The ground is wringing wet, absolutely sodden and the river’s full to bursting. The water table must be back to normal after the long, hot dry summer so this miserable rain can stop just as soon as it likes for me, though I guess it might be said that it’s just Nature’s way of redressing the balance.

This morning everything and everywhere has a definite look of winter about it, the colours are muted, the hedgerows appear to have been trimmed in places and the skeletal shapes of trees are becoming more noticeable now that the winds have blown some of the leaves off. The bare bones of things are beginning to show with increasing regularity.

Tonight is bonfire night, an evening of tradition and almost always traditionally accompanied by rain, however, so far we’ve not seen any today and hopefully we may get a reprieve as we’re off to an organised display locally. Here’s hoping for a dry night, a roaring fire , some great fireworks and , possibly, a hot dog or two, anything other than rain would be greatly appreciated.

The leaves are turning now, they are very nearly at their most magnificent and while there is still a lot of greenery in the canopy there are now marked signs that the best of the colour is almost with us.

There is a balancing act to be had, while we await the colour nature is, on one hand, about to give us the most spectacular display while on the other hand ready to snatch it away by stripping the leaves in the high winds and heavy rains. The weather’s cooling, the cold winds are due from the North and if we’re blessed with one or two frosts the colour in the leaves will intensify to rich golds and reds. On the other hand if the jet stream continues to feed in the Westerly winds they’ll be heavy with rain and drag the leaves off the trees in droves thereby spoiling the spectacle.

This afternoon I walked the old railway trackbed at Stourpaine, through the most magnificent stand of field maples. Reaching up towards the sky they arch over like the roof of a giant cathedral spanning the knave, glowing golden in the afternoon light. It’s an incredible spectacle not quite at it’s most beautiful but still an incredibly wondrous sight which, with a bit of luck, may yet become even more attractive and yield a few more pictures.

Normal service, or what currently passes for normal service, appears to have been resumed today, the gale has blown itself out, the rain has stopped, the sun has shone. All in all a thoroughly decent day for a change albeit that I haven’t spent any time out in it what with one thing or another.

It’s been a day of browsing, firstly at a craft fair and then in the county town, making the most of the fine weather before returning home this afternoon via another local crafting event. The return leg of the journey from Dorchester through the glorious Dorset countryside was a delight, the sun shining, blue skies and the colour in the woodlands along the way was a picture and a pleasure to be out enjoying it.

The only downside to the day, if you can call it a downside, is that I didn’t get out with the camera. The late afternoon light disappears with alarming rapidity as we are still losing light every day at the moment, however, tomorrow’s a different day and hopefully there may be opportunity, thank heavens for the insurance policy of taking a few more shots than you might need on those occasions where you do manage to be out and about, bring on tomorrow I say!

Whipped by ferocious winds and driving rain earlier this morning the local roadsides are full of the leaves , casualties of the storm that’s battered and buffeted us here inland, goodness only knows what it must have been like on the coast or, even worse, out at sea.

I thought that my early Saturday jaunt to the shop for the paper would be a rather damp affair but the heavens cleared and for a brief interlude the rain stopped and the wind dropped. It allowed me the briefest of interludes, I even saw the merest signs of sunshine, but it was all too brief and the weather has closed in again now. It has all the hallmarks of being an afternoon in the warm, drinking coffee, watching sport on the TV and surfing the net, not an entirely lost afternoon it seems.

Looking out of the window here the Rowan’s are dancing a merry jig in the wind, the bird feeders are often horizontal rather than vertical, not even the hardiest feathered friend is likely to be visiting them any time soon it seems. There’s a distinct lack of movement out there, the roads are quiet, unusually so, not that they’re overly busy at anytime hereabouts in our sleepy backwater but this morning more so. It seems that everyone is hunkered down, out of the worst of the weather and in the warm. It is , after all, the best place to be on a day like this.

Today’s the first day of the new month, November, and it’s hardly covered itself in glory, in fact it’s been more a case of gloom rather than glory. Then again, I guess it’s only what should be expected given the time of year , dark mornings and even darker afternoons are the order of the day. Throw in a heavy, leaden sky and a little after the sun gets over the yard arm it’s beginning to get dark again.

