Rain

The pale pink early morning sky hovered low on the horizon,its glow appearing through the trees then creeping higher from the east & reflecting around the clouds in the distance, mirrored hues of soft crimson & mauve widening as the sun crept upwards to meet the day dawning. Clouds were building slowly, turning deep blue as they scattered toward the rising sun which burst forth brightly, fingers of light filtering through the oncoming darkness scudding closer, beginning to block out the remaining sunrays. Birds chirped noisily in the thick undergrowth beneath drought stricken vegetation that grew alongside a walking track close to a slow moving stream. Moisture starved acacias & melaleucas drooped, parched & dying as the promise of another dawn, another hot day imminent. The tall eucalypts struggled to keep their leaves & bark, as day after hot blistering day they shed their burdens scattering the ground with strips of long dried out sheets of bark, leaves  brown & crisp, dead from the torturing heat. The grass shrivelled to light brown & the earth shrunk in the ground lacking  life giving moisture with cavernous gaps appearing, splitting the soil into deep dark mini earthquake type gorges. Shrubs alongside the park had already given up their life, brown & drooping, they died. The stream beside the pathway had slowed to a murmur, a soft gurgle bubbling over the rocks as it followed the twists & turns within the weed endowed banks.
As the sun crept across the horizon & climbed menacingly higher, the increased cloud buildup turned dark & covered what was left of the morning's light as yesterday's heat still clung to the dawn. The gathering cloud formed thickly into a  threatening grey to blue black light that hung low in the sky, while the wind started to moan through the trees swaying the branches to & fro in the increasing storm filled breeze. Suddenly a few water droplets fell & splashed the leaves of a eucalypt, then larger ones  hit the dry dusty part of the playing field with a force that scattered the  particles to oblivion. The sudden freshness of cool rain on parched ground lifted the senses & sent them reeling, tumbling into the blissful habitat of human existence, puddling into infinity. Rain now fell with greater force, sheeting down from the heavens with consistency, spattering the ground in & out of the summer burnt grass with playful abandonment. The water came in torrents with flashes of lightning followed by loud thunderclaps nearer, the steady rain hitting the rooftops & pouring down into the gutters, the sky opening & spilling its contents bouncing off the wilting petals in the garden of the remaining flowers & soaking into beds that have been forgotten. The dried up soil took a while to filter the much needed moisture, deeply penetrating the deep dug roots of the rose bush, water glancing off the shrubs & forming into liquid puddles. The large overhanging fig tree had survived through the sun hot days to ripen & expel the dark, rosy coloured flesh of the fruit feeding the birds almost as it fell. The rain thirsty plants gorging on the moisture, continuing to enjoy the soaking of the unrelenting storm with its forthcoming downpour throughout the rain sodden day.
Slowly the clouds thinned into soft pale whisps & parted, revealing the last of the summer's day that appeared from beyond the scattering clouds spreading across the western sky, deepening darkly into a blood red dusk reflecting on the rain soaked earth.

