Another contract for Marcia

First things first: you will all be delighted to know that Transworld have offered Marcia another two book contract and I am pretty confident that the next book (which will come out in 2015) will be called The Merchant’s House.

Meanwhile, I am confused. Very confused. It’s all down to the fact that I have far too many characters crawling around inside my head and even remembering which book they belong to is proving a challenge. Meanwhile, Marcia is having a holiday – probably drinking a cup of coffee in the nursery (it isn’t really a “garden centre” I am happy to say) at Staverton, just around the corner from the building that housed the offices of Staverton Construction. Her old dad was one of the directors of the company and was responsible for the Bristol office but would travel down to Staverton once a week to attend meetings. Enough of that – back to the real world.

Yes, I have Sir Mungo and Claude, Evie and Camilla, Archie and Ben, Jemima and Izzy and they are all clamouring for attention. Let me explain.

As you know, for the last few weeks Marcia has been battling with putting the finishing touches to the new book, The Merchant’s House, and I have been reading the revised parts on a nightly basis. We really do live with these people and it comes as a wrench when we have to say farewell and look towards the next bunch to invade our lives. This time, however, before those farewells had been made I (we but I deal with these) received the proofs of Indian Summer which I am working through now (well not now, you understand, because I am now writing to you but I was earlier on). The result is a bit chaotic but I shall survive (although I suspect that is more of a personal challenge than a statement of fact).

From Transworld came the blurb they are putting our with the proof copies. Here is what it says:-

Some memories are best forgotten . . . Some won’t ever go away . . .

For retired actor Sir Mungo, his quiet, home village in Devon provides the perfect retreat. Close by are his brother and his wife, and the rural location makes his home the ideal getaway for his old friends in London.

Among those is Kit, who comes to stay for the summer, bringing with her a letter from her first and only love, Jake, and a heart in turmoil. Years have passed since they last saw each other, and now he has written to Kit asking if they could meet again.

As the summer unfolds, secrets are uncovered that will shatter the sleepy community, and even tear a family apart. But those involved soon realise that the only way to move forward might be to confront the past.

The evocative and moving new novel from the international bestseller Marcia Willett.

Also in the post this week were copies of books from Holland and Poland. 

The covers are so very different, aren’t they? The top one comes from Holland, The Sea Garden, and the second from Poland, The Children's Hour. 

Enough about the vagaries of literature – I want to talk about blue tits. These tiny birds are an ongoing pleasure to us both and we are now back in the business of having a proper bird table which means they are around nearly all day long. In the garden are a number of very old and quite magnificent trees including, alongside the lawn, a couple of wonderful oaks. Some experts estimate that Quercus robur is home to more than four hundred different species of insect and many of these are of great importance to those blue tits when they are feeding their young.

This photograph is not very good (it should have been sharper) but I love the expression on his face. Not that it is an expression, of course, all Blue Tits have the same look.

We have a table with a couple of chairs on that lawn, just under the flight path between the bird tables and these two oaks. It follows that I have been trying to capture some video of a blue tit landing on the tree, find a caterpillar or two and then off, beak bulging bugfully. No chance. None at all. It all happens too quickly so that by the time I have the camera pointing in the right direction they are somewhere completely different. In any event, they have probably disappeared into the foliage long since. I did manage to get a second or two of a blackbird, worms trailing from his bill, but only in very poor light conditions. I have yet to look at it properly but I suspect it will end up in my Zebra file.

And then in came this Great Spotted Woodpecker. We used to see these on a daily basis when we were at The Hermitage and it looks as though it will be the same here.

Another lot we haven't seen since those days is the Nuthatch.

That, since you will have no idea what I am talking about, is a sub-file of “Inputs” which is a sub-file of “Video” and it is called Zebra because these things are arranged alphabetically and I can be pretty certain it will stay at the bottom. It contains a few hundred video clips that I know are really rubbish but which, for no good reason other than sentiment, I can’t delete.

Luna was so intent on her owner that no matter what I did she just wouldn't look at me for long enough to take a decent picture - when she did glance in my direction for a second or two, she closed her eyes.
Well, you can't blame her, can you?

Will my editor like it? And watering cans.

As Marcia awaits her editor's comments on the last manuscript, I am reminded of another novelist for whom Totnes became home: Mary Wesley. She and Marcia knew each other when Marcia started writing but before she had a publisher. During this period, Mary was always very supportive. Then came the day that Marcia received her first contract. They met – quite near to The Brioche as it happens – and what Mary said has remained with Marcia ever since.