In places the gloomy scene was lifted by the colours in the trees and bushes but in general this morning and early afternoon in Shaftesbury things were very muted. Fortunately it was very mild, even the breeze was nothing more than gentle which is unusual for Shaftesbury at any time of year sitting, as it does, on a ridge overlooking the Blackmore Vale. Park Walk is usually exposed to the elements but this morning the elements were unusually moderate as we strolled along prior to coffee.

Things have changed somewhat this afternoon on returning to Sturminster, while the weather is still quite mild, the sky has closed in, the rain crept over the horizon, Piddles Wood was shrouded in mist and shortly afterwards my afternoon walk was curtailed by the damp, the rain had arrived. The wind has picked up apace as well, we are forecast a wet and windy evening and an even worse day tomorrow, I’m rather glad to have got out today as I don’t hold out much hope for tomorrow.

Today is Halloween, the Eve Of All Hallows, and last week I bought a pumpkin to use and abuse, to carve and to photograph for all I was worth. Well, you know how sometimes the best of intentions bears no relation to the end result? Sadly my pumpkin carving abilities weren’t up to the standard of my aspirations, both the templates and the pumpkin are now languishing in their respective recycling bins!

I have carved pumpkins in the past, not often I have to admit but I have done so, they’ve more often than not been the rough hewn examples with little or no detail carved for the entertainment, or otherwise, of young children. More often than not they held a child’s attention for all of a minute before the attraction of chocolate or treat took over. This year I resolved to do better…and failed miserably.

Rounded, ridged objects with tough outer skins are definitely not suited to simple, one or two dimensional templates, far too much work, I remembered very quickly why I gave up papercutting. I’m sure with a little, or a lot, more perseverance I could have crafted a minor masterpiece, I take my hat off to all those that did or do so, I congratulate you on your efforts, Happy Halloween!

Whilst wandering about earlier in the week I came across the village stocks, well, the hamlet stocks, Hinton St Mary can hardly be described as a village, nor should I wonder does it really require a sturdy set of stocks nowadays. In their time these would have been a familiar sight to the inhabitants of most towns and villages across the land.

These stocks are not the original set without a doubt, in fact it might be that there weren’t stocks on this site at all, however, they do make a good sight and it’s an indicator of the early days of crime and punishment. Stocks, and the very similar Pillory, were in use in the 16th and 17th century and apparently went out of favour and fashion in the 18th century, the last recorded use of stocks took place in 1872 in Newcastle Emlyn in West Wales.

When, if ever, they were used here in Hinton St Mary I have no idea but if human nature is anything to go by I’m sure that somewhere in the locality such a device would have been well employed. Stocks were employed in the punishment of drunkards and those whose language was deemed to be a little unnecessary….society may have moved on somewhat, at least in meeting out appropriate punishment.

Breakfast, the best meal of the day! I’d fall over in a faint if I didn’t eat breakfast ( or at least something) when I got up, how on earth anyone manages to rise and get off out without eating amazes me though I know plenty who do. For some it’s as natural as eating is for me, for others the lure of another few minutes in bed is far more rewarding than food, if I had to wait until mid morning for my first meal I would be worse than useless, no good to man or beast as my mother would say.

We’re not all the same are we, and a jolly good job as well in some cases, my father fell very firmly into the category whereby his first meal of the day was at 10;00. His working day started at 06;30 and a cup of tea and a cigarette was his early morning ritual for as long as I could remember. Flask made, milk bottled, sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and all thrown into an old khaki coloured military haversack and then off out of the door as regular as clockwork until he retired, so regular that you could set your watch by him, the slamming of the front door was my signal to rise and start the day.

