island! The last time I read Agatha Christie was in the sanatorium at school when I had bad ‘flu. The ‘san’ was set on the edge of the playing fields, surrounded by trees. I could hear the ‘pop’ of tennis balls near at hand but I wasn’t allowed visitors. Meanwhile, I devoured a whole shelf of Agatha Christies and I’m sure it aided my recovery … and she still seems to be the world’s best selling author … after all these years!

Bryanston school is nearby. We bought some cider and sandwiches and sat by the river, watching the boys rowing.

On the way back to Plumber – and dinner – we stopped off at Sturminster Newton water mill. There used to be mills like this a mile apart all along the river – but no more. This one is the best preserved.

The water mill started me thinking of Constable’s style of painting. He was brought up in Suffolk with a wealth of water mills all around, which he loved. Constable said he was trying to establish on canvas ‘English sunlight running through moist air, the wind rustling foliage and wimpling the water’. He also said ‘the sound of water escaping from milldams, willows, old rotten planks, slimy posts and brickwork … I love such things …Painting with me is but another word for ‘feeling’. Constable’s brushwork is swift, free and open – just like rushing water ….. he also used a method of painting called ‘scumbling’ to try and catch ‘one brief moment caught from fleeting time’.

Thomas Hardy lived in a house by the river here when he was writing ‘Return of the Native’.

Finally, the short distance back to Plumber. On the road we kept passing a sign which said ‘Cats’ eyes removed’. I thought this might shock foreigners who weren’t aware of what it was referring to. The savage customs of the English … leave kitty at home! However, the man from the North, Percy Shaw, who invented cats’ eyes for the road probably saved the lives of many motorists.

Hod and Hambledon hills near here were both Iron Age hill forts. The next day – Sunday – we drove to Child Okeford from where you can climb up Hod. Last time we did this – about four years ago – I remember seeing the most beautiful butterfly as I jumped over the stile. It was delicately patterned in shades of brown like filigree and spotted with small gold dots that shone like jewels. Today the whole hill was peppered with buttercups and daisies, speedwell, cowslips, dandelions. plantains (we used to call them soldiers) and rock rose.

We met a woman, who looked as though she was from the Iron Age. She was big boned with an old fashioned face. If I say she resembled a mare, it was an attractive mare. We sat and talked for a while and then I followed John around the ramparts. We could see lots of regular hollows – maybe former dwellings, grazings or just shelters for animals. Two yellow brimstone butterflies fluttered by. Next time we must do Hambledon. We had to be back at Plumber as a friend from long ago who worked at ‘The Ecologist’ with Teddy Goldsmith was coming over to see us.

I had suggested to John he look up Nicholas because I thought he lived in Dorset and it turned out he was a ten minute walk over the fields from Plumber. So he came over and we made our way back to his house – more sheep to contend with – these ones were quite frisky with very dirty bottoms. We managed to find the way back later, only to have another drama.

John suddenly realised he had left his bag with camera and car keys at the house. Nick was leaving for Prague not long after we left, so it was touch and go. Mobile phones not reliable in this neck of the woods! While John thrashed his way through the undergrowth terrorising the sheep, I lay on the bed and read Agatha Christie. John was (just) successful and returned in time for dinner and to be seduced by the ‘sweet trolley’!

The sun is again high in the sky. We got to the car, only to find it had been shat on in full force during the night by what must be enormous pterodactyls in the tree above. A bucket of water was needed and failing any cleaning fluid, I used my shampoo and found the frost scraper in the boot. Not such a good parking place after all.

Shaftesbury wasn’t far away so we thought we’d take a look. It’s the highest town in Dorset and there’s a great view from the garden of the now ruined abbey. Gold Hill is where the TV ad for Hovis was filmed. Steep, cobbled, old fashioned and much photographed.

John ended up buying a pair of pink trousers – in appreciation of the summer weather. Caroline, his sister, seemed to think they were only worn by certain ‘types’ – one being antique dealers. Maybe he could take that up as a second string to his bow. The colour quite suits him and it’s a change from jeans that everyone wears now. He is looking relaxed and optimistic. Dorset invites a slower pace of life and we seem to be taking to it – although evenings are reserved for book writing.