“Many congratulations. You will never be happy again.”

“What?” asked Marcia.

“Well, you will finish another book and then you will enjoy ten minutes of euphoria. That will be followed by all the questions. Will my agent like the book? Will my editor like the book? Will the great British public like the book?”

Long silence and then. “You have signed a two-book contract you say. Are you sure you can write another book?”

I had just walked down Totnes High Street to meet Marcia when I saw this artist painting East Gate. As I took his photo I realised that there, in the background, was Marcia. These novelists get everywhere.

It may not sound like it but Mary continued to give Marcia encouragement and they remained friends until Mary died. I have a vision of them on the lawn in the Inner Courtyard at Dartington Hall during a Ways With Words Festival. The sun was shining. A game of croquet was in progress: Mary Wesley and James Long versus Marcia Willett and Joan Brady. Marcia and Joan lost: Mary and Joan fiercely competitive, James and Marcia far more laid back. Four very different novelists but all hugely talented.

So, I thought I would put these two creative people together for you.
The one on the left needs no introduction. The one on the right is local artist Stephen Bower. He has a gallery at 1a High Street so, if you are in Totnes, why not pop in and see what's on display?

Oh, and yes, Marcia could write another book.

Over the years, inevitably, people move on. Mary has died, Joan has moved to Oxford and James to Bristol. James and I keep in touch – just – via “social media” and he seems to be quite happy. We have lost touch with Joan. This year there will b e another “Ways With Words” at Dartington but, as with all the literary festivals, it has changed. Now the speakers are far more interesting than writers – they are people of the world who can (and do) speak on almost every subject under the sun. As such they are far better value than the novelist who spends most of life in a private world away from the hustle and bustle of real life.

This may sound as if I am unhappy at the changes. Far from it. It seems to me that it is through their books that the novelist lives and by their books that a novelist is best remembered. Too often knowing a creative person (I have a feeling this is also true of composers and painters) gets between the work and the reader/listener/viewer. Some novelists manage to be “people of the world” as well as writers but they are few and far between.

What a difference a few days of sun and warmth can make? Driving home,. we suddenly realised that the ferns on the lane banks has arrived - just like that. A week ago and you were hardly aware of them but now they are obvershadowing everything else.

Marcia says, and I think she is absolutely right, that she has one story to tell (the story explaining how she became a writer) and she has told that story at a number of festivals. Since the people that go to festivals tend to go back year after year and she has no desire to become a bore by repeating her one story to substantially the same audience, she gently but firmly declines all invitations to such events.

Yesterday, my friend Roger and I spent the day on the River Dart so that I could take some photographs and shoot some video. Here's a sample.

Finally, I have good news to share with you: the ash tree lives. Thus we may reasonable expect a splash this summer. I really do need to buy a new watering can (my favourite got lost in the move – no idea how). Some watering cans seem to balance nicely and you can control the flow with ease: others seem to make one awkward and are difficult to carry. I sometimes wonder whether the people who design such simple things ever use them.

Two months ago, Hermione's life was turned upside down when her people split up and neither of them could keep her. It was Katherine who came to the rescue and the two of them are now happily living together. 

A lonely awakening

Yesterday the manuscript of the book that Marcia has been writing was emailed to Dinah, her agent, and then on to Linda, her editor. There is nothing to be done now except to hold our breath and await the response. It is a chilling thought that this manuscript represents a year of work – which means that if it is rejected . . . I am sure I do not have to spell it out.

Anyway, it seemed to me to be totally wrong that she should have a day with nothing to write about so I persuaded her to write this week’s blog. Over to Marcia.

* * * * *

This is the first morning for more than a year that I’ve woken without a whole group of people – their loves, lives, dramas – at the forefront of my mind. They’ve told me their stories and vanished. There was a latecomer – two in fact – whose voices were drowned out in the clamour of the others but they’ve been absorbed into the story and it seems odd, now, that it could have been written without them. It’s strange to be alone again, and very restful; rather similar to when a group of visitors have left after a very jolly, busy holiday. I miss them – but gosh, it’s good to have my head to myself for the moment. Not for too long, of course, or I might begin to feel anxious that I’ve written my last book.

