A mere draught...

... for Knots in the String.

If only.

And still it blows.

It’s exhausting.

Allergies in the eyes, nose and chest – not just for me but for everyone I know. And bad tempers because even the nicest things, like walking the dog, become a battle with dust, pollen, streaming eyes, and trying to keep one’s hat on!

I walked today first thing, in the vague hope I might beat the wind, but it was up and angry well before the Pup and I, so I hurried down a little bush track at the side of the river.

So peaceful to drop below the wind, protected by low-growing shrubs and high pine trees. The gale roared through the upper boughs of the pines – a banshee cry, and I wanted to scream four letter words at it. I’m not the only one. I saw an Instagram reel of our dog trainer yesterday and she swore fiercely as she tried to walk dogs. I was relieved ’cos it’s not just me!

Pup of course, is down low to the ground and gets a face full of sand or dust. His ears flatten, his fur streamlines so that it’s easy to tell wind direction. But in the shelter of the bush, he just ambles and sniffs. When we emerge on the beach, we are in the sanctuary of the windbreak pines so we enjoy the white squeaking sand and peace. Offshore, the sea is broiling with the wind – a herd of white horses galloping over the turquoise blue.

But we need to walk the full-length of the beach to get home so we leave the windbreak and become sandblasted. I’ve given up wearing eye makeup as by this time my eyes have cried me a river, and I’ve constantly patted the tears away. Bozo looks up at me, his eyes slightly crusted with sand – he seems to be saying ‘Okay, I’m done. Let’s go home.’

By the time we walk in the gate, I’m also done. Grumpy, sweaty (it’s not cold) and dusty. I ask the Womble if it was worth it, but he just rolls on the spring green grass and then finds shade to lie in.

Other things of great magnitude.

1. Dame Jane Goodall passed away. A monumental loss to our world. I was always in awe of her, as I am of Sir David Attenborough. Worth watching this last ever interview.

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I mourn her.

2. Dame Jilly Cooper also. Her hilarious books and one-liners have sustained so many through the years. No more Rupert Campbell Black, Taggie, Ranaldini, Declan O’Hara, no more glorious houses, horses and dogs. No more Rutshire Chronicles.

One of our Jack Russells was named after Taggie, courtesy of Dame Jilly, but sadly the dog had none of gentle Taggie’s character and should have been named Dinah after a nasty piece of work in Tackle or maybe even Janey Llloyd-Fox, equally two-sided. Our Taggie was snappy when she was pushed, disloyal, and yet somehow I loved her, as I have all nine of our Jack Russells.

3. Ballet has been exhausting. Partly because the wind is dragging my breathing and vertigo round the block and back again. But despite being tired I love it.

We have come to the end of a delicious 3 + minute sequence we’ve been learning, and I can’t wait to see it all together with none of us making mistakes. A few of us had a bit of a pile-up as we crossed in front of each other and we all collapsed, laughing. Normal service resumes next week.

4. I finished the novel, Act III. With my read-through, 1000 words have been deleted, but then a few more added back in again with Author’s Acknowledgements and the Dedication. But it’s hard to dissociate and be objective with one’s baby. That’s the job of my editor. So this week, the manuscript has been beamed to the UK for a pull-through

I find I slip into somewhat of a fugue state once I’ve finished writing a book. I recognise it from the previous 13 or so books. I dream at night and with each dream, I always hope there will be a thread that might become a future story. I have almost 35,000 words written of an historical fiction called The Oblate, set in the 12^th century, which has mostly been my genre of choice. But until I sit and read it through, I find I’m not that enthusiastic about returning to the genre with its copious research requirements. I have come to enjoy writing contemporary fiction as there’s so much scope for observation of our society, of people, and we can write real and spontaneous emotion. That’s not to say one can’t with historical fiction but one is hampered by what readers believe are the constraints of a very different, 900 year old society. I’ve always maintained that humans are humans and that emotions have barely changed. We are what we are. But some readers and academics disagree.

In any case, when I went to meditate one evening this week, a character flashed into my head along with an idea and I had the seed for another contemporary novel. Now I must see if it germinates…

Like all of you, I’m aghast at what continues to crash around the world’s head. One day on Substack, I would like to be courageous enough to nail my own colours to the mast, warts and all. It’s probably why I found Jane Goodall’s honest views so welcome. She had nothing to lose and left her words for posterity. We (I) need to emulate her courage.

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There is wind forecast until the mid weekend. I doubt I will still be on terra firma when you receive this. I shall be in the sky, only tethered to the earth by an old, rusty anchor chain as I clutch my pup, and our hair streams wildly behind us.

I am still trying to keep my hat on…

Song for this week?