We explored the abbey grounds and I bought some giant marbles in the shop. I don’t know why. It just felt satisfying to hold one in my hand. They are clear with yellow and green swirls – a bit like the Dorset landscape. I’ve also just finished a Simenon/Maigret book called ‘Maigret et le clochard’. I was very touched by what Maigret did with Toubib’s marbles. Simenon is definitely not just a crime writer. His understanding and relaying of the human condition to his readers is for me second to none and, being understated, makes much more of an impression. Maigret is special. I have a fantasy of being Mme. Maigret at times.

My mind was wandering towards my stomach and found itself strongly drawn to a slice of Dorset apple cake… ‘The Salt Cellar’ is a popular restaurant at the top of Gold Hill but it was busy and King Alfred’s Kitchen on the High Street was the place we chose to sit down. It’s run by a French woman and her husband and I would go back to Shaftesbury just to have another enormous slice of his apple cake – the best ever!

I shall remember Shaftesbury for pink trousers, yellow and green marbles and oozy apple cake with clotted cream. This marble fetish is reflected by the bottle glass window – looking through a glass sphere at the local high street. Is that bus a mirage? Public transport is a bit of a problem in the countryside but it does seem to turn up from time to time.

I’d noticed a small museum near ‘The Salt Cellar’ and persuaded John that it was worth a look. There are some wonderful Dorset ladies here who run the whole show.

There was an old film running on an old TV, showing a ‘Miss Marple’ figure standing watching American tanks coming through Shaftesbury during WW2.

This photo has special memories for me. It’s not the doll I used to have – but the boyfriend, whose parents gave him a Goblin Teasmade for his 21st birthday?! No etchings in sight here – only the unmissable cup of tea. I could do with a Goblin Teasmaid now, instead of being one …

And then it was time to walk back down the High Street, pick up the car (so easy to park here!) and make our way to Badbury Rings.

Badbury Rings is an Iron Age hill fort which is quite small but perfectly formed. We walked all round the ramparts in half an hour. I could have lain down amongst the buttercups and daisies but I did notice some marauding black bullocks in the distance. This would be a perfect place for a picnic. However, I do remember once taking out a sandwich while we were walking in Switzerland – a greedy cow came out of nowhere snatched both sandwich and paper bag and ate the lot.

But rather than lounging among the buttercups, it was on the road again, bound for Kingston Lacy – ten minutes away. The house was closed for renovation but the gardens were open. We drove along a wonderful avenue of beech trees – apparently, these are being replaced by hornbeams when their life comes to an end. Hornbeams are more disease resistant. Glad to be in time to see these at their best.

The last owner, William Bankes, bequeathed Kingston Lacy to The National Trust. He travelled a lot in the Middle East and a large obelisk, resembling Cleopatra’s Needle, stands in the grounds.

There’s obviously a bit of wear and tear but I noticed something that resembled a crusader knight racing out of the stone on horseback straight towards me. I expect that’s rather fanciful but it’s not exactly like finding Jesus or Mary on a slice of toast…

John is very well read on this period of history. I think he was fired up by reading ‘Knight Crusader’ by Ronald Welch, as a boy. Over ten years ago we went to Syria and our walk around Krak des Chevaliers is still deeply imprinted on my brain.

Back to Plumber on a road as much unlike Hammersmith Broadway as you could hope to see! We are still on holiday!

I notice I say ‘home’ – Plumber gives me that feeling but we only have one more full day. This is to be spent with Julia and her new partner Jamie – a motorbike fiend but a very nice one!

On the way we are diverted by another huge piece of metal. Quite extraordinary!

Julia and Jamie live near Beaminster – and we attempted to travel cross country, where there seemed to be many dead ends. We passed by Bishop’s Caundle, Minterne Magna, Melbury Bubb (dead end!), Sydling St. Nicholas, Toller Porcorum, and we were only ten minutes late – tho’ slightly flustered!

It was great to see their new farmhouse – turn to John’s blog to see details of the afternoon adventure deep in the woods. My photos are not up to much, as it was enough for me to scramble through the undergrowth – but fascinating to see all this creative stuff going on in seemingly the middle of nowhere! John and Julia were greatly intrigued.

The next morning we dropped by Bryanston school, where Julia’s son, Connor, took us on a tour and we got to see the Art Department, which is very impressive. This is also on John’s blog. On the way round, we met a maths teacher who was just about to retire. John remembered him as a boy at school! All I can say here is that whoever goes to Bryanston today is very lucky!

