Wednesday 29 February 2012

Cannabis farm behind our house


Inside the cannabis farm behind our house
There was some excitement in the village yesterday when police raided the old garage by the windmill and discovered a cannabis farm in the workshop.


There was a video on the Evening Telegraph website which showed the inside of the workshop and it was full of plants being grown under special lights and with feeding/watering systems all in place - quite an operation all in all.


They arrested two men inside the workshop.


It's amazing that we didn't know anything about it. Clearly it's been going for some time and, considering that it's only 50 yards behind our house, we've not seen a thing. There's a house right next door to it on the Causeway and the windmill adjoins to garage. His drive runs right alongside the shed. How on earth did they keep it secret for so long?


Here's the link to the Evening Telegraph story: http://bit.ly/z9YJA3

Freezing, heatwave and drought


The weather has been as unpredictable as ever. Two weeks ago it was -15 deg C at Holbeach, only about 12 miles away, and this weekend, we were looking at +15 or 16 degrees C - a swing of 30 degrees! It's gone from unseasonally cold to well above average for the month.


The garden, which was covered in freezing snow two weeks ago, is now a picture of blooming spring bulbs, with the Dutch iris and crocus in full bloom last weekend and a surprising number of bees visiting the crocus flowers which were wide open. I was pleased to see that. This summer, I have planned to plant a wider range of nectar-bearing plants to attract bees and other insects, so we seem to have got off to a good start.


The warm weather also co-incided with an announcement that we are now officially in a drought. Soil is immensely dry and we now have less rainfall per head than Morocco (they may be drier, but we have more people).


On Saturday, it was the Thorney Society annual dinner and dance. We sat on a table with Janet and Andrew, Pauline and Chris, Jane and Alan Crossland and Jane and Ian Scott. The Bedford Hall was pretty full when we got there and I had to queue at the bar for what seemed like ages to get a drink. By the time I'd got it, everyone had sat down and left me a space between Pauline and Janet. It was quite a nice meal and a good chance to catch up with janet, who I haven't seen for some time.


We had said we'd go to the Ireby Folk Festival with them, but I'd booked to go to the Isle of man for the start of TT week with Tom. Janet and Andrew have offered to take Margaret up and invited her to stay at their cottage. That will be nice for her. We just need to get Gravel and Holly settled in kennels. Margaret is going to try a new place, which is run by Edward and Vicky Gee's daughter in law. It looks good on the website and we'll try the two dogs in there for a nice and see how they get on.


We didn't stay too late at the dance; Margaret was not in the mood for dancing - she said she had a dead leg, possibly a side-effect of the strong dose of statins that she's taking.


Sunday was a particularly fine day and I was up quite early. I was having a nose around the garden with the dogs when I saw Margaret next door filling up her bird feeders. She asked if I was going for a walk and I said I'd give her a shout when we left after breakfast. Holly and Gravel were a bit puzzled as to what I was doing, but they're always happy to have someone else on their walk, even if my sister slows the pace a bit.


No sign of the muntjac (I've not seen them for a little while now), I wonder if Holly scared them off chasing them across the fields a few weeks back? We did see a couple of Buzzards, quite a few hares (including one that Holly chased across a field and a half - talk about hopeless cause) and a couple of owls. The dogs' noses seemed to be full of smells and Holly, in particular was covering large areas of ground. At the turn-around point, neither dog wanted to turn around.Gravel went on ahead and was worked one stretch of ditch putting up half a dozen pheasants and Holly was way off to the south two fields away. Both eventually came back, but then Holly was away again. We waited for some time, but she showed no sign of coming back and so I put Gravel on the lead and went to get her. We bumpred into her in the long grass by the side of a dyke and she looked very surprised to see us, but came staright away and went on her lead. We'd been out for a couple of hours by this time.


Next morning Gravel was really stiff; he seemed reluctant to get out of his basket - I know just how he feels. Margaret says he's been sneaking into the office to snooze on the sofa any chance he gets.


Sunday afternoon, I spent a couple of hours sawing wood. I'd pruned back the holly, corkscrew hazel and laurel on Saturday, so cleared that and also some old garden chairs. We're getting quite a pile a wood now.

Tuesday 21 February 2012

Engagement, ski trips and misplaced wallet


The big news of the weekend was that Max and Inna are engaged. Now what does a fearless diarist write here? Do I write the truth and say that Max popped the question six months ago and it's taken her this long to say yes, or do I go for the traditional - we're so pleased for the two of them.


