In which Ruth writes a novel

I don’t know how many books I’ve read in my life, but I can tell you, it’s probably in the tens of thousands. Maybe more. At primary school, it quickly became clear to everyone that I would always be a stranger to the intricacies of maths, the last to be chosen for the netball team and not exactly the life and soul of the party either. I was a shy, unsure child, prone to gazing out of the window and missing the vital instructions issued by the teacher. One thing, though, was totally up my street. I remember sitting at home aged around four while my mother read me a story. It was a large print version of Little Red Riding Hood and I can still remember laughing uncontrollably at the picture of the wolf in retreat (why do children find bottoms so funny?) and then being surprised as the black squiggles on the page re-arranged themselves into words I recognised. There was no stopping me after that.

Sitting in Mrs Hubbard’s class at primary school with a huge number of other short people (we were the baby boomer year), I wrestled with sums and getting all the new rules of school right (no boots in the classroom, no crowding in the Wendy house) but felt right at home with the letters of the alphabet displayed on the wall. D was for duck and there was a cheerful looking mallard, like the ones on the duck pond on the village green, illustrating the fact. Books with lots of pictures and a few easy words were handed out and I raced through them.

From about this age, when a grown-up would bend down and ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would announce, “I am going to be a writer.” Since I was a complete bookworm, this was no surprise.

Primary school finished. I was overcome with emotion on that hot summer day in 1977 and sobbed all the way home. I didn’t stop crying until it was tea-time and cried myself to sleep that night. Something new and scary was coming and I didn’t fancy it much.

None of my friends went to my new school. Seven of us from our enormous class (forty-five sounds about right) had gone to this one, but everyone else had scattered to other high schools. Some of the boys went to Davenant, the faith school up the road, others to the boys’ grammar which was linked to my new school, yet others to West Hatch in Chigwell, a smattering to Epping and Ongar Comp and some to Lucton Boys and Lucton Girls. Back then, there was quite a choice.



School wasn’t great, but one saving grace was the library. Like a literature-hungry locust, I chomped my way through Junior Fiction and started wading through Senior Fiction aged around 12. I could escape from my feelings in there, from the ever-growing suspicion that I didn’t fit in, was no good at anything (apart from English) and was in fact a bit of a waste of space. I stocked my mind with humour, fiction, fact, history, and anything I could lay my hands on. Most lunchtimes, I could be found in the library devouring a book. Looking back, I can see that I was filling my mind with stories, writing techniques and narrative which would stand me in good stead in later life. At the time, reading was an escape from a life which was absolutely no fun at all.

I left Essex in November 1984. I ended up in Exeter, a place which I will always love. There I found people who I still count as dear and valued friends. I started to carve out a life, discover new things, explore. Reading was still my all-time favourite thing. I was always broke, but I’d amble round second-hand bookshops and come home with a carrier bag full of tatty paperbacks. Did I write? No. I had left that childish dream far behind.

In 1993, I got married to a Buckhurst Hill County High School boy and found myself back in Essex. My new job involved boarding a Central Line train every morning, walking through the streets and squares of Bloomsbury (including Gower Street, used as Baker Street in Sherlock – fun fact) until I reached the vast, brutalist concrete structure inhabited by the Department of Psychology at UCL. I loved that job. My boss had just become Head of Department. We hit it off at once and spending my days in a place which was dedicated to learning (plus plenty of recreation after hours, mostly in a pub with sticky carpets which served doubles for £1 on Friday nights), my writing mojo stuck its head back over the parapet.

One day, I was chewing the fat with one of the girls from Educational Psychology on the floor below us. She was doing a master’s degree. I expressed interest and mentioned that I had vaguely thought of doing an English degree myself. We were surrounded by places of learning. UCL covered a fair bit of ground in Bloomsbury, we had Senate House Library next door, Birkbeck a stone’s throw away plus various other establishments. If you really wanted to expand your horizons, this was the place to do it.

Sarah encouraged me to have a go. “Look, you’ve got a really supportive boss, loads of resources on your doorstep and nearly everyone in admin is studying something. Why don’t you give it a try?”

So, I did. I filled in a form with a pen (something we used to do in the olden days) and submitted it to the front office at Birkbeck. A letter arrived the next week inviting me to come and sit an exam. Three thousand other people had had the same idea as me and looking around the hall at everyone scribbling away, I asked myself, “What are you doing here?”