Dorset memory 5 A visit to an old friend

The car edged its way down the slushy wet lane as snow still lay dolloped around the base of the hedgerows, more thickly facing northern aspects & small mounds were scattered here & there eroding away after the wind & rain overnight had washed the piled heaps into ever decreasing fragments.
It was a typical winter morning with the rain washed lane curving around & dipping down the hill with bare winter trees spilling their branches over the roadside, high hedges stretching up into the fields & along the lane where sometimes through a gateway, sheep were nibbling sparse winter offerings with their newborn lambs. A few birds flew in & around an old oak gracing the hillside,speading its age old knotty branches hanging low & bare. Scudding cotton top clouds danced slowly across the sky, skittish in the subtle morning light, grey & thickly white they moved over the countryside from a south easterly direction. The sun climbed slugishly above the horizon making its way toward spring while the snowdrops nodded in the early morning breeze in their innocence. Driving down past a river, the car crossed over an old stone bridge & passed through a small hamlet with a few cottages & a farmhouse with its chimney puffing smoke from old blackened bricks,sooty with three hundred years of history. The original slate roof sat higgledy piggledy on sagging beams, slowly eaten by woodworm sitting on thick cob filled walls.
The adjoining cottage was situated on a slope which reached to a woodland, & a stream flowed through the forgotten garden close to the stable door where an elderly lady ventured out to greet the oncoming vehicle. The lady was rather tall but a little stooped with gentle brown eyes & a welcoming smile. Entering through the stable door into the warm kitchen where a small wooden table & two chairs stood close to a large dresser adorned with blue & white china, lunch was soon served of home made soup & fresh bread straight from the Aga. The cosy sitting room fire glowed in the grate shedding warmth tumbling around the room from under a very old oak beam. The sun managed to steal through a deeply recessed window shedding light onto a large rug covering the uneven flagstoned floor. On a side table stood several family photographs & a flowered Minton bowl full of pot-pourri & spices,smelling of summer roses, lavender & sweet just cut hay. A large black & white cat snored atop a velvet covered wing back chair. as the bare winter trees outside gently swayed in a cold winter breeze. The elderly lady drew her wooden spinning wheel over from a corner, dark with a spider's web hidden in the depths of the sitting room. The lady bent with age, plied her still nimble fingers to  lightly greased wool & started to spin a yarn that wound itself onto a spool as her foot gently treadled up & down to a regular rhythm. The wispy wool left her fingers in a single strand,fine & even filling the bobbin as she taught & talked of crimped & coloured fleeces, of long staples & different sheep breeds.
As the sun dipped & the last rays flooded across the winter garden, the car pulled out of the driveway while the black & white cat remained on the velvet wing back chair & slept on as the old lady closed the stable door.

On a Cloudy Day (A children's story)

Gloomy clouds scudded across a leaden sky when there was a loud splash in the water, sending ripples shimmering across the surface of the lake as a dog leapt high into the air from the grassy bank, and landed with a loud plop into the depths of the lake. He grabbed the stick firmly between his teeth & somehow was disorientated as he rose to the surface within a brief time, & started turning circles in the centre of the lake. His head looked around hopefully from where he had taken a mad leap into the abyss, & his paws paddled furiously under the gurgling water. Around the edge of the lake all seemed quiet & all seemed lost to him in the early morning, but from around a corner, two men strolling along a narrow pathway nearby, noticed the decreasing ripples & the little dark furry head of the dog swimming slowly now, in the cold water of the lake.
Like lightening, & with no thought of clothing, one man quickly removed his shoes & dashed to the water's edge, dived in & strongly swam towards the  struggling dog. He slowed as he reached the sodden animal & stretched out with one arm grabbing the sinking exhausted lump of black hair, pulling it free of the surface. The man kept his legs moving in the water as his hand clung to the dog & slowly swam to the grassy edge of the lake with the little wet bundle tucked into his arm. The dog managed to keep hold of the stick even though he had struggled to breathe when his head briefly ducked under the bubbling water. The man stood up & held the dog in his arms for a moment before putting him gently to the ground & relieved him of the stick still tightly clamped between his teeth. The little dog seemed quite able to breathe normally again, & stood shaking with cold for a moment on the grass before giving himself a violent shake. Water droplets flew into the air all around him & the little black dog stood looking up at the two men out of soft brown eyes with his head tilted to one side & his legs shaking a little with the last of the lake's water.
The two men examined him gently & found no identification tags or anything of help as to where he originated from. There was no-one else around to claim his whereabouts & after waiting & looking around for a short time, the man who rescued the dog, picked him up &, parting company with his friend, tucked the little wet dog under his arm & set off for home to a dry bed & a good supper.
After a time making certain enquiries, the man was able to keep his newly acquired friend who was lying on his own bed now, looking out of one eye at his champion, his new owner. The stick remained in the house & was put to one side for a while till the new friends got to know one another & form a special bond. The new owner of the small black dog with the soft brown eyes sat reading a book holding it to one side, while the dog lay on his new bed, his head resting on his front paws with one eye open.