Sherborne was on our way back and we wanted to track down Tim Boon, who had a gallery in Barnes called ‘Amalgam’ for many years, before he moved here. It’s a very lovely, honey coloured town and seemingly well-to-do. We didn’t find Tim but John recognised a well known war photographer in the street. We walked by Sherborne school and then it was time to get on the road back to London.

Oddly, when we got home, there was a letter from Tim, inviting us to his last show in England. He was off to live in Australia.

I was rather dreading the drive home although it was shorter than coming. We made for Ringwood and the M3. But as we were leaving Dorset we were passed by a more ancient form of transport. A fitting end to the week. And we had cider in the boot of the car.

END

These two months weather patterns have merged into one – one which could be described quite simply as miserable. A couple of days have escaped to be bright but I only remember two which were sunny AND warm, without a biting wind.

‘It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light and winter in the shade’. (Charles Dickens).

I can see why a lot of small, furry animals hibernate until the underlying warmth of the ground stimulates their blood. Bloodstone is a symbol for March. Its ‘blood’ has remained heavy, dark and cold. I found myself yawning a lot and being able to nod off at the drop of a hat. The constant cold laid waste to my brain cells, extinguishing creative juices in the same way as the garden remained emphatically ‘dead’ in the relentless grip of winter. I looked in vain for buds on the apple tree and the grape vine. The olive looked sere and dry – springtime was obstinately absent. Maybe I should have left these shores for southern climes.

One day, the sky was blue but it was the blue of glacier ice. On another day, the fragile blue of a wild bird’s egg.

Grey and uninspiring for the most part, cutting cold with sharp bursts of sun, followed by hailstorms, heavy rain or persistent drizzle and at the back of it all that chilling, raw damp, which gnaws relentlessly at your bones, making you weary. And because you hadn’t achieved a great deal, and were somehow unable to do so, it settled you inevitably into a deep, stultifying gloom.

Dodging the tentacles of the ‘noro virus’ we ran into the open maw of the ‘100 day cough’, with its grim attendants. However, we kept up a simulation of normality, keeping going with early nights, honey and lemon drinks, thumbing our wet noses at this rather repulsive and unwanted companion.

Some actual rather than virtual repulsive types knocked John off his bike in central London. Let’s hope the police will do something about it, even though the brain dead miscreants drove off. Plenty witnesses offered to help. I can’t help but feel that some people are ‘mal élevé’. But I won’t pontificate on that here. it would take up too much space.

This all cast a pall on daily life in general but meanwhile, refreshingly in hindsight, much was achieved. Tree cutters arrived, roof leaks were mended, the oven recovered with a new element installed, wrought iron gates replaced the rotten wooden ones, acupuncture was experimented with, magic insoles were offered by Mr. Catto (podiatrist), spring cleaning of rooms and visits to the tip inspired both highs and lows of mood. ‘Our life is March weather, savage and serene in one hour’ (Ralph Waldo Emerson).

Joy of meeting up with friends to see Manet and George Bellows at the Royal Academy, Lichtenstein at the Tate, an ascent of The Shard, Barocci at The National Gallery, Tudor Treasures at the V&A, Elizabeth Frink at ‘The Lighthouse’ in Woking and BBC 4 coming up trumps with programmes by Adam Nicolson on writing in the 17th century – ‘The Century that Wrote Itself’, Andrew Graham Dixon on ‘High Art in the Low Countries’ followed by the renovation of The Rijksmuseum, and an insightful hour on the art and genius of Joseph Mallord William Turner.

More insights into Pompeii and Herculaneum – and I mustn’t leave out Michael Portillo’s railway journeys all through Britain and Europe, holding his ‘Bradshaw’s’ guide close to his chest. This is a wonderful series of journeys by rail peppered with a fascinating miscellany of historical anecdotes. I thought I didn’t like Michael Portillo when he was an MP. I’ve completely changed my mind and it’s a good feeling to be able to do that.

I’ve read two ‘Maigrets’ in French. ‘L’indicateur’ and ‘L’amie de Mme. Maigret’ since the beginning of the year. I enjoy Simenon’s writing. He keeps up the tension of a ‘whodunnit’, along with great descriptive powers and easy dialogue which draws you in almost as a player in the story. I could meet any of these characters in the street and recognise them. And I hope I retain some of the new vocabulary I’ve learned! I still keep sneezing, so I know my repulsive companion is still sticking to me like glue (urghh) but hope he is planning now to move on elsewhere. He has caused disruption and depression but not death.