I looked down at the exam paper. Words I knew well leapt off the page. “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.” 1984! Good old George Orwell and his dystopian view of the future. I was off, covering page after page with answers. In due course, another letter arrived telling me that I was through and inviting me to write a piece based on anything I chose. It could be journalism, fiction, sci-fi, romance, in fact any genre I fancied. I thought long and hard. It had to be something that not many people would think of. I plumped for a Martha Gellhorn short story called “Ruby.” I couldn’t read it now, having had the children. It’s probably one of the saddest things I’ve ever read, but on a hot summer’s day, with a notepad balanced on my knees, it seemed like just the job to get me in.

Which it did. Result! There were one hundred and twenty places available on the course and they’d whittled the original three thousand people down to three hundred or so. The next letter invited me to visit the English Department where I would be interviewed by two lecturers. This was getting serious. My boss was his usual chilled out self about the whole process. He wished me luck and told me to take as long as I liked. I turned on the answerphone and marched out on to Bedford Way to make the short trip to Birkbeck.

Arriving in the Department, I inhaled the smell of books and knew I was home. Suddenly, I realised that I wanted this more than I’d ever wanted anything. My name was called, and I found myself in something resembling a moderately spacious broom cupboard occupied by two women. One was clad in a flowing velvet outfit, had long blonde hair and a soulful face. She, it seemed, was a specialist in medieval literature, about which I knew virtually nothing. The other was wearing more modern clothes and was an expert in the field of Old English. I was stumped.

The whole thing was a blur. After fifteen minutes or so, I was ushered out of the cupboard and emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. Back in Psychology, my friends clustered round asking me how it had gone. I genuinely didn’t know, but when yet another letter arrived, I ripped it open to find that I’d been offered a place. I was ecstatic.

Birkbeck is part of the University of London but specialises in offering courses to people who work full-time. I’d do a day’s work in the Department then amble over to Birkbeck two nights a week and soak up lots of lovely, delicious, delightful learning. I loved every minute and made some wonderful friends. Some of the other people on the course were already published writers. I was in awe of them.

I graduated after four years, then left UCL to go to a job at a firm of patent attorneys on the edge of the City. Five years of hard work, a steep learning curve and some speedy character development followed. Again, I was fortunate to meet some lovely people. In the summer of 2003, I departed, expecting my first child. Still not a writer.

Years passed; stuff happened. We were expecting child number two and wanted to move. In the autumn of 2006, with a three-year-old and a six-month-old baby who had recently given up sleeping through the night, we moved into our new house. Looking back (and my apologies for the length of this blog – I may not be posting again for a little while, so look on it as buy one, get one free), I can see that all those millions of words I’d devoured over the years were sitting in the header tank at the back of my brain patiently waiting for a chance to come out.



Life in Wickham was, and is, a rich tapestry. I met people at the toddler groups, in the doctor’s, at preschool, in the park, in the nursery corridor. We nursery mums were pushing babies in prams, juggling recalcitrant toddlers, toting new pregnancy bumps, and carting bags full of nappies, wipes and biscuits around with us. Fourteen years spent at the primary school with three children, a stint running Thursday toddlers, various church activities and general socialising means that when I walk or drive into Wickham, I will absolutely one hundred percent run into someone I know.

In 2008, pregnant with child number three, I was sitting at Ipswich Hospital waiting for a scan when my phone rang. It was a friend from Essex who worked at a large Christian charity who were looking for a freelance, part-time writer to assist the editor of their magazine. “I kept reading the ad,” she said. “I knew it reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who. Then I read the phrase, ‘must be nice, but pushy’ and I realised it was you.”

Naturally, three months pregnant and with two little boys, no family near by and a long history of taking on too much, I jumped at the chance. I got the job and that was the beginning of my writing career. Aged forty-one. It had been a long time coming. I wrote for Stewardship and learned about turning in a certain number of words to a deadline, creating engaging content and coaxing good stories out of interviewees. Then I got another freelance job, then another and another. By the time lock down hit last year, I was in the best position I’d ever been since I went self-employed. It had always been hand to mouth, and sometimes not even that, but in March 2019, I was feeling confident that my freelancing career was really going places.

At the end of March, as lock down restrictions were announced, I watched as one by one, many of my clients shut their operations down and cut back on their spending. I still had some work, but not a huge amount. What I did have was lots and lots of time. I was writing a weekly blog which felt great. I was contributing to a monthly one for the Association of Christian Writers. I wrote and I wrote, and I wrote, and people said nice things.

