It’s almost five years to the day, when we first moved in, that the Concrete Farmer came over to greet us in a rather lordly way. We didn’t warm to him then and his determination to pave over every field in sight didn’t do much to endear him to us subsequently. Seeing a removal van on his demesne, he rushes over to interrogate our removers.
‘Where are they off to, then?’ he demands.
‘I’m not telling you!’ says the boss, a short, powerfully-built man with tattoos all over his muscular arms.
‘Well, you must know!’ Concrete Farmer insists.
‘Mind your own business!’ says our hero. ‘You’re just a bloody nosy old farmer!’
Actually, since the week leading up to the move has been so busy, I barely know where I am myself. The first night in our new home leaves me feeling disorientated and missing all that’s familiar. However, in contrast to the first morning in our previous home when we woke up to find a yellow planning notice on the fence post directly opposite, our first morning in the new home brings sunshine, spring flowers and birdsong.
It continues to be very busy here and I haven’t had very much time for blogging, but here’s a few photos of the new garden, a place, I hope, where I can catch my breath.
View from the front where the sky meets the sea
A brook runs along the boundary
The rooks are building in the trees. Some of them play the kazoo
No excuse for not 'growing our own' here