The magnolia stellata is now sparkling with starry blooms, snowdrops are being followed by forget-me-nots and narcissi and there are buds appearing on the apple and grapevine. The 25th April saw a high in central London where you could walk without a coat. I wasn’t dressed for the occasion. And a Canadian friend came to see us on the 19th of April, citing that they had had snow in Canada as recently as last week.

I came upon this cigarette packet left on the river wall. ‘Smoking kills’ it announced. So would the river if you fell in today.

Always worth waiting a while … just in case. ‘Hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn’t permanent’ – Felicia, in “Finishing Touches’ (1973)

I’ve definitely been ‘in the doldrums’ but I’m looking forward to May now!

END

I dread being in large groups of people – nor do I like shouting slogans – but Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s ‘Fish Fight’ had me putting a poster in our car. I support 100% what he’s trying to do, both with ‘discards’ and now with trying to persuade the government to create many more marine conservation areas around the coast of Britain. It’s an uphill task that he has taken on and he deserves all the help he can get from the British public. We will all benefit.

And that’s why I made myself join his demonstration outside the Houses of Parliament on 25th February. A raw grey morning we had of it but it was cheering to see so many people determined to get their message across. If we don’t look after our coastal waters and encourage other countries to do the same, we will soon have to bear the consequences of destroying the environment upon which we depend. Give and take has to make a healthy balance for survival. Both fishing for food and the diversity of the seas and sealife must be preserved across the planet. We must send out that message loud and clear. It’s that ‘rights and responsibilities’ issue. We can’t have one without the other.

I remember as a child, sitting on the sea wall in Largo (Fife), dangling my legs and eating delicious fish and chips out of a newspaper with a bottle of Irn-Bru. At Pittenweem, a village nearby, the fishing boats would come in with their trawl and boxes of fish would be slung out and auctioned off on the pier. My maiden aunts would return triumphantly with a box of plaice or haddock, which they would grill and serve for supper with fresh lemons and boiled potatoes, cut into slices and fried. And for pudding, it would be the raspberries we had collected in the hedgerows with a dollop of Forte’s vanilla ice cream, collected by me from the local shop in Granny’s large blue and white jug. I just sped along the pavement with it, to get home before it melted! That supper was my favourite.

And so was paddling among the rockpools at Anstruther and Elie, finding limpets, red sea anemones, shrimps, whelks, tiny scuttling crabs and shy, almost transparent blennies, starfish and shells of all kinds. I especially loved cowrie shells, which we hunted for along the beach at low tide, along with bladderwrack seaweed, which made a satisfying ‘pop’ and dogfish egg cases, which were both mysterious and elegant in black – with twirly tendrils.

Seeing Hugh’s film about dredging for scallops along the sea bed and destroying the whole marine environment at the same time made me both incensed and miserably depressed. I could not stand by and just let it happen and it was heartening to see such a big turn out at the Houses of Parliament. And a big mix of young and old.

We have to make this happen – keep up the support! And well done, Hugh! For marine conservation text ‘protect’ to 84424. I felt so cheered to have actively joined in here on 25th February.

Snow had been forecast but I didn’t believe it until I drew the curtains back on a white world. But good – no need to drive anywhere this weekend. John would continue writing his book and I would only venture a paw or two outside. It was cold enough to keep the heating on. All the same, it was as if the snow was in my head too, numbing my brain.

On Sunday I decided to venture out further around the neighbourhood, still transformed into a white and muffled landscape. There was an eerie silence everywhere – as if I was wearing ear plugs as I tramped and crunched along the pavement. I see the joy of watching a snowy landscape from inside – even walking in snow – but the latter has to be somewhere up in the mountains like Switzerland!

Dogs love the snow – they were happy chasing and rootling around with one another while children rolled along huge snowballs. Meanwhile, I tramped on with a red nose, wondering if all this exercise was doing me good! I learned recently that the more walking about you do in the day, the better – you don’t have to go to the gym or buy lots of equipment to go running, cycling or whatever. If you do cycle at top speed (you can use an exercise bike) for three minutes a week in 20 second bursts – that will do. Or was it even just three bursts of twenty seconds? This is favourite music to my ears if it works! And I do lots of walking too – not just for the sake of it – but to get places. And I’m happy also walking in all weathers, except for humid heat – when I quickly expire. Exercise for exercise’s sake I find extremely tedious. Walking in the rain makes me sing. Running for the bus and managing to catch it is a ‘double whammy’. This is helped by the Barnes bus drivers, who often kindly wait as they see you puffing along, out of breath – yet nearly there! That’s my ‘Shanks Pony’ top gear cycling burst taken care of three times a week – I like to think!