Dorset memory 4

A cold winter wind blustered it's way from the north with renewed ferocity, bringing with it an icy blast that froze the trees in the earth, & the small ice-encrusted  branches of the privet hedge tinkled like bells as the frost & snow shivered in its harshness. After the bitter wind torn night, when even the barn owls dare not hunt & stay perched in the rafters of the old tumbled down wooden barn, a pale dawn slowly edges above the horizon & turns the icy snow into sparkling jewels strewn across the garden. A strange white mist hangs in the small valley nearby & echoes the cry of the pheasants as they move about the woodland, where the hard ground has frozen solid & the small stream has iced over in places reducing the running crystal clear water to a mere trickle.
The farm at the edge of the woodland sitting in a dip of a small clearing, is quiet & eerie as the pipes had frozen overnight, & the cows are anxiously waiting to be milked as they mooch around the dung splattered ground. Frost laden snow lay about the yard in measured clumps, & the farmer's dog creeps about their legs like a stealthy fox emerging from a hedgerow before slinking off across a field. The dog barks once or twice as the cows plod slowly toward the milking parlour after the farmer had seen to the pipes, & the milking machine starts humming again as the winter sun moves lazily across the sky.
The fields are frozen when walking down the hill toward the woodland, the mist still clinging to the day, hovering lightly above the hardened clods that are mainly covered with a crunchy carpet of whitened ice-capped snow. Footprints follow my long shadow down the hill, sinking into the snow with each step, before approaching a small stile that sits in the fencing not far from a lichen covered wooden gate. The path through rows of pine in the woods, leads down along a winding gravelly section, but puddled & icy in places, then stretches down & across a stream that is almost still with ice, the long strands of ivy hanging from the trees above wave gently in a slight breeze above it. The chestnut trees on the slope of a hill, stand silent as further up along a twisting track, another gateway leads on to where the village is tucked under winter's hold, the church wrapped in the soft swirling mist & the village shop is gripped from the night's encounter with seasonal offerings.

A long hot summer

The unrelenting sun shimmered into another day, as its stealthy rays stretched from the eastern horizon pink & yellow across a cloudless sky. The park was becoming even more dry & dusty with only glimpses of green blades of grass struggling to survive the summer's fiercesome hold. The tall native trees drooped from lack of water, their hardiness being severely tested. Some of the shrubs at the edge of the park have turned brown & are dying, no longer holding out for life giving moisture. Deep cracks have appeared on the cricket pitch, widening with each day as the shimmering heat rises above the ground & into the next day. On the bike path the strong summer sun cracks open the bituman, strung out for meters & the depth of the spaces increase to resemble that which splits open  during an earthquake. Concrete breaks & falls apart with increasing ease, & the earth shrinks under the intensity of continuing cloudless skies.
The garden shrivels & the plants constantly droop for lack of rain, until a day dawns with thick dark clouds building from the south west horizon. Lightning flashes in the distance increasing the bushfires consuming the mountains & forests with rapidity as the fires tear up the slopes & ravish the countryside. Thunder rumbles as it approaches, & the brief raindrops start falling. Rain on dry ground smells with  significant freshness as it hits the dusty moisture sapped ground, hard as concrete. The tentative drops slow & die away altogether, disappearing over to the hills, never to return. The strong summer sun burns down with continuous ferocity & the heat increases with each struggling day.

Dorset Memory 3 - Around the Piddle Valley

Whilst living in 'An Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty' in West Dorset, the postman had delivered a very special parcel from an English relative living in Australia, a book published in 1978, the year the move from Australia to England was executed, supposedly for a three year trial period. Meanwhile, twenty six years later, the cottage was still occupied.

The river Piddle meanders along a pretty valley, not too far from Dorchester, & several springs bubble up to feed into it from near an inn of a long straggling village. The church in the village has a Norman tower dating back to the 15th century which is adorned with gargoyles, with the south doorway & piers of the chancel also Norman, it sits in the upper tithing together with the manor house. The village was assessed in the Domesday Book for thirty hides, the latter part of the village name being 'trenthide', & the French word for 'thirty is 'trente'. A twisting lane climbs up & out of the village, on the dip slope of the Dorset Downs, where the gentle rolling hills climb in & out of some deep valleys. The many walks lay open to the autumn mists that waft gently across the tops of the hills, where the cows amble through the dewy damp grass, their rough tongues wrapping around & tearing it from the juicy stalks.