Actually, both are true. I'm not quite sure if it's as long as six months (Max says three), but she has taken some time to deliver the 'yes' that Max wanted to hear. I know that he was very disappointed in the first instance but I admire them both for the way they've handled it. Inna for not taking the easy option of saying yes when she clearly wasn't sure that an engagement and a wedding, rather than a relationship, was what she wanted and Max for the way he's handled his disappointment, properly valued what they have together and not thrown his toys out of the pram.


Inna is very sensible, smart and hard-working. They should make a very good team. I used to tease all the boys that they should find a nice girl from the village; that way I wouldn't have to be mithered with running their girlfriends home - they could walk. I certainly didn't think that Max would end up marrying a girl from Russia - a Muscovite. Adding some Russian-Jewish blood will certainly make the family tree a bit more interesting.


Inna came to the UK, to Leicester, when she was about 10. She had no English when she arrived (except a schoolgirl smattering) and yet was able to get good exam results, a good degree from a first division university and land a job with the Audit Commission, keeping tabs on the British government. That's not a bad achievement. I haven't asked her father Mikhail about why they left Russia, but I guess that when Mikhail Gorbachev came to power and began the liberalisation process that was to lead to the break-up of the USSR, he saw his chance was coming and the further relaxation of contraints by Boris Yeltsin allowed him and his family to leave and build a better life.


So we have an engagement to celebrate and everyone is getting excited about buying a hat.


That was the good news of the weekend, but I spent the whole of it worrying about my missing wallet. I often take my wallet out of my pocket or bag and pop it in the desk drawer and on Friday I'd done that, but then forgotten to pick it up when I left. I realised when I got off the train at Peterborough, but wasn't sure whether I'd had my pocket picked, dropped it on the train or left it at work. I was pretty sure that it was the latter and it's such a chore to cancel all your cards and get new ones, that I decided to take a chance. You'll understand the feeling of relief this morning when I opened my drawer and there it was!


Sam has been busy organising the ski holiday and he seems to enjoy that task - I'm not sure why because it would seem such a chore to me. Anyway, he's booked a chalet in a French village called Bourg-Saint-Maurice, close to Les Arc, organised ferry crossing and ski lessons (for me) - all over the internet.


It looks good and I'm getting quite excited. I hope I do better than I did last time. Sam has put me in Group 1 - they are streamed 0-5 and 0 is for complete beginners, so my plan is to pretend I've only had a couple of lessons and then I'll look like a quick learner. It could all go badly wrong! Also the ski lessons are in the afternoon, which is less stressful. Last year, they started at 9am and it was always a rush to get breakfast and be down in time. The chalet maid had a busy morning sorting out the breakfast and it always seemed to be my packed lunch she made last.


The chalet is in a non-ski village, but there is a furnicular railway in the centre which takes you up to Les Arc. That's quite nice because ski resorts, especially the new, popular and more affordable ones, aren't always the nicest places. Hopefully, prices in Bourg will be more reasonable than in the resorts proper. Sam is hoping to have a few months skiing and travelling when he's finally qualified as a GP and has been able to save up some cash. I think he has his eye on this place as a likely long-term let.


So we're off in just over a week's time - early ferry from Dover and then an eight-hour drive. It's a long time, but it's nicer than flying, which is an altogether degrading and miserable experience these days. Chris at work has a friend who has just bought a chalet near Chamonix and they are off there just before Christmas. If it's good I might ask him if we could get a deal on it.


Pauline and Chris came round for supper on Saturday night. It's just a week after poor old Gremmie died and I think Pauline (and even Chris) is missing her. It's a terrible feeling not having a dog around. When Jack had to be put down I was forever going to pat his head and it wasn't there. We got Gravel only a few weeks later and he's even more 'pattable' than Jack was.

Monday 20 February 2012

The joys of motorcycling


This post is a bit of a cheat, as most of the material is lifted directly from T E Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia) writing about riding his Brough Superior motorcycle in Lincolnshire.

The extract below is from The Mint, which Lawrence wrote while based at RAF Cranwell between 1925-26. His Brough Superior was the fastest vehicle on the road at that time. It would have been good for 100mph and the SS100 came with a guarantee that it would achieve that speed.

Lawrence christened the bike Boanerges, which means 'sons of thunder'. According to Mark 3:17 that was the name given by Jesus to James and John to reflect their impetuous nature.