The scientists interviewed seemed very well informed re lots of experiments and surveys on all of this! Keeping moving during the day – it’s apparently sitting too long without moving that does the damage! Great programme about all this on BBC2 Horizon with Michael Mosley. What was most interesting was that your individual metabolism needs an individual exercise programme. For instance, aerobics does wonders healthwise for some and nothing for others. I always knew deep down that I was in the latter category. But I’d love to live near hot thermal waters bubbling out of the ground … and swim in them regularly. Because I love it – and not only because it’s good for me.

‘It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good’ and that wind was just waiting to upstage the snow some days later, when even dustbins were blown along the street in the middle of the night! And the wind brought the rain and vice versa until ‘bad hair’ days were the norm. Hats became orphans and many umbrellas lost their lives.

I recommend Lyall Watson’s ‘Heaven’s Breath’ (A Natural History of the Wind). He is one of my favourite non fiction authors. This book is out of print but available via Amazon.

‘A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time’ (D.H. Lawrence).

January has been a cold, grim, sometimes freezing, wet and windy month – reflecting the economy. I don’t hold out much for the better in February, so I’m ending this entry with a picture of mimosa – known for its early appearance in February with a beautiful colour and habit and a fragrance which brings some hope of Spring and a better world ahead.

When a friend rang suggesting a walk together, I thought of the somewhat ‘rural’ towpath leading from Barnes to Hammersmith. But then I remembered the day before… as I crossed the bridge into Barnes by bus, I noticed that high tide was way up over the path. The thought of deep mud put me off that idea – and yet a river walk still appealed. We ended up meeting at Hungerford Bridge. But a bit more history unfolded before we began our walk.

I have a book called ‘Secret London’ – ‘An Unusual Guide’ by Rachel Howard and Bill Nash. On my way to the Cartier-Bresson photo exhibition at Somerset House the day before in the pouring rain, I had come out of the underground at Embankment. There’s an old fashioned, baroque carved stone archway with iron gates just inside Embankment Gardens. It didn’t seem to have any connection with the buildings around it and the book told me why.

The Thames used to be much wider and shallower. The water used to come up to this arch, which was the river entrance to an impressive building on the bank called York House, then belonging to the Duke of Buckingham. This is all that remains. Most of the grand villas that were built along the former bank of the Thames are gone. At the back of Somerset House, what was once the entrance to the river is now prosaically separated from it by the busy road.

Underneath Embankment Gardens runs the large sewer designed by Bazalgette – along with the more recent District Line. Joseph William Bazalgette (1819 – 1891), was the grandson of Jean Louis Bazalgette, a Protestant from Ispagnac, Gorge du Tarn, where his family had been based for a thousand years. He emigrated from France to England in the eighteenth century. His grandson became famous for building the sewerage system for the whole of London, most of which is still in use today.

It was a grand project, together with the pumping station at Cross Ness, also planned and built between 1855 – 1865 by Bazalgette and another civil engineer, Charles Henry Driver. This has recently been renovated in all its Victorian glory of intricate design and bold colours. I see it as a monument to the joy of a sewerage system – Bazalgette is a great hero of mine along with Michael Faraday (1791 – 1867). There’s a statue of Faraday at the far end of Embankment Gardens. And there is a monument which commemorates Bazalgette’s genius on Victoria Embankment. He not only built the sewer system but had the foresight to double the diameter of the pipes needed, thinking ahead of the expanding population of London. At the time he said he was aware that this was a one off project. If he hadn’t done this the sewer system would have overflowed in the 1960s. All our lives have changed enormously for the better because of the inventions of these two men and their colleagues.

Alongside the pumping station, is an area called Erith Marshes, now a nature reserve, where water voles, small amphibians and various moths flourish. I mention this because the health of frogs is a strong pointer to a healthy environment for all biological life – including us. Sickly frogs = the beginning of the end.