The Piddle valley has a light sprinkling of villages where some of the cottages are stone & lime with thatched rooftops, under which sit small dormer windows set into thick cob walls. An assortment of trees enhance the area, spilling out onto  winding lanes, & gather into woods where the spring bluebells carpet the ground & beside the narrow roadways, campions & cow parsley grow thickly. The gardens in the summer enhance the villages, with borders & hanging pots cascading with petunias, hollyhocks & lupins standing tall, & roses entwined with honeysuckle. The hamlets dotted here & there along both sides of the 'B' road through the river valley, join the occasional village, & wander eventually to a few main roads around Thomas Hardy country. The river flows gently through the County twisting & turning meandering  past farms & towns, the mouth rippling out into Poole harbor.

The river valley ladies compiled a cookbook including 'Rumbe Thumps', Hubble Bubble', 'Hopel-Popel' & the makings of a fruit cake that has stood the test of time for thirty five years. (A few essential ingredients were later added to make this one of the most enjoyable family heirlooms that will be handed down for future reference!) The proceeds of this book were donated to the restoration fund of the village church. The book that began in a Dorset valley, travelled to Australia & returned to where it began, the book that the postman delivered.

On the last page  written by a lady in the Piddletrenthide Vicarage it states -

In order to forestall a riot,

And keep the whole family quiet,

I have said I will cook

All things in this book...

And then we'll all go on a diet.

                                                           

Dorset memory 2 - A Norman church

The old Norman church  nestled into a small valley surrounded by a few odd yew & stark clad copper beech trees, appeared among the worn gravestones in a quiet village. It's stone exuding a dark war torn history in its dark ochre colored walls. The churchyard silent, as the fog descended from a leaden sky around the engraved headstones, swirling damply it lingered lazily around the lost souls that lay beyond the cold earth. What wounds, what tales of sadness do they endow? The children can no more sing, their love abideth no more & is lost in their dying innocence.

The sloping roof of the church seems ghostlike as the grey damp fog swirls low around the gothic  looking windows. The crows, black like tar, cry out from the nearby trees as they perch mockingly in the foggy dew, clinging to bare branches. The church door thickly studded, creaked open swinging on its age old hinges. The flagstoned floor, smooth with time honored history, seemed to gleam with a dusty empathy. In the towering timbers of the roof & floating around the walls, an organ played with mellow mournful notes, drifting around the vast musty space invading the silence. The monuments on the inside walls beyond the hard wooden pews, spoke of all things past & gone, memorials of lives living in a long ago era.  People who lived life's ambition, now in their darkest caverns, lie motionless, bones of idleness, dearly departed. The tall timbers in the roof telling of past centuries, witnesses to the history of time. The hard wooden pews in rows, sit silent & empty, while outside the fog laden air, chilling the bones of the dead buried beneath the worn headstones.

The morning sun quietly plunders the thinning fog & starts to shake free the mist from its clinging hold. Slowly the sun's rays penetrate the hanging shroud to dispel its hold & awaken the gloomy shades of night.

The valley with its gently sloping hills & hamlets, sprinkled here & yonder, starts to shed its wintry slumber as the sun creeps into the fields & over the small woodlands .Villages embrace the golden light as it enhances the morning, the animals move about with increased expectancy as they consume the summer's harvest. There is a fresh crisp vigor to the country air, with its abundance of carefree presence. A river runs clear, down from the hills where it gathers in force trickling out of the rocky crevices, it gurgled its ways down through the earth brown fields & rippled damp channels in a meadow. It dawdled past the hay filled barns & slowed on the flatness beyond a farmyard. Travelling under a bridge where it gently slapped the sides as it silently flowed toward the sea. The murmuring was heard as it sidled through an old orchard where the last of the pickings lay beneath the lichen strewn branches. The river had swelled & with its gathered force, reached the sea & emptied itself continually into the ocean depths, disappearing in a salty wilderness. 
The Norman church gave up its gloom  as the sun filtered through its windows, &  the crows abandoned the branches of the bare trees as the village people approached the old studded door that creaked on its hinges.