So, having no other demands on my morning, I drive my rather battered old Jimny through the six-odd miles of country lanes to the Farm Shop. This long lane is one of the most glorious I’ve discovered in a lifetime of driving in glorious lanes. The Devon banks are steep: brimming with colour: bluebells, pink campion, creamy cow parsley, shiny yellow buttercup. Occasionally, through a farm gate or from the brow of a hill, the land tips away to reveal the stark uplands of the distant moor; such a contrast from this richly verdant riot of colour.

Today no such view is to be seen. Soft, warm mizzling rain drifts from the west concealing everything but the near aspect – but I don’t care. The splendour of the lane is more than enough for me. I pass two tractors - backing up, darting into a gateway, squeezing past, with cheerful waves- and two cars but these are my only encounters on the entire journey.

I love Farm Shops. Not those great big smart ones whose busy shops sell expensive kitsch pottery and up-market tat; no, I love small farm shops where the produce is very locally sourced and local people sit in the little café to have a cup of coffee, to argue over the merits of a Devon pasty compared with its Cornish counterpart, and to exchange friendly insults and jokes with a neighbour.

This Farm Shop is opposite a farm. I park near to the entrance and go inside, heading for the café. My life is “counted out in coffee spoons”! A cappuccino, made by Siobhan (‘Lots of chocolate sprinkles?’ ‘You bet!’); afterwards a consultation with Matt, the butcher – without whose advice I’d never dare to choose which cut of meat (‘Lamb’s not ready yet, wait ’til after Easter’) - then a chat with Mac at the check-out. He’s ex-navy so we compare notes on long-past postings, commiserate on how many times we moved house, and he carries my shopping out to the car. We part and my spirits lift as the mizzle is driven away by the sun

A few weeks ago, Rodney mentioned that we missed being surrounded by stock. Well, my people might have gone on their travels but this group of bullocks arrived in the field behind the garden and are clearly enjoying being let out on grass.

Outside I have an exchange with a fellow of much my own age whose delivery van is parked beside my car. I smile at him as I open the car door. He smiles back, heaving in some empty bags, sliding the van door closed.

‘We’ll have to stop meeting, like this,’ he says lugubriously.

‘But however could we?’ I demand.

He shrugs. ‘I could come earlier. You could come later.’

‘Would you break my heart?’ I cry.

He sighs. ‘Life’s hard.’

Then we both burst out laughing and we drive away. Wonderful.

So – back to the real world . . . or is it?

Dede is no ordinary dog. Not a bit of it. Apart from being a delightful brown Labrador she spends most of her time in Chrissy's in Totnes (a hairdressing salon) where she is a great favourite with the customers. 

Thoughts on trees

This week I want to write about evolution. Or, to be more accurate, trees and evolution. At this time of the year, trees demonstrate more than they do another season just how incredibly different they are even though they are all built on the same basic pattern. How did that come about? How could a few differences in the genetic code here and over there result in the sycamore having one sort of leaf and the oak something completely different? Oddly, these two trees do share a common factor: both have buds that are covered by a layer that is opaque. The result is that the new leaves are quite red (I shall be lucky to find good examples because I am a bit late thinking about this but I’ll go out and see what I can find later on). This is because green is the result of the action of sunlight on chlorophyll and, thanks to those opaque bud covers, this cannot start until the leaf emerges. 

Sycamore. The leaves are losing their red tint. The green leaves in the background are, I am sorry to say, common stinging nettles.
Do not touch.

The beech is totally different. Here the bud covers allow the sunlight in and so the leaves are green from the moment the bud bursts: a delicate and very beautiful green.

Beech in all its glory.

Of course when it comes to colour there is probably nothing to beat the maple forests of Canada in the autumn – or fall, if you prefer – a sight I regret I have never seen. Here we have a close relation, the sycamore, but it is a terrible disappointment in autumn. The leaves wither, turn brown and drop. Then, just to add to the mix, there are the evergreens: holly, conifers and so on. As far as leaf colour is concerned these are pretty boring.

I knew it was a bit late to see new oak leaves but here, on this bank beside a lane, there is some that is still quite yellow both in the foreground to the left and further back to the right.

