Things that go bump in the night

Dear Vicky

So sorry that we haven't been able to make your lovely idea of 'art in the woods' a reality so far. Life seems to be so busy at the moment with Post grad work, real work, child-taxiing and the endless ebb and flow of loss adjustors as the house sinks ever further into the Sussex clay... But let's not worry about waiting for a sunny afternoon when life finally settles down. The rain doesn't put me off at all; if one of the kids - or you with your magic camera or paintbrushes - could capture some of the colours of autumn, we could have our own exhibition. Poetry and paintings.

I haven't quite got around to your sprout recipes either, but as always, I love your enthusiasm!

Funny you should mention the rats. It's that time of year when they start looking around for a suitable winter home. Last year, we had an infestation - I think they liked the under floor heating in our former eco home. The rats of Broomham Lane will be taking their stash of acorns a bit further when they realise that we're not going to heat this house in the way that globally warmed-Dave did.

In fact it's not just climate change that's keeping me mean on the heating front; the prospect of filling up with a £350 tank full of oil every month as the frost covers the ground is actually quite terrifying. I remember when we moved in last Feb and the oil ran out almost immediately that we went to bed in our jeans. You did too, didn't you? Neither of us realised that in the country, you don't wait five days as we did for the oil man to arrive; you pop down to the local garage with your 20 litre cans and fill up with paraffin rather than wearing all your clothes to bed.

Anyway, why don't shops sell proper jumpers anymore? Not even the charity shops with their old lady cast offs seem to be able to help. (I've just remembered your top tip about charity buying down the Sham. I wonder if the ladies of Hellingly et al wear 2 ply?). I've found myself get very grumpy with small children in over-heated houses who come over here to play and complain about the cold. I know you're on my side about this one, and force yours into layers and rugs on knees.

Heating is only a dilemna when Wendy comes down to look after the dogs when we go away. From a hot London house to the reality of country living, it's a bit of a way for her in many ways. She comes, not just for the dogs, but the transformative powers of the woods and the solitude of the house which is the best medicine when you're going through a divorce, but since she's been doing it, her emails are beginning to make her look battier than me. She sent me a link about Weill's Disease after being kept awake at night by 'scurrying sounds' and suggested that I get the pest controller in before she came down the next time. Actually, it was more of an ultimatum. I told her (after the pest controller had come) that it wasn't rats but mice, a natural part of country life if your house is surrounded by oaks, but she still insisted on us napalming them. I'm not convinced that we can't all live together, but she refused to open the dog food cupboard after my warning that she might come face to face with a mouse.

But it was when she raised the subject of jumping ticks that I wondered if she had lost all traces of her country roots. Correct me if I'm wrong but ticks neither like human blood nor jump. I'm constantly deftly twisting them out of the dogs' necks, and I confess to finding it all rather satisfying. I do it by hand now (18 months ago, I took one of the pups to the vet rather than do it myself!). I hold the revolting little thing just long enough for its legs to appear. It's not just to make sure that I've got rid of the whole thing but to watch it try to walk away. Only then do I squash it... Ah the strange joys of living in the country. But trying to persuade Wendy that these things are not going to bury themselves in her warmest places is an uphill battle...

Right, off to the big city to look for a car that doesn't consume the world's remaining oil reserves. I've even been a little seduced by the new low fuel economy high drives that I always used to secretly hiss at at the school gates. Why do I feel that just because I spend my life dodging tractors in narrow country lanes I now need a 4x4?? I'm forcing myself to think Ford Focus. Gone are the days of Saabs and Volvos. The sheer amount of driving means that the future of the planet is in serious danger if my kids continue having a social life. As a bio-fuelled Skoda driver, I know you'll forgive my forsaking style for pragmatism.

Enjoy the rain this weekend; at least you can spend the time you would have put into watering on a good book.
xxx

Sprout Pasta

Dear Gilly,


I write - with months of sunshine and births and deaths and growth and decay between now and our last letter and all I can remember are snippets of what's happened in that time. That's terrible, and I have resolved not to let weeks slip by without some record of them, or else they are just scritchy etchings on my memory; a sensation; a smudgy vision.