One day in February last year, I was sitting with my laptop on my knees gazing out of the window (old habits die hard) and chuckling to myself as I formulated my April blog for ACW. I do like to write funny and I thought that the world could probably do with a few more laughs. What if I invented a person who made their living by posting aspirational content across social media platforms? Someone who was an expert at angles, lighting, content and strategy? Someone, in fact, who was the opposite of me. What would she be called?

I thought hard. She would be smug and therefore her name would have to reflect that. A rich, posh woman – Isabella. Yes, that was a good name and gave me the, “I” in “I Am Smug.” Middle name Mary. Last name Smug. “Isabella M Smug.” I pondered it. It didn’t look quite right. Suddenly, I typed two extra letters and suddenly, there she was. Isabella M Smugge, as in Bruges.

I entertained myself by writing the two opening paragraphs. I made them as far from my life as possible. My imaginary woman was musing on her perfect life, her weed-free garden, her gigantic Georgian house, her glittering writing career. I grinned as I posted it and thought no more of it.

I got some great comments. People seemed to like my monstrous creation. In May, I wrote a much more serious piece, but I put Isabella in again. I found that she had something to say. Still, she was two-dimensional, not a real person, simply a device.

That was on 7th May this year. Lots of people I liked and admired, all writers, said that they would like to know more about the world of Isabella M Smugge. A couple suggested she might make a good heroine for a novel. I was flattered but knew that I could never write a novel.

The message which changed the direction of my life came in at eleven minutes past two that day. I was on the veg patch with Mr Leigh, clad in ancient clothes with my hair in plaits, stumping around with a spade and smelling richly of compost. In my defence, we had just put up a poly tunnel and were composting anything we could lay our hands on. My phone pinged. After five minutes or so, I pulled it out of my pocket. Tony Collins, a fellow member of ACW had messaged me.

“Hi Ruth. If you want to work up a proposal for Isabella, I would be pleased to take it to some publishers for you. I am working as a freelance commissioning editor these days. Feel free to contact me.”

I forgot I was a respectable middle-aged matron of the parish and let out a shriek, dropping the spade and bounding over to Mr Leigh, engaged in watering in his seedlings. There was much excited yelping. I took some deep breaths and replied in an enthusiastic yet measured manner. It’s important to note that I had no idea what I was talking about. I hadn’t written fiction since my primary school days. Back came the reply. “Perhaps two sample chapters, given that the tone is of particular importance with humour. I look forward to hearing from you.”

Giddy with excitement, we bounded over to the house like a pair of spring lambs. Tea was made and I was encouraged to sit down, open my laptop and get writing. That was on the Tuesday. By Friday evening, the two chapters were written, and Isabella had turned into a real person with a life, ambitions, deeply buried sadness and a very bad hashtag habit. I hit send and waited to hear back.

I’m going to stop there, since most of you have probably nodded off by now. Isabella is out there. This week, she’s been delivered all round Wickham, Ufford, Melton, Hollesley, Kesgrave, Martlesham and Campsea Ashe. Packages containing her and her merch have gone all over the UK, to the USA, Australia, Norway and France. That little girl, bent over a book about a talking wolf, turned into a woman who has had the most exciting, joyous, thrilling and downright bonkers week of her life. And none of it would have happened without the journey I’ve just described to you.



Isabella was written in Suffolk and she’s of the place. From the minute she pranced into the playground in her designer clothing looking down on everyone, she burst into life. Words cannot express my gratitude to everyone who has taken the time to read her and tell me what they think.

I can now say, “I am a writer” and truly believe it. I wouldn’t be a proper one if I didn’t finish with a quote from someone else. Anton Chekhov in this case. I haven’t read much Russian literature[1] but I really liked this. “Don’t tell me that the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”

It’s been six days since Isabella arrived. What a journey.

Images by Pixabay.

Ruth is a novelist and freelance writer. Her childhood dream of writing a real book came true and now she can hold that book in her hands.




























[1] Hands up, I only read Dr Zhivago in my teens and it was really hard.

We've Got Crabs

 

One of the cardinal rules of blogging is to get and keep your readers’ attention with an attention-grabbing headline. Hence my title this week. Welcome.

 

Autumn is the busy season for the jelly, chutney and preserve makers amongst us. Out comes the River Cottage Book of Preserves by Pam the Jam and a strange and arcane selection of equipment. Maslin pans. Ladles. Spouts and funnels. Muslin. Any jelly maker worth their salt will be off foraging for free hedgerow ingredients.