As a motorcycle rider, I recognise the joy in this piece of writing, although I've never raced biplanes on my BMW. I guess the road he describes is the A15 which follows the route of Ermine Street (the Roman road) along this stretch and is dead straight undulating up and down on the edge of the Wolds. I would often ride this route home from Howden on my BMW R1150GS, which also had a name - Beaky. It's a very different road today - solid white lines mean overtaking is restricted, lorries and caravans act as mobile road blocks, there are a string of speed cameras and a white van waiting impatiently to pull out on you at every junction (or so it seems, sometimes). However, this shared experience 80 years apart puts me absolutely in touch with Lawrence. When he talks about feeling the power as the throttle opened I know exactly what he's talking about, as will any motorcyclist. Four wheels move the body, two wheels move the soul.

I wonder what Lawrence would have made of Beaky? A twistgrip throttle instead of a lever would have amazed him and foot-operated gear-change (with six gears) would be mind-boggling, so say nothing of decent suspension, disc brakes with ABS and over 90bhp. I think he'd have been amazed at electric starting as he clearly struggled with a kick-start. Mind you, petrol at almost £6 a gallon might have curtailed his rather extended shopping trips - although there was no Tesco in those days.

I think Beaky would wipe the floor with Boanerges. I'd have the drop on acceleration, although Lawrence would have kept it pinned long after I'd backed off to make sure the junction was clear.

T. E. Lawrence, The Mint

PART III



16:  THE ROAD

The extravagance in which my surplus emotion expressed itself lay on the road. So long as roads were tarred blue and straight; not hedged; and empty and dry, so long I was rich. Nightly I'd run up from the hangar, upon the last stroke of work, spurring my tired feet to be nimble. The very movement refreshed them, after the day-long restraint of service. In five minutes my bed would be down, ready for the night: in four more I was in breeches and puttees, pulling on my gauntlets as I walked over to my bike, which lived in a garage-hut, opposite. Its tyres never wanted air, its engine had a habit of starting at second kick: a good habit, for only by frantic plunges upon the starting pedal could my puny weight force the engine over the seven atmospheres of its compression.

Boanerges' first glad roar at being alive again nightly jarred the huts of Cadet College into life. 'There he goes, the noisy bugger,' someone would say enviously in every flight. It is part of an airman's profession to be knowing with engines: and a thoroughbred engine is our undying satisfaction. The camp wore the virtue of my Brough like a flower in its cap. Tonight Tug and Dusty came to the step of our hut to see me off. 'Running down to Smoke, perhaps?' jeered Dusty; hitting at my regular game of London and back for tea on fine Wednesday afternoons.

Boa is a top-gear machine, as sweet in that as most single-cylinders in middle. I chug lordlily past the guard-room and through the speed limit at no more than sixteen. Round the bend, past the farm, and the way straightens. Now for it. The engine's final development is fifty-two horse-power. A miracle that all this docile strength waits behind one tiny lever for the pleasure of my hand.

Another bend: and I have the honour of one of England's straightest and fastest roads. The burble of my exhaust unwound like a long cord behind me. Soon my speed snapped it, and I heard only the cry of the wind which my battering head split and fended aside. The cry rose with my speed to a shriek: while the air's coldness streamed like two jets of iced water into my dissolving eyes. I screwed them to slits, and focused my sight two hundred yards ahead of me on the empty mosaic of the tar's gravelled undulations.

Like arrows the tiny flies pricked my cheeks: and sometimes a heavier body, some house-fly or beetle, would crash into face or lips like a spent bullet. A glance at the speedometer: seventy-eight. Boanerges is warming up. I pull the throttle right open, on the top of the slope, and we swoop flying across the dip, and up-down up-down the switchback beyond: the weighty machine launching itself like a projectile with a whirr of wheels into the air at the take-off of each rise, to land lurchingly with such a snatch of the driving chain as jerks my spine like a rictus.

Once we so fled across the evening light, with the yellow sun on my left, when a huge shadow roared just overhead. A Bristol Fighter, from Whitewash Villas, our neighbour aerodrome, was banking sharply round. I checked speed an instant to wave: and the slip-stream of my impetus snapped my arm and elbow astern, like a raised flail. The pilot pointed down the road towards Lincoln. I sat hard in the saddle, folded back my ears and went away after him, like a dog after a hare. Quickly we drew abreast, as the impulse of his dive to my level exhausted itself.

