Happy days

Last week I was in London, visiting the family after an urgent appeal for help. Little E had been sick, with another bout of hand, foot and mouth disease, a viral condition rather like chickenpox, apparently quite common in small children, although I had never heard of it until he first contracted it. By the time I arrived, he was on the mend, but his busy parents were glad of an extra pair of hands and his mother had a dreadful cold. Oddly, given my aptitude for coming home with a cold each time I visit, I didn't catch it, despite the violent sneezing and coughing, perhaps because she dosed me liberally with high-strength Vitamin C. Or because we avoided physical contact; anyway, I was lucky this time. 

Little E and I hung out together for a few days, played, talked, sang, told stories. I generally make up the stories myself. Current favourites are those that involve a little boy, with - by amazing coincidence - the same name as E, who grows up to be a digger driver. E's mother raised an eyebrow at the career choice, but Grandma plays shamelessly to the passion of the listener. She doesn't know enough about what makes world-famous brain surgeons or  Nobel Peace Prize candidates to create a gripping story for a three-year-old, especially one who waits with bated breath for the point in the drama where the would-be digger driver - after some minor hiccups involving reversing - passes his test, is given a job and his own digger. 

Other favoured stories involve Daddy and E having adventures together, such as being lost in the woods in the dark and being rescued by a wolf. Oh yes, we love wolves, E and I, especially the ones who find you wet, scratched by brambles and stung by nettles (E having experience of these unpleasant plants), wandering in the dark woods, and set you on the road home. 

Of the many things I find enjoyable with small children, it is story-telling that I love the most; my own mother was a superb teller of simple stories, and whilst not in her league at all, I find little E a rapt listener, who loves the repetition but who sometimes rushes headlong, too soon, into what will happen next: "andthewolfcameandDaddysaid...." requiring me to alter the plot a little, just to keep him on his toes. We sing silly songs; I am not a grandmother with much dignity, and E has a great sense of humour, so we laugh a great deal together.

We went to the muddy park (and its cafe, that bustling oasis for grown ups who have just reached the end of their tolerance of swings and slides and roundabouts and trying to keep their toddlers out of the mud and the puddles). I marvel at the exotic names of modern children, and how all the mummies refer to themselves as 'Mummy', never 'I' and wonder if I did the same, all those years ago?

I enjoy these park visits less; I too wait for the moment when, frozen and damp, I can declare it is time to go to the cafe. We visited the Horniman Museum nearby, always an interesting experience; on the way there, we were thrilled to find men repairing a burst water mains (lots of large machines! Lots of water flowing in the road! A huge water-filled hole in the pavement! For E, it was probably the best event of my stay.)

On the crowded train home, I sat next to a young woman artist who was travelling to  a short residency in Cornwall and who offered me her last piece of chocolate, thus breaking our side-by-side silence. She originates from Kalmykia (no, I didn't know either) and we had one of those strange and lovely conversations that very occasionally arise between total strangers. We didn't find out each other's names, but we shared odd personal anecdotes. I told her about the gong baths that I'd experienced, and she told me about her work with sounds, and how she grew up in a republic which is the only one in the West that is predominantly Buddhist, and how she would walk in the early morning to the temple to listen to the chanting and the gongs.

A few days later we exchanged emails and first names; she wrote: "I really enjoyed our conversation, so spontaneous and joyful". Our paths will probably never cross again, but it was a sweet little experience. 

Kalmykia - an 'official' video.

This week, we have been finishing the cottage in preparation for it going on the market, with  deep-cleaning and much tidying. Although we haven't quite finished; the weather has slowed the painting of the windows, and I need to consider how to make the interior look comfortable and homely when we have taken so much furniture out of it to our new home. Not a massive challenge, but lamps and cushions, mirrors and one or two neutral pictures will help. 

Also, a clean oven. Now that is a challenge....

Already, with so many personal touches removed, it is feeling less like my home, and less painful to spend time in it, and the new place is beginning to feel homely. 

This new location is proving to be more interesting and fun than we initially thought. While I was away in London, The Gardener came home one evening to find the main drive covered in frogs and toads. Last night it was the same scene. They make a range of endearing little noises, chirrups, croaks, small cries, and cover the entire parking area outside with their presence; this is a regular annual occurrence, we're told, and we know not to drive the car at all, or to walk in the dark without a torch. But oh, in such numbers - hundreds and hundreds! - I find this sudden invasion rather unsettling. One toad fine, many toads slightly creepy.

In the morning the drive was clear, and the pond was heaving with life. I am currently consulting the internet to learn more (or more truthfully, the basics) about these creatures.

Tonight there were fewer of them out there; this chap sat quietly by our front door.

The cats go in and out, explore the ruined end of the building, and accompany the dog and I when we walk down to the bottom field and around the pond. The enmity between them and Erick continues, but seems less intense, especially as squirrels are making themselves more obvious and offering some distraction. 

Erick lurks, but not always with Scooter in his sights; he too likes a bit of squirrel-watching. And Scooter wanders into Erick's territory with increasing confidence. All of my cats love it here. But we do not become complacent.... cat battles can erupt with sudden ferocity and blood-curdling shrieks - Millie specialises in the latter, generally before a claw can be drawn.

Here is Erick, lurking in the shrubbery.

And Scooter claims the back of the house, although Erick has yet to concede it..

The couple who live in the huge trailer at the side of the main house will be moving soon, with their three mad little pugs and two cats, leaving us behind, with only the owner of the manor and her cats as occasional contacts. 

The Gardener goes to work, and I spend long periods alone and in silence, and it feels just right. I have no idea how long we will live here, or what will happen next, but that seems fine too.