I digress from our walk ahead but as I was reading about ‘York House Watergate’ I had a phone call to say my companion had been held up and would be twenty minutes late. This gave me time to think more about Bazalgette and his solution to ‘The Great Stink’ (1858), when the river overflowed with sewage to the detriment of all. I pursued this when I got home and this is why I came to find out about a man called John Martin (1789 – 1854).

He was so interesting – I had never heard of him before but I fell completely under his spell – so I wanted to include something about his life here. He actually deserves a whole book. There are two in print as far as I can see. One by Christopher Johnstone written in 1974 called ‘John Martin’ and a more recent one by Barbara Morden called ‘Apocalypse Now’ and written in 2010.

John Martin could be best described as a Renaissance Humanist. He was interested in so many different subjects and made practical contributions to many of them. He was very well known as an artist – look up ‘The Great Day of His Wrath’, ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’, The Fall of Nineveh’ – big epic paintings ahead of epic disaster Hollywood films. There was an exhibition of his work at Tate Britain in 2011 and Laura Cumming of ‘The Observer’ wrote an excellent review of it. At the time he was appreciated much more by continental Europe than the Art Establishment in England.

But besides art, he was interested in engineering – his brother was an inventor – and John anticipated the theory of Bazalgette’s new sewage plan twenty five years beforehand. It was difficult even for Bazalgette to get backing for it – only ‘The Great Stink’, when MPs could stand the smell no longer of sewage in the Thames, turned the tables in Bazalgette’s favour. Another idea of Martin’s which he was unable to fulfil at the time was of a circular railway around London. He once said to his son, Leopold, that he would really have preferred to be an engineer rather than a painter. He rose from humble origins, the sale of his paintings helping him to achieve the means to follow his other interests.

At one point he gave up painting altogether to work on health and safety on sea and inland waterways and in mines. In a way he was one of the first environmentalists, being interested in clean air and sewage systems. And town planning in general. He wanted to find ways of making safe fertiliser for farmers by treatment of sewage, so recycling came into that. He was also thinking along the lines of Darwinism.

One of the things he loved doing was hosting parties at his home in Marylebone, so that artists and writers could meet up with well known scientists, thinkers and entrepreneurs. I wish I could have been there – probably just handing out wine and sweetmeats – but having the chance as I did so to eavesdrop on fascinating conversations. John Martin’s life is well worth exploring. For me, it was a door I opened almost by mistake and it took me into a whole new universe.

David had suggested that we make our rendezvous on Hungerford Bridge – west side. This took me under the arches and past a marine sports shop. Oh dear! A lady selling small antiques rents one of their windows and I couldn’t help buying a small Edwardian silver brooch – at a fair price it must be said! David was waiting to show me the glorious view over the river.

And then we walked over Hungerford Bridge, sharing the space between east and west with the familiar, clanking noises of the trains snorting inbetween the walkways. The sun was out, the sky was crisply blue and I was ready and curious to see what lay ahead.

I don’t remember seeing sand by the Thames before but sculptures were being made of it here at Gabriel’s Wharf. There were also a couple of ‘mudlarks’ searching for ‘treasure’ along the shore line.

I’ve walked along the Thames from Waterloo to the Tate Modern many times and once or twice onwards to The Shakespeare Globe Theatre but now my knowledge was getting slimmer and it was such a surprise to come upon ‘The Golden Hind’. This was also the first time I’d visited Borough Market. In the week it’s not as busy as Saturdays but it was still an inspiration. A wonderful array of onions and funghi, cheeses and meaty treats. I ended up buying some crispy, custard filled ‘natas’ from a dark eyed, handsome French boy.

‘Do you want to see inside Southwark cathedral’? said David. I’m not an avid church visitor but a Canadian friend had told me about a sculpture she loved there. I couldn’t remember what it was but a lady guardian of the church gamely joined in the search and I think this must be it. A modern sculpture of a Virgin and Child in wood and slightly ‘gilded’ by Peter Eugene Ball. The extraordinary thing is that it is carved out of a railway sleeper. it must have been surprised at its novel yet tranquil surroundings after years of being pounded by trains… it’s sort of like having two lives in one in a way … not many of us are that lucky! On second thoughts, being run over by umpteen trains every day isn’t much of a life.

Looking at it from the opposite end of the spectrum … it’s now possible to take a trip to the top of The Shard – at a price. The view must be spectacular if you manage to choose a clear day.

We arrived at the HMS Belfast, at rest like a huge camouflaged sea creature supine in the middle of the river, opposite City Hall and with a view onwards towards Tower Bridge.