The next mile of road was rough. I braced my feet into the rests, thrust with my arms, and clenched my knees on the tank till its rubber grips goggled under my thighs. Over the first pot-hole Boanerges screamed in surprise, its mud-guard bottoming with a yawp upon the tyre. Through the plunges of the next ten seconds I clung on, wedging my gloved hand in the throttle lever so that no bump should close it and spoil our speed. Then the bicycle wrenched sideways into three long ruts: it swayed dizzily, wagging its tail for thirty awful yards. Out came the clutch, the engine raced freely: Boa checked and straightened his head with a shake, as a Brough should.

The bad ground was passed and on the new road our flight became birdlike. My head was blown out with air so that my ears had failed and we seemed to whirl soundlessly between the sun-gilt stubble fields. I dared, on a rise, to slow imperceptibly and glance sideways into the sky. There the Bif was, two hundred yards and more back. Play with the fellow? Why not? I slowed to ninety: signalled with my hand for him to overtake. Slowed ten more: sat up. Over he rattled. His passenger, a helmeted and goggled grin, hung out of the cock-pit to pass me the 'Up yer' RAF randy greeting.

They were hoping I was a flash in the pan, giving them best. Open went my throttle again. Boa crept level, fifty feet below: held them: sailed ahead into the clean and lonely country. An approaching car pulled nearly into its ditch at the sight of our race. The Bif was zooming among the trees and telegraph poles, with my scurrying spot only eighty yards ahead. I gained though, gained steadily: was perhaps five miles an hour the faster. Down went my left hand to give the engine two extra dollops of oil, for fear that something was running hot: but an overhead Jap twin, super-tuned like this one, would carry on to the moon and back, unfaltering.

We drew near the settlement. A long mile before the first houses I closed down and coasted to the cross-roads by the hospital. Bif caught up, banked, climbed and turned for home, waving to me as long as he was in sight. Fourteen miles from camp, we are, here: and fifteen minutes since I left Tug and Dusty at the hut door.

I let in the clutch again, and eased Boanerges down the hill along the tram-lines through the dirty streets and up-hill to the aloof cathedral, where it stood in frigid perfection above the cowering close. No message of mercy in Lincoln. Our God is a jealous God: and man's very best offering will fall disdainfully short of worthiness, in the sight of Saint Hugh and his angels.

Remigius, earthy old Remigius, looks with more charity on and Boanerges. I stabled the steel magnificence of strength and speed at his west door and went in: to find the organist practising something slow and rhythmical, like a multiplication table in notes on the organ. The fretted, unsatisfying and unsatisfied lace-work of choir screen and spandrels drank in the main sound. Its surplus spilled thoughtfully into my ears.

By then my belly had forgotten its lunch, my eyes smarted and streamed. Out again, to sluice my head under the White Hart's yard-pump. A cup of real chocolate and a muffin at the teashop: and Boa and I took the Newark road for the last hour of daylight. He ambles at forty-five and when roaring his utmost, surpasses the hundred. A skittish motor-bike with a touch of blood in it is better than all the riding animals on earth, because of its logical extension of our faculties, and the hint, the provocation, to excess conferred by its honeyed untiring smoothness. Because Boa loves me, he gives me five more miles of speed than a stranger would get from him.

At Nottingham I added sausages from my wholesaler to the bacon which I'd bought at Lincoln: bacon so nicely sliced that each rasher meant a penny. The solid pannier-bags behind the saddle took all this and at my next stop a (farm) took also a felt-hammocked box of fifteen eggs. Home by Sleaford, our squalid, purse-proud, local village. Its butcher had six penn'orth of dripping ready for me. For months have I been making my evening round a marketing, twice a week, riding a hundred miles for the joy of it and picking up the best food cheapest, over half the country side.


Feedback from Mike Davis: I have a brilliant DVD made a few years back by a Dutch fan of Lawrence and Brough Superiors. I can really recommend it as a purchase. Here is a link:

Monday 13 February 2012

Gremlin calls it a day




It has been a happy and sad weekend; we had a nice trip to Sam and Lucy's on Sunday, but Saturday ended on a bit of a sad note when Gremlin, Pauline and Chris' Staffordshire Bull Terrier, died.


I'd taken pity on our two dogs and let them sleep upstairs on Friday night, so my day started quite early with a face-licking from Holly at some ungodly hour. Actually, after a bit of a fuss and realising I was not for rising, she settled down and we all had a nice snooze until 7am.