My favourite jelly is crab apple. It's incredibly easy to make. You pick crab apples and give them a bit of a wash under the tap. You put them in a pan with some water and stew them for a bit. Then you strain the pulp through muslin. In the morning, you’ve got a pan full of syrup which you boil vigorously with sugar. The resulting jelly is a charming pale pink and goes incredibly well with cheese.  

Wild apple trees are often covered with shiny, glossy fruit which simply cries out to be picked. Blackberry bushes are bejewelled with their little black treasures. Crab apples are small, scabby, misshapen and gnarled. They don’t exactly fill you with confidence.

 

I haven’t been able to find any crab apples since we moved to Suffolk. I appealed on Facebook in August and got three replies. (Thanks Carolyn, Nicola and Pat). Earlier this week, on one of the last days of summer, Mr Leigh and myself went down to our neighbour’s farm armed with a tub and some cardboard boxes. It was a beautiful day. The sun glanced coyly through thick growing trees, casting dappled shade on the ground. As we followed Carolyn to the site of the crab apples, bouncing along on the rutted track, we seemed to be leaving the 21^st century behind and meandering back into a quieter, kinder time. Carolyn left us to it and we stood gazing at the branches of the intertwined trees loaded with fruit.

 

For an hour or so, we picked crab apples while birds sang. It was idyllic. The peace and quiet was only punctuated by helicopters flying low overhead (we live near an Army base) and muffled cries of pain as we stung ourselves on nettles and caught ourselves on brambles.

 

I couldn’t tell you how many pounds we picked. Enough to make crab apple jelly to feed an army, for sure. Driving slowly back as the sun slid languorously down in the sky and the shadows lengthened, I gazed out of the car window at the gentle inclines of rich red Suffolk soil and thought about how something which looks completely unprepossessing can be so filled with goodness.

You can’t eat crab apples raw unless you want to take the roof of your mouth off. They’re sour and inedible. They’re not going to win any beauty contests. Once you soften them up and add sugar, however, they’re transformed into a shimmering rose-coloured jelly.

 

Sixteen years ago, I was fairly unprepossessing myself. If you’d told me that I’d be living in this beautiful place with all of Nature’s bounty on my doorstep, I’d have laughed in your face. I needed to be softened up and sweetened a bit.

 

So, now I’ve got crabs and by the end of the week, I should have plenty more. I’m in my element, taking something which doesn’t look that nice and transforming it into something beautiful. Jelly making is a mixture of alchemy, chemistry and a sprinkling of magic. It’s good for the soul and pretty beneficial to the larder too. 

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, published by Instant Apostle, comes out in March 2021. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities and blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at ruththewriter1.

Don’t Squeeze Your Bag

We moved from Essex to Suffolk fourteen years ago, leaving a metropolitan area on the edge of London to come to a hamlet surrounded by fields. Some of the first people I met were my immediate neighbours.

Pretty soon, I found that these ladies baked, made jam and went blackberrying while still managing to work and bring up a family. I felt a touch inferior, the city girl who used shop-bought crumble mix and didn’t know a crab apple from a bullace. My mum had always made jam and chutney, the cupboards filled with neatly labelled jars of preserves. Shop-bought jam never made it on to the table in our house. I had neither the time nor the energy for such goings-on, but once we moved, I began to change.

It was a slow process. I had my work cut out looking after three little children, getting to grips with school and working from home. I cooked from scratch most nights, but I took short cuts too. At toddler group, we’d sit and laugh about what our children were eating that night. My speciality was, “Doigts de poisson avec sauce tomate.”

Time went on. The children grew. By 2013, we were applying for a high school place for our eldest. That September, I popped round to a dear friend’s house in a neighbouring village. I walked into her kitchen to find her wrestling with a large piece of muslin and a pan of bubbling apples.

“Give me a hand with that muslin,” she said, tying a knot in a long piece of twine. We hung it up over a large bowl and she poured the apple mix into the muslin bag. I had no idea what she was making.

Over coffee, she told me it was apple jelly which she’d finish with strips of chilli. “You should try it. You don’t even have to peel and core the apples.”