Anyway, why all this? Well it’s all to do with the view from my study window. At The Hermitage there was a deciduous plantation that adjoined the garden and a stand of larch on the other side of the valley. I love the larch which is a wonderful indicator of the seasons with its pale green needles in spring and rich reddy-brown in autumn. Then we moved and I couldn’t see any trees at all. Now we have moved again and there are some really old and magnificent trees in the garden – oaks, beech and ash. My study is upstairs and the garden falls away so it feels as if I am in the treetops. I have been able to watch as they have changed from the gaunt leafless skeletons of winter, through the time when the growing buds and tiny leaflets blur the outline until now when they are fully clothed in their summer foliage. All except the ash tree.

This is the ash tree that stood by the lane just up from The Hermitage. This was taken from the front door.

Have I ever talked about the “sploakometer”? There is an old saying here in England which is talking about when the trees come into leaf: ”ash before oak, in for a soak – oak before ash, in for a splash”. Like so many of these sayings, it does work but only after a fashion. For a start you need an oak and an ash of about the same size and quite close to each other. Then you have to keep your eyes open. Often their leaves come out at more or less the same time – and we have neither a soak nor a splash but something Marcia and I call a “sploak”. Well, we have an ash and an oak of the same size just outside the window here and the oak is in leaf while the ash is not (although there are some smaller saplings that are). It would seem, therefore, that we are in for a dry summer: a splash.

Unless the ash has died.

And here it is again shortly after the snow had melted taken just as the sun was setting. It is a horrid thought that these splendid trees may soon be lost to us (as were the elms not that long ago).

This is a real fear here. “Ash dieback” is caused by a fungus (Chalara fraxinea) which arrived in England a couple of years ago, blown from mainland Europe by the unusually prolonged period of easterly winds we then experienced. Down here in the south west there have been only a few reported cases but in badly effected areas over towards the east this fungus is killing seventy-five per cent of adult trees. Is our big ash tree just biding its time or is it in serious trouble? We shall know in a week or so.

It takes an worried dog to sing a worried song . . . No, that doesn't quite work but you know what I mean. Ben is, what shall I say, anxious. "Am I doing this right?" he seems to be asking.

A morning off

When we shot into Totnes yesterday (for reasons that will become apparent in a moment) the sun was shining although it was quite chilly. Anyway, we decided that it was a morning for a quick cup of coffee outside the brioche. While we were sitting there, a seagull landed on top of the telephone box opposite and so I took his photograph. That triggered a conversation.

Me: Is it a telephone box or a telephone kiosk?

Marcia: Well, I suppose it should be a telephone kiosk but nobody will mind if you call it a telephone box. Most people do.

This could easily have resulted in a lengthy discussions on the pros and cons of the two words but we were deflected from that - which was probably just as well - although I can't now remember why.

The gull standing (on one foot) on top of the telephone thingy. I just love the way the red light from the roof colours the gull's feathers/

We were in Totnes to give Marcia a break from hitting the keys and a chance to let her mind roam around a bit to try to sort out what has proved to be a tricky point in the book she is writing. This is all to do with that shadowy figure I mentioned before but who, for reasons unknown, failed properly to reveal himself during the period when the book was at the germination stage. The lack if detail about this chap is the problem and Marcia is, in my view, in danger of rushing things. True, this book is now running behind schedule (sorting out where we were going to live and then moving is largely to blame for that) and she really, really wants to get this one out of her head as this is the time of the year that she usually starts to brood on the next one. Rushing it, however, being a rather bad idea, we thought a morning in the town doing not very much at all would be good for her.

Some of you will know that I am working on a series of books (or whatever you want to call them) about Marcia Willett's West Country. The first (covering Dartmouth and Start Bay and so Hattie's Mill and Second Time Around) was supposed to be ready by Christmas. The text was written but for various reasons there were some photographs that had not then been taken. I hope to get them in the bag quite soon now. Anyway, since there is no way of illustrating Marcia and I doing nothing very much, here are some of the pictures of architectural details from the Dartmouth section which I hope you will find interesting.

It also meant a good opportunity to stock up on those things we can't buy in the village. So it was that after breakfast we created a comprehensive shopping list. Having enjoyed one cup of coffee, I strolled (no rushing for me, either) down to a shop called Lawsons - hardware, kitchen stuff and so on - and once there put my hand in my shirt pocket for the shopping list. The pocket was empty. Hmmm. Having selected what I could remember I arrived at the checkout to find that they are now offering a 10% discount to pensioners on a Thursday. Every cloud has a silver lining.

As it is really quite a long time since we were in a position where we could pop into a town whenever the mood took us, I had forgotten how different Totnes feels on the various days of the week. Whether that is true of other towns I have no idea.