‘Well’, said David – ‘we can either walk to Tower Bridge and get a bus, or walk on further along the river’ … but I wanted to get back before the golden rays of the sun were extinguished and so we decided to retrace our steps a little and then cross the Thames at the Millennium Bridge.

Does the clarity and serenity of Vermeer come to mind looking at this view?

We parted ways at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. He was going to Farringdon and I was making my way back via Fleet Street as twilight overtook us. People were hurrying homewards. I was about to cross the road when I noticed a bunch of withered yellow roses tied to a post. It was from somebody called Julian. The accident happened ten years ago, said the note but he would always remember her with love. I waited soberly for the green light.

Fleet Street is one of those places where the atmosphere of historical London lingers as strong as garlic on your fingers.

The chill of evening drawing in encouraged me to hop on a bus to the Strand. Unfortunately I hadn’t noticed that it would be going over the bridge to Waterloo and my heart sank as it swung blindly round the corner after Somerset House. There’s a stop near the Waterloo end of the bridge and I jumped off – to be rewarded by some magnificent river views. I stopped to try out some photos in the dark, despite the cold draught coming up from the water.

Then it was down a few alley ways, slipping through John Adam Street, the home of The Royal Society of Arts and ending up on Villiers Street with Embankment station beckoning me at the bottom. I saw a sign on the left – appropriately telling me to ‘Wrap It Up’. And so I did, happily finding a seat on the District Line back to south west London.

PS I put on the television when I got home to find Michael Portillo sailing down the Thames, following the selfsame route as us. An aeriel view was a satisfying pointer along the riverbank we had so recently followed. I saw we really hadn’t walked very far in the larger scheme of things. MP carried on further than us (by boat) and got a chance to be shown round the sewage treatment pumping station at Cross Ness, continuing on to the Thames Barrier, which has been used recently to keep London from flooding.

That morning before leaving I had read an article by John Kay in the Financial Times entitled ‘The lesson of Victorian London’s rise from sewer to spectacle’. Were these coincidences all an example of ‘synchronicity’ ? And what, if anything, was I meant to be doing about it? It would be a great honour if I could sit down and listen to Bazalgette, Martin, Faraday et al right now because I’m sure they would have some fascinating ideas and inventions wherewith to solve some of today’s problems. It would be wonderful to see them enjoying the advantages of finding information at speed on the Internet. Ah well …. that isn’t likely but we owe it to them to get results like they did, which massively benefited future generations … we have to succeed in spite of adversity, just like them! Sweet dreams …

END

After the waterworld of Christmas, New Year’s Day was inspiring with blue skies and brilliant sunshine, which we toasted with a walk across Barnes Bridge followed by a sparkling glass of champagne.

Boats out on the river and everybody and his dog tramping along the muddy banks of the Thames with smiles on their faces. A promising start to 2013 …

And then we went home and toasted the New Year in with our best bottle of champagne.

END

Not much seems to have improved on the economic front this year but the Christmas lights in central London, though still not quite as elegant as the Champs-Elysées, do have their own special aura. Whoever decides on what lights to choose has themselves been well chosen. I shudder at remembrance of times past and much appreciate the present offerings!

John and I did a whistlestop tour of central London to buy a few gifts before heading off for the Cotswolds. We both mourn the demise of Tower Records at Piccadilly but the helpful and cheerful assistants at the beleaguered HMV still make a journey there worthwhile. I am still not an Amazon fan but no doubt that internet tsunami will swallow us all in time. And cheerful, helpful and well informed assistants will be replaced by robots. On the other hand I love finding things out and the Internet is amazing on that front. But continuing human contact is essential for a life worth living and for the world as a whole.

Next stop, Marylebone, where I have a print waiting to be picked up at Railings Gallery. It’s of a dog (by Helen Fay), which I bought at the RA Summer Exhibition. The frame cost as much as the print but it looks fabulous. Railings are excellent, quality framers. I keep thinking about having a dog but this one will keep me satisfied for the moment. He is called Louis and has lovely lines. And I don’t need to feed him or wipe his muddy paws. But I’d like his company in person on a long walk.

The picture was heavy but we stopped off at Paul Rothe delicatessen in Marylebone Lane to revive ourselves. Established in 1900, Paul Rothe and Son is now into its fourth generation behind the counter. It is run with old fashioned politesse and has the friendliness of a village shop but in upmarket, stylish Marylebone. Look them up – why are the chairs bolted to the floor, for instance?! Don’t pass it by – it’s a real find!