That sold me. By now a fully paid-up member of the bish bosh bash school of home cuisine, such an easy process appealed to me. I bought a book (The River Cottage Preserves book – excellent) and got to work. I chopped up piles of apples, stewed them with water and strained them through my newly acquired muslin. Satisfyingly, the pulp would drip gently into the bowl, a tranquil backdrop to the frenzy of visiting various school open evenings and wrestling with complex application forms. I was incredibly proud of my first batch and so began my love affair with preserves.

I branched out, making jelly with bullaces, crab apples, medlars, raspberries, blackberries and herbs. Bent over my pans, inhaling fragrant steam and stirring the bubbling mix, I felt like an alchemist, turning fruit into a beautiful, clear, set jelly.

After a couple of years, I had several preserves books on the shelves. All of them gave the same warning. “Never be tempted to squeeze your bag or your jelly will go cloudy.” I never did, although it was hard, watching the slow progress of the juice through the muslin and longing to hurry it up. Like so many things in life, there was a golden rule and breaking it would have led to a spoiled batch.

This autumn, I’ve experimented with different types of hedgerow jelly, all of which have turned out well. My outhouse is full of jars of gleaming ruby, blush pink and deep orange jelly. I love making it, but it has a bittersweet edge.

My dear friend died suddenly at the end of August a few years ago. The grief which hit me felt like an Atlantic breaker, roaring towards me and knocking me off my feet. I cried for months, woke up from dreams in which I found it had all been a mistake and she was still alive, saw books or earrings or scarves that were perfect for her birthday and then remembered with a jolt of pain that she would never wear them again.

It took about two years before the worst of the anguish subsided. I realised that I had to go through it, not around it. I began making jelly again, always remembering her as I stirred, strained and tasted. One day, three and a half years later, I sat down and wrote a poem about her. It just came out. I didn’t even have to think about it. Here it is.

Apple Jelly

“I remember that day so well. September, apples rosy on the trees.

Leaves just starting to turn. The smell of woodsmoke in the air.

I popped round for coffee, as I so often did then.

And there you were, making apple jelly.

The sharp smell of fruit in the air, the sound of bubbling from the stove.

Quick cutting with your sharp knife, pips and stalks and leaves intact.

You flung open the cupboard door to reveal treasure within.

Jar after jar of clear gleaming apple jelly, chilli-jewelled and glowing.

“It’s easy. You should try it,” you said, smiling as I held the muslin bag for you,

Apple pulp dripping luxuriously into the waiting silver bowl.

“No peeling or coring, just cut them up and chuck them in. Boil vigorously.”

We both laughed, liking the idea of a really good vigorous boil.

You had less than three autumns left. Neither of us knew that day.

If we had, my tears would have dropped into the apples and ruined the set.

My sobs would have drowned out the sound of laughter, the scent of coffee.

You were still well, your years uncounted and no end date in sight.

Like that sharp knife quartering the fruit, your days were numbered.

Like the sugar boiling with the fruit, our memories were sweet.

Like the glorious autumn colours, it was all over too soon.

Too soon.

Since then, every year I harvest the apples and forage for fruit.

I line up the chutneys and jams and fruit jellies.

I gaze into the bubbling, fragrant, vigorous boiling and see you as you were.

Smiling in your kitchen, generous, kind, loving till the last.”

She left a wonderful legacy behind her. I wish I could have her over for coffee again, to chat about how the children are doing, wander over to the veg patch and try some of my jelly. But I can’t. That time is gone. I suppose, like the jelly, my memories are composed of the sharp, bitter bite of apples and the sweet unifying taste of sugar. Sour sweet. But never cloudy.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and novelist. She is married with three children, one husband, four budgies, six quail, eight chickens and a kitten. Her first novel, “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge” is coming out in March and she has another work in process. She writes for a number of small businesses and charities. Ruth is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like – oh hang on….

For no particular reason, the moment I first rode on my bike without falling off came into my mind the other day. It was a hot summer in Theydon Bois, and I was probably around 9. My sister and I were round at the Watkins girls’ in Barn Mead. Their garden featured an excellent sturdy seesaw with not one but two seats on each end, and a paved path that went all the way round the house. I’d been very close to success for several days, and I can still feel the joy as I wobbled off on yet another circuit only to realise that Mr Watkins had let go of my bike. From then on, I rode it everywhere.

I got a new bike for my birthday last summer but was too busy to use it. A couple of weeks ago, my daughter suggested that we all ride over to my elderly parents rather than driving, so now we regularly make the three-mile circuit down to theirs and back again, sometimes taking a longer detour to increase the amount of exercise. They rely on us for the shopping and to feed the tortoise, which the children love doing.