Obviously Friday being market day means the place is busier - you have to be quite early if you want to be sure of finding somewhere to park the car - and there is a great sense of 'buzz'. Saturday also has a market but the people in the town seem to be completely different with many more families about which is, of course, just what you would expect. Sundays vary: once a month there is a Farmers' Market which pulls in people from all around who are rarely in the town on other days. Monday and you feel a sense of relief that the busyness of the previous three days is over and there is time to stand and stare, to chat, to relax.

Tuesday sees Totnes at its most odd. It is known as Elizabethan Tuesday, thanks an idea dreamed up by the Totnes Town Association some years ago. There are charity stalls in the Market Square and quite a few people dress up in Elizabethan clothing or, to be more accurate, in what they see as being Elizabethan clothing somewhat modified with comfort in mind (especially when it comes to shoes).

Wednesday and Thursday are much alike. The town is at its quietest (which is, no doubt, why Lawsons choose Thursday to offer oldies like me a discount) but I rather like it. It retains its quintessential essence and in some ways this is easier to enjoy when there is less hustle and bustle.  

It would seem that Chudleigh (yes, like the village) found the whole business of modelling a bit too much. Marcia tells me that his front feet are in the third position - well, almost - but I really could not comment knowing nothing about ballet myself.

A soft landing

One thing that we have learned since leaving The Hermitage nearly two years ago now is that you never stop learning. When we decided that we could no longer stay in such a remote spot (or, to be more accurate, when I decided that I could not since it was really my decisions and Marcia went along with it out of consideration for my advancing years) we decided we needed easy access to shops and other facilities.

For a few months it was wonderful to be released from the tyranny of long-distance shopping. I call it 'tyranny' because that is really what it becomes: the need to make sure that you forget nothing and that means keeping an accurate record of what you have used, making sure the shopping list reflects that record and that the shopping reflects that list. It is rather like setting off on a boat for a long voyage - if you forget something then you have to live without it. Living in a village removes all that, we could be down to the shop and back with a packet of butter in less than four minutes. We called this ‘lastminute.com’ shopping after the travel website of that name.

This little fellow more or less lives in the garden I have spoken severely to him (or her, as the case may be) pointing out that there are certain plants such as lettuces that are not to be on his/her menu. Soon I shall know whether or not he/she was listening.

With these thoughts in mind, we started to look for a house to buy (you will remember that we were lucky enough to be able to rent a property from one of Marcia's old friends for "as long as you want it"). We decided that we wanted our 'local town' to be Totnes and that is the only one of the decisions that we took then to which we have adhered: Totnes is probably the place at which we both feel most at home and we know more people who live in or nearby than anywhere else. So, we created a search area covering a five mile radius around Totnes and kept an eye on all the local estate agents seeking that perfect property.

We couldn't find one. The months went by and we widened our search area but still with no success. We hate raising hopes so every house we thought might be the answer was subjected to an 'outside recce' before we took matters any further. These soon made us realise that the new search area was now too big. What is the point in recreating the wheel by buying a house that is too far from your local town - and especially so if it does not have the remoteness, outlook and tranquility of The Hermitage? Right, better to give the tenants notice and go back but we knew that was not really an option.

We have really missed seeing stock in the fields so it was very good to see this lot who had been turned out for the first time this year yesterday.

At this point we took the decision to live IN Totnes. We even got so far as to view a couple of properties. Then we started to learn. Basically we are both very rural people who feel badly deprived if we do not have that connection with the natural world which centres us. It was this connection that we were missing living in the village but it took us over a year to realise this simple fact. This posed a problem and then, quite suddenly, we were presented with an answer.

This odd image needs some explaining. The full moon rose on Wednesday and is seen here behind a fork in a big oak tree: the odd bits between the branches are twigs. Anyway, I decided to photograph it before it lost that huge yellow look but the only camera to hand was my little Panasonic (which does not offer manual focus). I was pretty sure the moon would be out of focus but I hoped the twigs would be sharper than they are 

We discovered, quite by chance and thanks to Marcia's sister, that you could rent properties from the Dartington Hall Trust. Bingo. The estate had a couple of properties available and we were offered one. Once again we have a field the other side of the garden hedge and another field the other side of the lane but it is less than two miles from Totnes and we have direct access to some of the most wonderful gardens in the UK. True, the nearest shop is in Dartington village - and it is a truly excellent one - and so we have lost ‘lastminute.com’ but now we know that is not as important as we thought it was two years ago.

