Inbetween days

My father-in-law came out of hospital yesterday, which was fabulous news and lightened us up no end. It meant we fairly flounced off to Barnstaple, eschewing the link road and wending our way over the top of the moor via Brayford – a gorgeous route. Adrian headed off to buy provisions (he adores Butchers’ Row – a narrow street of food shops) and to browse leisurely in the music shop while James and I took ourselves off to have a coffee. Somehow I ended up buying stuff for everyone except myself (how common is that?) but didn’t mind remotely. We stopped off for lunch on the way back at the Poltimore Arms – a good old-fashioned pub.

Murphy, the grey, is back with us for his summer holidays – and I’m trying to work out how to persuade our horrible buyers that they should do the decent thing and let him stay on. James and I took him some of his favourite extra-strong mints and gave him a big hug (I’ll miss him something rotten). Then we set up a target by the stable and practiced our air rifle shooting (James went on a young shots day on Friday and was keen to show us how well he can shoot).

I’d forgotten how much fun it is – it plugged me straight back to my teenage years when (having joined the Venture Scouts because I fancied one of the boys) we used to shoot air pistols and rifles in the rather odd environs of the scout hut. It was a skill that came in handy when I went to university in Manchester and found myself living in a vast monster of a house in Whalley Range. The back yard was overrun with rats and we’d hang out of the first floor window shooting them with an air pistol. Barbaric teenagers.

There were six of us students living in the house but one room housed an entire family of two adults, two (horribly malnourished) children, a morose cat called Blue and three ferrets (Dracula, Fang and one whose name escapes me). The eldest boy, who was about twelve but looked six, used to go rabbiting in Alexandra Park – and I think the family lived off rabbits and potato cakes.

I digress. I tried to buy our reading group book in Waterstones – but no joy. The book was there (according to their computer) but not in its rightful place and therefore nowhere to be found. I wandered around aimlessly, rather hoping it might just jump out at me and ended up buying instead a couple of books for my nephew – David Green’s Black Swan Green and The Testament of Gideon Mack by James Robertson. I am saving David for my holiday treat but I have just finished reading Gideon Mack and loved it. The tale of an agnostic Church of Scotland minister who meets the Devil (and finds him a goodly companion) was strangely moving and made me think a lot about the nature of belief, faith, love, death, settling for second-best and reality. I’m now knee-deep in Prince of the Clouds by Gianni Riotta, a book which on paper I would never have read in a million years (it’s about a military strategist!) but in reality is a total joy.

I have calmed down about our buyer. Yes, he is a greedy unpleasant man – but that’s his problem. I just want to move on. Leaving will be hard but there is much to look forward to. I think my only real sadness is that we haven’t had the time/money/expertise to use the land properly. I had planned to have horses and get back to riding. Adrian had wanted to do a bit of a smallholding and have a small brewery. But it didn’t happen. We have planted trees and held back the bracken and coppiced the woodland. It has made me realise - in very real terms - that we never own land. We look after it – that’s all.

In many ways, it will be a relief not to have to keep it all going. James will no longer go on thistle patrol. Adrian can hang up his strimmer. I can stop my battle with ferns and bracken (though I fear I will exchange one patch of ground elder for another). Already the house feels like it’s slipping away from us, removing its attention. That gives a wonderful lightening in my soul. I thought this would be an easy house (after our last one which was a right prima donna) but it’s been insidious and clinging.

Sorry, this is long and disjointed. Thoughts are tumbling out of me at the moment and I think that’s why I don’t feel like blogging – I’m not sure it’s fair to subject you to such confusion. This really is the liminal time – we’re leaving but not quite left; we’re going but not quite arrived. The hallway is filled with detritus, flotsam and jetsam on the beach (that ultimately liminal place). Enough, enough……

Pic is a small herd of red deer, in our big field, a few evenings ago....