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve always struggled with living in the moment. Due to self-isolation and lock down, I’ve suddenly got a lot better at it. Yesterday afternoon, cycling down the lane past the bluebell wood, I came over all lyrical as the beauties of nature smacked me right between the eyes.

 Perched majestically on my gel saddle (middle age has its perks), I’ve got time to notice the sights, sounds and smells in a way you don’t in the car. Our bluebell wood is famous for miles around, carpeting the ground with a heady cloak of deep violet blooms. Golden dandelions are embroidering the grass verges along with celandines and oxlips. Birdsong is louder than the gentle hum of the A12 running along in a cutting adjacent to the bluebell wood. Whereas usually you’d have to stop for cars every few minutes, now the only people we see are other cyclists (“Afternoon! Lovely day”), walkers and runners.

Whizzing down the lane, we get to the sharp bend to the left past the nursery on the left and the Rosery on the right. The landscape opens out so that we can see the spire of All Saints soaring into the cloudless blue sky. There’s a dead blackbird lying sadly on the verge as we freewheel down The Street, Pettistree proper. Past the kennels, I notice they are completely silent. Not a yap, a bark or a woof to be heard.

Round a sharp bend to the left and we’re sailing past Dick and Rita’s Victorian barn, Jim mowing his front lawn and not practising the bagpipes and the Greyhound, our lovely local pub. Turning right down Walnuts Lane, Dave and Cath’s wisteria is coming into bloom. On either side of the lane, rich Suffolk soil stretches out, full of promise. The intoxicating scent of rapeseed drifts across the fields and in the distance, there are the scattered dwellings of Thong Hall Road.

The backs of the houses in The Crescent are getting closer. Zooming past them and shouting a greeting to two passing walkers, we reach the front of the primary school, which at this time of day should be alive with children and parents walking and driving home. It’s silent, but the beautiful tree by the Nursery entrance is frothing with white blossom like a spring bride. Right turn into Orchard Place where the verges are studded with daisies (so called because they were known as “days-eyes” in medieval times, opening as day dawned and closing again as the sun went down).

A year ago, we moved Mum and Dad from their home 85 miles away to their bungalow just a mile from ours. Thank God we did. Orchard Place is a true community, in the real sense of the word. When Dad had a fall last year, I rushed over to find Rex, one of the neighbours, sitting on his bed, patting his hand and comforting him. Tony and Sheila next door are always there for a chat and a cup of tea (not at the moment, of course). Margaret, and Beth and Alan down the road are friends and everyone in the road looks out for everyone else.

We drop the shopping off and have a chat, which is hard because of social distancing and Dad’s increasing deafness. “Ruth’s brought some cake, dear.” “What’s that? Snake?” “No, CAKE. SHE’S BROUGHT A CAKE!” No doubt the whole of Orchard Place can hear our bellowed conversations, but they’re probably having similar ones.

On the way back down Walnuts Lane, we run into our friends Clare and Lana walking the dogs. From a safe distance, we have a conversation full of laughter and jokes. It’s great.   

The sky is still a clear, startling blue and the blossom-clad trees arch up against it, their long slender arms clothed all in white. Wood pigeons coo seductively to each other from the trees. Pedalling back down our lane, a pair of dog walkers do the obligatory leap sideways when they see us coming and we direct them to the circular walk past Loudham Hall down our lane and through the farmyard.

If you’re still with me, you might be wondering why I’ve written about a bike ride in the Suffolk countryside. I’ll tell you. It’s because it’s taken a pandemic to make me realise that community means different things to different people, but to me, it means valuing the people I know, relying on my friends and neighbours and knowing that they can rely on me and truly taking in the beauties of the place where we live. Trundling along on a bike, you can’t help but see the tiny details of the trailing pink flowers on a wall, the tough stalks of yarrow and the carpet of wood anemones on the grass verges.

When this is all over, if I haven’t learned to slow down, to appreciate where I live and to enjoy the moment, then you are fully within your rights to tell me I’m an idiot. This enforced isolation, slow living, simpler routines have their drawbacks, but I’m determined to find the good and the encouraging. I live in Suffolk with its big skies and open fields, and I know how fortunate I am. But community is everywhere if you look for it, and I hope more than I can say that when this is all over, we don’t forget about it.

Please, stay safe and well and enjoy your community, wherever it is.

 Images by Pixabay