Look at the lump of ice attached to Gravel's
eyelashes. Click on the picture to enlarge
The night had been very cold, it was -16 deg C at Holbeach, about 12 miles away and had been -5 deg on Friday night when I came home. The cold night had created a magical haw frost and all the trees and hedges were covered with a thick coating which looked beautiful on a misty morning.


I took the dogs for an early walk across the fen and it was still hard going in the snow, which had been added to during the week and was now frozen hard and very crunchy underfoot. It was deep enough to be troublesome across the fields and I had to pick my way carefully to find the thinnest covering. Holly and Gravel were not so discerning - they just plunge through, but it was so cold that they soon became covered in powdery frost themselves, while Gravel developed a lump of ice on his eyelashes. Their main problem was that ice was building up in their paws, under their pads and also between their toes. Spaniels have webbed feet, with a thick flap of skin joining their toes. I'm not sure if it's an adaptation to help them walk on snow (like snowshoes) or whether it's to improve their swimming. Wolves also have webbed feet to help them manage in deep snow.


Snow dogs - Gravel covered in frost after his walk. He's
never happier than when it's freezing cold.
Problem for both dogs was that the snow was compacting under their feet and forming large balls of ice. Both of them were stopping regularly to bite off the ice and spit it out. I guess that once they started this, the wet from their mouths would attract fresh snow and they'd pretty quicky ice up again.


When they got back home, they looked so funny that we had to take their picture. I just about managed it, but they were not keen on sitting still for more than five seconds. It sounds crazy, but the garden was so lovely (and I was quite warm after`my brisk walk) that I opened up the summerhouse and we sat in there and had a cup of tea before breakfast. There were not many birds around, but I scattered some seed on the show in the big border and there was soon a little gathering. We hadn't seen any wildlife on the fen. It would have been there, but keeping its distance and a thin mist limited visibility to about 100 yards.


Later, we were shopping in Whittlesey and had just bought all the ingredients for a comforting stew when I got a message from Chris Coakley inviting us round that evening. I called him back when I got in and it seems that a dinner had been planned at Jane and Ian Scott's in Eye (we hadn't been asked). Alan and Jane Crossland were also going, along with the Coakleys, but the dinner had been switched to Pauline and Chris' house at the last minute because Gremlin had been to the vets for an operation on Friday and was to come home that day. They didn't want to leave her home alone after having surgery.


Gremlin is 14 and has not been in good health for a few years - she's all lumps, bumps and bald patches where bits of fur have been trimmed for injections. Having said that, we looked after her for a weekend a couple of weeks ago and she was happy enough sniffing around the garden with our two dogs. She liked to roll on her back on the lawn and also to make herself a little nest under the bushes. There's one patch in the ivy under the corkscrew hazel where she always goes to sit.


She had a growth on a hind leg for a few months and it's gradually been getting bigger. Apparently, it had grown substantially in the last week, so they'd decided it would need to be reduced. The operation had not gone well and she'd lost a lot of blood, had suffered a heart attack on the operating table and required an injection of adrenaline. She did look very sorry for herself, but sat up and greeted us when we went through. However, during the meal, she became distressed and had another seizure. Pauline, understandably, was very upset and we said our farewells so they could tend to her. It was pretty obvious she was on her last legs, so it was no surprise that next day we got a text message to say she'd died and they were going to bury her in the memorial garden that they'd created in memory of Pauline's mum Marion.


I can remember how devastated we were when we had Jack put down and how much I missed having a dog in the house. It's always difficult knowing when a dog needs to go. With Jack, we thought he'd had his chips, but then he'd pull through. Eventally, we decided his quality of life wasn't good enough and we should have him put down. That was one hard journey going to the vet. Jack had jumped out of the car and had been excited sniffing around the car park. I was quite comforted that he'd been happy just before he died (a bit like his old self), but I also thought that maybe I'd been a bit hasty in dispatching him.



Pauline and Chris have taken a different view with Gremlin. She's had lots of quite major operations and a lot of money spent (£1,000 on Friday for the operation on her leg). In the end it was an operation too far for poor old Gremmie.


Above and below: Max climbing in the Cairngorms.
Earlier in the night Max had called from Aviemore where he's on a guided winter climbing holiday. He'd driven up on Friday and stayed over at a Days Inn lodge near Lockerbie on Friday night before setting off early to complete his journey. The conditions were not icy (it was warmer in the Cairngorms than it was in Thorney) but there was good snow and so he was happy with his day's activity. Wind and snow were forecast for Sunday, but he said the guide knew a route that they'd be able to do.