I have three photographs of my grandmother on my wall. Three smiles at three different times. I study them carefully and in two of the pictures she is quite clearly happy. In the most beautiful one though, the smile barely disguises the moments before. I can only make my own story up for her, and how wrong that will most likely be. So, in my view words are the thing. We all write more than we have ever done before perhaps...texting, tweeting, emailing, msn, facebook...hours and hours spent giving each other insights into the moment, but then it's all gone - into the ether, nothing left over. Did you listen to the radio this morning? Van Goughs letters - all however many hundreds of them - have been collected together and put on the internet for all to read. In the end, they are what is left...his art is what we know him for, but his letters will form what we know of him.

So, our Indian Summer has ended. Three weeks of low golden sun and rainlessness. But today the rain has come. There is condensation on the mirrors. I woke up in an off mood. The Today Programme was on the radio so I opened the curtains to let in the light and there was nothing but a sort of pallor that I could look out on but which did not manage to filter into our room at all. The clouds were hanging low like udders, and the trees, still darkly leafed, look bloated and tired. So I trudged from bathroom to bedrooms waking up the children. It isn't cold but the quality of light made me fumble around for my candlewick dressing gown for comfort - it truly is a bed-spread and not a nice thing. I'd left my wellies in the yard overnight so I tipped out the water and poked my bare feet into them trying to tell myself that this was nothing to be drippy about and to think about soldiers in trenches and what their feet had to put up with...but all that did was to bring to mind the giant rats that might have snuggled up in my boots overnight. In the gloom I went to let the chicken out and feed the pigs with Peggy the puppy lolloping along at my side and I had the most fleeting yearning for an extra hour in bed, underfloor heating and a power shower.

The other day I tackled an old pig shed near the house to try and reap a clutch of eggs I'd discovered. I used a strange rake-like implement to try and gently haul them in from the furthest corner and as I did so, feet slightly parted for stability, a Thing the size of a weazel shot between them and then another so that I was dancing on the spot with dread and fear. Dave ran to get his pop-gun and we had a small difference of opinion about trying to point-blank shoot things that move at the speed of light with something that takes several minutes to load and then shoots at a squew. A few days ago one of our hens was in a very poorly way. There was nothing for it but to put it out of its misery and neither of us are at neck-wringing proficiency yet, so Dave said to me, 'Can you just hold the chicken while I shoot it?'...

So, in the pig stye we went back to the rake and in the end we found twenty bad eggs and five giant rats which each had Dave whooping with joy as they scarpered out of the pig stye, through the leaves, straight for me!

This morning my friend Charlotte came to help. She comes on Wednesday and Friday mornings. We drink tea, gossip and work and it doesn't feel like work at all. We only had a little time so we started on the beans, taking down the bean poles, stripping off the beans that can be saved for seed and leaving the roots in the ground for their nitrogenous value. In the next bed we noticed that the sprouts were looking a bit lacey. We searched for caterpillars and found two and then we noticed that many of the sprouts were ready to pick.

I love sprouts. I always liked the idea of them as elfin cabbages when I was a child and can't quite understand why so many people can't stand them. Dave had come home for lunch with a friend and I had Monty off school with a cough. The fridge was beleaguered with nothing much more than a rind of parmesan, a couple of rashers of bacon and half a pot of creme fraiche to hand. Monty asked, 'What's for lunch?' 'Sprouts!' I beamed, and he ran away howling and clutching his stomach. So, with little choice I made the following -

Sprout Pasta (this, I realize is not a good name, but you get the gist)

serves 4; Prep time: 15 mins; cooking time: 15 mins

Ingredients

4 rashers of bacon, thinly sliced

2 cloves of garlic crushed with salt and olive oil

A couple of handfuls of Brussels sprouts cleaned, halved and briefly boiled

4 good handfuls of dried pasta, boiled

Creme fraiche - enough to give a creamy consistency

Grated parmesan

Finely chopped parsley

black pepper

Method

Boil the pasta and at the same time fry the bacon in a little of the garlicky oil. Plunge the sprouts into boiling water for a maximum of 5 minutes. Add the garlic and oil to the bacon pan for just a minute or two and stir so that the garlic cooks but doesn't burn. When the pasta is cooked, drain it well and add to the bacon. Quickly drain the sprouts and add to the bacon pan too. Stirring all together add the creme fraiche, parmesan cheese and parsley. Season with pepper (not salt). Serve immediately in bowls.

Maybe I should think of a more enticing name, but I have to say that Monty asked for it again at supper.

I must go now and think about the next meal. It will involve beetroot.

Much love, V xx