Just a field away is the River Dart and, on the other bank, a preservation railway. How much fun is that?

So we have learned a vital lesson - be true to yourselves. You are what you are and denying that leads to a lesser life. We, being very lucky, have a choice and can live a life that accords well with our characters. Sadly, so many people do not have that choice.

Meet Bono: there is something so regal about a Golden Retriever/ 

PS This morning Marcia and I went for a walk around the gardens of Dartington Hall. I shall be putting the pictures I took on my photo blog later today. Click here to see them.

A Moor Day

Marcia is Great Aunt to a ten year old boy. She, of course, does not think of herself as a “great aunt”. In fact I don’t think she thinks of herself as an “aunt”. Certainly she is called Marcia by all her nieces and nephews and never “auntie”. But these things happen with the passing of the years and the best thing to do is to accept it graciously which, of course, she does. Anyway, one of her great nephews wants to write a story. Who better to mentor him than his Great Aunt Marcia? I find it very heart warming that this youngster wants to take writing seriously.

Is the art of writing at danger because of modern means of communication such as texting, Twitter and so on - all of which tempt people to use "text speak"? Marcia and I are not immune to this temptation. Let us look at an example: TAGT.

Those who watched the television series 2012 - a comedy set 'behind the scenes' during the preparations for the 2012 Olympics held in London - will know that this stands for "that's all good then'. Since texting from a mobile is a rather tedious exercise and TAGT demands only four key strokes it is the quickest way of indicating approval. None of its rivals are as easy. 'Yes' requires nine, 'OK' (surprisingly) takes five.

Does any of this threaten the English language? This is a debate that has occupied many column inches in The Times here in England and I would not be surprised to hear that similar arguments take place in other places. For what it's worth, neither Marcia or I feel that there is any problem with text-speak – in one form or another people have using abbreviations and references to books, songs, personalities and so on for centuries. Nevertheless, I am sure that there are many who find the whole thing very worrying.

What a way to start the day! I was making the tea and looked out of the kitchen window. The sun was just rising so I grabbed a camera, opened the door and 1/500th of a second later we have this.

Yesterday we crossed the moor to meet up with some friends in the Bedford Hotel in Tavistock. It was quite odd – as we drove so we realised how much we have missed this spring: the bank where the snowdrops grow which we usually see as a mist of white; the daffodils that grow in Hembury Woods; the primroses (and the sports in particular) as you approach Holne. The problem has been, as you would expect, that we have been too busy to go roaming and when we have had to cross the moor the weather up there has been pretty awful. It has not been a cold winter but incredibly wet and windy – now we are having a rather odd spring with a wonderful display of daffodils (nearly all gone now) and primroses (still with us here but going over on the moor) while the blackthorn was late coming into flower.

Just for those who don't know what I am talking about, I took this picture of the front lawn here. We havw celandine and the paler yellow primroses and, some pink "sports" or, more properly,  Primula vulgaris sibthorpii. I think you will agree sports is a nicer name.

One thing that we have seen for many years that was still there yesterday is this totally unexpected escapee: honesty in a hedge bank on the lane from Buckfast to Holne.

Up on Holne Moor we stopped to drink our after-breakfast coffee. Thanks to the move I had emptied the bottles in which we keep water for washing the mugs and then forgotten to refill them. So I stopped to fill them at an issue (a place where water seeps out of the moor) just north of Saddle Bridge which takes the lane over the O Brook. As I looked over towards Foxhole I realised that the gorse was in full bloom so took this picture.

Those who have read Forgotten Laughter will know what I am talking about. Foxhole was the fictional house that was central to that book and, typical of Marcia, it was set in a very real place. Chop down that gorse and you would see the house (if it existed) down by the River Dart but as it doesn't you wouldn't.

Just one of the many trees that had come down over the road.

One thing that hit us was the amount of damage done by the winds with trees down all over the place and the roads peppered with pot holes. It is going to be a long time before all of these can be filled in. The real danger is when the road is covered in water and this is hiding a pot hole. We hit one such but there was no real damage. My brother-in-law was not so lucky and he ended up shredding a tyre.

I really do love this picture of Monty. He is at the marina and all ready to go afloat. I imagine that the sequel to this photograph (which was given to me by Monty’s owner, Carol Richards) shows him on the after deck holding a long, cool gin and tonic.