Dorset memory - Down by the seaside

The seaside sparkled in the mid winter morning sunlight. Small boats bobbed about in the enclosed harbour, horseshoe shaped, lying grouped loosely together abandoned, they tossed on the choppy sea. Various coloured hulls of  small fishing boats faced the incoming tide, their sides constantly lapped with waves, slapping up against them & falling away with decreasing foamy bubbles, as they rode the watery humps. The shrouds rattled & pinged in the strengthening breeze singing constantly as the wind rattled them free. The masts waved from side to side catching the sun's rays atop the swaying fishy smelling boats, bumbling on the sea. The fine yellowy sand reached the edge of the incoming foam filled waves, being sucked  down to where the water deepened. Tiny shells littered the water's edge here & there as a few inquisitive children fossicked amongst the water's edge, bending down & finding small treasures, keepsakes in their mission.
Seagulls cried out as they swooped across the waves, then circled overhead & deposited themselves on higher ground gathering & gliding before they settled. A flat curving wall stretched out into the dark blue sea & a rustic looking lone man bent to his stick, slowly hobbled along the top gazing wistfully out to sea. He was remembering the long days spent in his fishing boat expectant of a good catch, the fish swimming willingly into the outstretched net. His face is tanned & ruddy, lined with the years of memories, but his eyes still sparkled with the light of life within him.
The small town is awake & quietly bustling in a tangle of comings & goings as the crispness of a winter morning gripped the day, shaking it loose of the cold night gone. The gulls continued to cry overhead, wheeling in circles, shaken from their mooring of a small harbour pier, searching for their next easy meal. They decend over the sea once more which continually laps the shore, bringing with it all kinds of flotsam & jetsam, & the occasional piece of driftwood.
In the fossil shop, the pickings aged beyond time, have fish buried & rippled smooth, dug from the nearby cliffs hidden with their history. The small shops nestled along the sloping road, are varied with their wares of antiques, books & sundry clothing. Coloured cottages tucked back from the road & dotted along the sea wall, sit capturing the bracing air blowing in off the bay sighing cold & salty, seeping into their walls & ancient  rooftops sideling into doorways, eating into timbers.
A storm appears as the clouds cover the sun's winter tranquility, gathering out at sea & fast approaching the town's pleasure, darkening with its threat.  It skuds low & compliant with it blowing into the town with falling rain gushing from the clouds, drenching its way across the sky & sheeting into pelting torrents.
 The seaside town appears drowned in its path, washed clear & bright after the storm has passed & slowly emerges as the clouds squeeze their last drops. The  sun manages to reappear from over the drenched rooftops, its rays casting long shadows in the late wintry afternoon.

Fig Trees

Two fig trees grow in my garden. They have given me just a little anguish in the past. My best English friend has one and I learned from her about the growing and rearing thereof! But this is a first for me. Masses of fruit were born in the Spring, bursting along the branches all green and shapely with the buds of hope and expectancy. I constantly watched and waited, seeing the strength and health of this fruit slowly emerge and quickly swell.
The so-called 'June' drop (northern hemisphere term), was considerable, perhaps a hundred perspective fruits made their way to the ground with gentle and regular plops. At this rate the trees would be denuded in a very short time. On and on the little green, under ripe images of luscious fleshy fruitfulness, unbound and detached themselves from the boughs.
Then came the strength of warmth, sunshine in abundance to plump them and swell their pink centres with the temptation of Eve, they kept growing larger and fuller with the nectar of the bird's heaven, filling between the branches their darker skins ripened. Now, is that time when waiting since forever, the first time in my life I can partake of this richness. There is one person I would love to share it with (amongst others), my best friend who still lives just one mile of what was my cottage, in the pretty depths of West Dorset.