Sunday morning was much milder (just above freezing and the mist had gone). I walked the dogs across the fen and this time there was no worries about icing up of paws. On out way back, I spotted the herd on muntjac to the north of the path. The stupid creatures, instead of heading east and cutting behind us, kept parellel and just in front of us and then decided to cut across to get to the open fen. To make matters worse, they stopped on the path about 100 yards ahead of me with Gravel charging up the ditch towards them. When he was about 30 yards away, they broke and ran across the field. Gravel emerged from the ditch and somehow didn't spot them (I think he depends so much on his nose that he doesn't use his eyes). Anyway, he certainly caught their scent stopped dead and then turned north; thankfully the deer were heading south. by the time he'd realised he was on a diminishing scent, they'd made good their escape. Holly, who was by my side on the path, saw them and gave chase. Lord knows what she'd have done if she'd caught one, but they can keep ahead of a spaniel and she gave up at the end of the field and headed back. Nice to see a large barn owl hunting around Medicine Pond; it flew right over my head and I got a really good view of it.


We had some breakfast, packed the car and set off for Sam's about 10.30am. I've got a new sat-nav made by Navman (£69) and it's better than my old one (which Max has acquired). It's a slightly bigger screen and it also has lane information. The sat-nav wanted me to go straight down the A1, but I guessed it was going to send me through Highgate and Archway where there are serious roadworks, so I annoyed it by turning off on the A14 and M11. I thought it would take me around the North Circular and then down through the A10 or through Muswell Hill, but it went all along Walthamstow, Tottenham and Manor House before picking up the Seven Sisters Road. On the way back it took me north through Crouch End and Muswell Hill to the North Circular and A1, so perhaps I misjudged it and that's the way it would have taken me.


Sam and Lucy looked very well. I think Sam liked his present - a relief map of the Three Valleys area in France, where he has been skiing several times. He's halfway through his final exams and is, understandably, somewhat stressed. He's taken his written exam and will do his practical at the end of this month. If he passes both (and I'm hopeful that he will) then he will qualify as a GP in August and will be able to look for a job. He cooked us a really nice chicken with salad and Lucy had made a splended Bakewell Tart.


It was good for Margaret to get a chance to see them and to visit their flat. I think she's only been once before and I forget how important that is. I'm lucky that because I work in London, I get to see far more of the boys. We stayed at Sam's until about 6.30pm and had a pretty comfortable journey home - a damp, dark night, but the temperature was up to +4 deg C. Margaret (my sister) had come in to spend an hour with the dogs, so they hadn't been left alone for too long.

My garden through the seasons

I thought it would be interesting to take a photographic record of my garden (which is in Thorney, Cambridgeshire, England) month by month to see how it changes: Here goes:

January: very mild month with many flowers coming through early. Windy towards the end.

February: very cold spell with temperature in Holbeach down to -16 deg C on the night of Feb 10th. Snow covered for more than a week.

March: warm spell reaching a high of 16 deg C on March 11 when these photos were taken.

April: it proved to be the wettest April for 90 years. I don't think there was more than a couple of days that it didn't rain. It was cold too, but the lawn kept growing.

May: started cold and wet, but mid month it changed and the month finished with a fortnight of really warm weather with the temperature up to 25 deg C.

June: After the warm spell in May it started raining again. It's on course to be the wettest June on record and the drought is now officially over.

July: There was a dry, sunny week in July (my birthday week), but I think that was summer. It has been warmer, but still lots of showers and some plants (like the basil) have hated the weather.

August: it finally dried out (a little) and the harvest, not a great one was brought in. Combines were working in the fields well into the night to take advantage of the short dry spell. In my garden, the lawn kept growing and the gourds liked the hot weather, which reached 30 deg C on two days.

September: no Indian summer, it was back to rain, overcast and cooler (about right for the season). There were no frosts during the month, the coldest night was 6 deg C.

October: it's very definitely autumn, night are drawing in and mornings are dark. The leaves are just starting to drop (Oct 15) and the lowest temperature so far is 3 deg C which I recorded last night.

November: it's been very wet with a few frosts and brief cold spells. The colour has drained from the garden and it's now definitely winter. Holly managed to photo bomb three of my four images.

December: the rain continued and the washes at Whittlesey have been flooded for some weeks. The garden is sodden and, although it's not been that cold, it's thoroughly miserable. 2012 is either the wettest year on record (if you listen to the BBC) or the second wettest on record (according to the Times).


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