10th November - Full Moon

Wood Smoke and Moonlight 

A chilly, damp start to the morning and so still that smoke from the smouldering fire tumbled down the chimney pot to hang below the mist. By mid-morning the Sun had burned through and was bathing me in warm fingers of light which turned the pear halves golden as I placed them on the drying racks. The baby was fascinated by these colourful lines drawn on nothingness and in his Nana's arms tried to feel them with gentle strokes of his tiny hand. After a miserable virus which has left him with a scarlet rash on his cheeks, he is finally returning to good humour. The clapping which he enjoyed so much before he was unwell has returned with a vengeance and now, if I smile at him and say, ' Can you clap for Daddy? ' he applauds deliberately with a broad grin. Complete chance or vague comprehension, it makes little difference - I'm still moved to my toes by an emotion which lies somewhere between exhilaration and weeping, and is I suppose total adoration. That he might be doing something for me, performing a deliberate act to make his father laugh and smile is, I think the dearest gift I shall ever receive. Being ill didn't stop him from eating, but recovery has left him with a ravenous appetite. Today he ate a tablespoon each of stewed apple and sheep's milk yoghurt at 6 AM, three cubes (everything is frozen ice cube trays) of sheep's milk porridge plus apple and yoghurt at 9 AM, two cubes of pigeon and pleasant casserole plus bread, pear and tomato at 1 PM, two cubes of casserole plus Apple and yoghurt at 5 PM and finally three more cubes of porridge at 8:30 PM all washed down with breast milk at three hourly intervals of course! Little wonder people keep saying that he is growing fast.

The wild cry of greylag geese had me leaping to the window in the afternoon.  A skein of perhaps 70 or 80 were flying south in a wavy line, almost certainly heading for the lake behind my parents land. They are wonderful creatures which stir my romantic sensibilities, reminding me of stories I have read about wild fowling and flighting in the rugged highlands of Scotland.  Their numbers have increased hugely over the past few years and in the correct season it is nothing to see several hundred flight across the fields opposite the cottage. I bagged a couple once as they came across my parents land, but since then many hours have been spent trying to repeat the good fortune but without success. Generally the skeins fly extremely high and well beyond range but mist or strong wind will bring them low and then it is ‘simply’ a job of predicting their flight pattern. Geese are, you might believe creatures of habit, but you'd be wrong, like most animals they are foremost creatures of necessity. There is no doubt that given long-term feeding grounds and secure roosts, as one finds on the coast, they will fly back and forth along the same flight lines but in land the situation is different. They arrived in late summer to feed on crop stubble and at night roost on a scattering of reservoirs and lakes. As cultivation begins yesterday's food source becomes today's bare field and in response, the greylags fly differently almost every day, even disappearing from this area altogether if another roost site becomes more convenient. By the first heavy frosts they are gone and an enjoyable three months spent weather watching and dreaming up stratagems has once again been in vain.

When the moon is full there is barely any need for light in the cottage. The pale rays glide through the windows and I enjoy nothing more than lying beside my wife, her smooth skin bathed in ivory and gazing out at the dark oaks which fracture the view with bows of leafless twigs.

Dinner

Sausages and chips. A rare foray into the world of purchased food (not the sausages of course, that would be a step too far) due to Em, G and myself attending a swanky function in Ticehurst.