It’s a very rare event that I don’t rise and eat, it has to be something very out of the ordinary that disturbs my ritual, something so rare in fact that I can’t think of anything in recent history that hasn’t been preceded by at least a cuppa and several biscuits at the very least at the start of each and every day and certainly more often than not a great deal more than a couple of biscuits. That said I certainly don’t dine in the manner of the Edwardians as per the remarks of Lady Viola Bankes on the chalkboard in the above photograph, simpler fare is sufficient to satisfy me but , always, bring on breakfast I say.

Here in rural North Dorset, and probably countless other localities, there are an abundance of hamlets where it seems that time has almost stood still. Very often it seems that the only passing nods to modernity are the overhead electricity lines and the ruts in the road which indicate where the other services have been laid and poorly filled. It often seems that one could step back a hundred years in the blink of an eye.

The little clusters of cottages with quaint names, Hinton St Mary, Alton Pancras, Plush and the Piddles, Piddle Trenthide and Piddle Hinton, all have chocolate box properties and English country gardens bounded by hedge, fence or wall and all with their garden gates. I often joke that the only thing missing are a couple of incumbents complete with bonnets and straw hats to complete the picture of the rural idyll.

There is a romantic notion of living in the country, while it is often beautifully calm and peaceful it’s not a life for everyone. It takes a certain amount of resilience and a fair degree of forward planning to enjoy it to it’s full for there are issues that lurk to trap the unwary. There is a lack of services that town and city dwellers take for granted, don’t expect much in the way of public transport, don’t expect mind boggling download speeds from the internet and be thankful if you manage to get a reliable mobile phone signal. If you’re shopping locally don’t forget to write a list, nothing more infuriating than having to travel another few miles to fetch essentials you should’ve got on the first visit.

However, if you can put up with the odd issue, and enjoy a little solitude,then living in the countryside is a thing of beauty, where you can witness the most incredible sunrise or sunset, marvel at the complexity of nature or enjoy the sights and sounds of the furry, rural residents. Don’t forget to pack your straw hat or bonnet and find a garden gate to lean across and while away an hour or two in wonderful surroundings.

Today we’ve taken advantage of the gloriously warm and sunny weather and taken ourselves off into the Dorset countryside, it was well and truly a breath of fresh air after yesterday’s icy cold monsoon. A stone’s throw away from Sturminster is Kingston Lacy, a National Trust property now but the former home of the Bankes family who go back in the annals of Dorset life, certainly to the time of the civil war where they were the incumbents of Corfe Castle. They took arms in support of the Loyalist cause against Cromwell and had the castle laid seige too and severely damaged but negotiated safe passage and took up residence at Kingstone Lacy where the family remained until the last member of the family passed away in 1982 and the house and gardens were bequeathed to the National Trust.

It’s a glorious house with a chequered history, much as many other stately homes, the ups and downs of society and state have shaped the fortunes of the property, it’s owners and the estate workers alike, a walk through the house is a wonderful experience and a glimpse into a past and a lifestyle that most of us are unlikely to ascribe to in our lifetimes. That said, today was not a day to be wandering indoors, rather it was a day to be reveling in the last of the summer sunshine, taking in the wonderful colours of Autumn and strolling in the wonderful warmth along magnificent avenues, through wonderful glades and into nooks and crannies off the beaten track.

The Japanese Garden was an incredible sight with the acers resplendent in their red and gold colours, the bamboo curtain caught the sunlight and offered both shade, form and pattern, adding to the Zen like nature of the carefully planted plot, but for all of it’s beauty my eye was drawn to the less lavish and more humble kitchen garden and it’s potting shed.

There I found things that evoked memories of childhood days, old mowers, terracotta pots, rusty weighing scales and rough sisal string. Things that I recall my father using on a daily basis every weekend and each evening after the evening meal when he would work the ground at home as his father and grandfather before him had done. Amidst all the tools of the trade there would also be signs of the fruits of his labours, the back garden was always the vegetable plot while the front garden was a carefully planted tapestry of colour and scent, flowers that each had their season and then were replaced by others as the seasons progressed until, finally, the Chrysanthemums bloomed as big as footballs, a last colourful stand against the ravages of the oncoming winter. The potting shed today was every bit as glorious as the big house.