We had homemade hot minestrone soup and tuna sandwiches, surrounded by a ceiling to floor selection of delicious looking jams, pickles and sweets. I remembered Newbery fruits from my childhood. My father’s colleague, Dr. Gilchrist, always brought a box over on New Year’s Day. We now bought two boxes, along with chilli sauce, a favourite of John’s father.

Glitz was to be had in Bond Street but austerity measures were kept up and we made our way home to wrap up Newbery Fruits and the like for the Cotswold contingent. And I looked out my long, cashmere cardigan, bought last year in the sales. An Eileen Fisher – quite special! It’s always colder in the countryside. I must remember my hot water bottle too.

But sadly, not for us. We are expected in the Cotswolds …via a quick visit to Fortnum’s.

The next morning was grey and threatened rain. We got as far as Chiswick Bridge and had to go back for various ‘things forgotten’. However, the roads were passable and not too busy. I spent some time in cloud contemplation and taking photos of water meadows and plain flooded fields at speed. The bypass at Oxford must have been built above the general level as we passed interminable ‘lakes’ on either side, with the tops of hedges sticking out like old toothbrushes.

I had a feeling of ‘déjà vu’ – we’ve done this journey so many times and now we are on the cusp of major change … John’s parents are now 92 and 90. Taking photographs appeals to one’s sense of self … keeping memories of things past while looking towards the future – and meanwhile enjoying what the present has to offer keeps one sane to an extent. Bad weather but good skyscapes today … I wonder what Samuel Johnson or Shakespeare would have taken pictures of… we are so enormously privileged today with all these inventions – yet many people often behave like spoilt three year olds, not realising their good fortune.

And we finally arrive – the steep road into the village resembles a waterfall as we descend but at least the water makes its way onwards – elsewhere …

And the rain continues to accompany Christmas festivities. However, there is good food and jolly company, a nonagenarian dowager dressed in glamorous tartan and a fur hat, a charming black labrador, white Christmas flowers, a sparkling tree and a warm stove.

It’s late afternoon as we make our way home next day. No traffic jams, a break in the rain as we climb the hill out of Burford. An accident at the Burford/Witney roundabout where a car has smashed through the central reservation and ended up on top of the bank opposite. The police wave us round. Then it’s only dramatic pictures of flooded fields, a few 100+ mile an hour drivers – mainly seem to be BMWs – and we’re on the home straight.

It’s very quiet back in Barnes. The house is warm and cosy and I’m looking forward to the holiday with reading, writing, walking and wine. And John will be writing his new book. I will press for a glass of really good champagne on New Year’s Day. I hope 13 will be lucky for once!

END

I was waiting for a friend outside the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square – clouds were scudding across the sky – the weather was fitful, fretful, undependable. A gust of wind flung a spit of rain across my cheek and pulled at my hair. The exhibition we were about to visit was about the man who would have become Henry IXth. He was much loved and deeply mourned by the English people, dying of typhoid at the age of eighteen. His younger brother became Charles I.

It’s quite a small exhibition and worth a visit, especially if you are the sort of person who thinks about what might have been, should nature have taken a different course – as happened here.

The lost prince was about to be revealed to us inside the gallery. Outside, meanwhile, Nelson was choreographing the cloudscape while I watched both him and also the aeroplane passing overhead.

Our lunch at Browns in St Martin’s Lane amongst the potted palms and gleaming brass was very satisfying, the equivalent of a good French brasserie. The bar is long, impressive and inviting, with a pianoforte of sparkling glass. This Grade II building was formerly the location of the Westminster County Court. Upstairs are the judges’ rooms, now used for various private functions. It’s worth exploring – both upstairs and downstairs, before you leave.

I’m aware now at my age that there is so much that I will never know. Probably for the best, in some cases. But I feel the need not to lose what I do know and to keep expanding it – not in a linear way but instead, like three dimensional printing.

I seem to remember reading that the weight of ‘dark matter’ in the universe could be partly made up of thoughts. Are deeper thoughts weightier than shallower ones? How do we measure what we know and don’t know when we are not sure how much there is to know in the first place … ah well, Trafalgar Square and The National Galleries are a good place to expand what I already know. And Nelson keeps busy, with his head in the clouds.

END