At the start

At the start, days stretched endlessly ahead.

A summer house in autumn and a table at the window.

Windows on three sides.

Facing north/north-west towards the low-slung stone barn-house, a path outside the door connects the two. Stepping stones set uneven in a little grass-green lake the only way to reach her. Framed in the middle of three panes, a tall stand of teasles call to mind the cotton-skirted hedgehog ladies of her childhood. Ferns and stubby hawthorn, a tall bay, and a taller evergreen the colour of lush summer fields encircle a private lawn, across which one must journey to her autumn island home. Come prepared. In rain, or wind, or snow, or sun, the only way to stock up on supplies was the journey home again on foot.

The north-east outlook’s main offering is extra light. A glimpse of stone wall and gatepost, hedge and another garden room beyond. Angled just right as not to see the cars parked against the back wall. Maintaining the impression of Lucy alone.

Looking south/south-east it’s field, leads to moor and rocky carns, above that sky. Big big sky. A roof of heavy cloud today, greying the highest highs, full of the threat or promise of fat raindrops bound to come and soak the hills some more. Everywhere is welly-walking this time of year. In the middle ground where sky meets gently curving hill, fast white cloud-trains hurry by and just above them, wind carves space for sun to breakthrough, claiming ‘I am still here’, letting cloud-cover know there must be a time to move on. In the time she had to take that in, the roof is already shifting away inland, across the peninsula to southern shores. Bright blue is revealed in its wake and the sun where it has been waiting pushes through. From a brightening that makes you squint behind fat grey fingers of cloud pushes a luminous force eager for its turn to transform the skies. For all of five minutes there will be sunshine and blue sky. Centre court without the roof. Dripping gate and dewy fields drinking in the warmth and light. Wood pigeon line-up on telegraph wire like washing line to dry. The size of it is blinding now, eyes creased even to look away. A constant drip outside the window remembers the rain. In winter it may freeze but today it soldiers on wet, wet, wet, wet, wet and the fields cloaked in drops of it reflect the glorious glow above. This canvas never rests. Wispy pace-setters sprint ahead of huge mountains a darker grey than before as the roof slides back engulfing players in another rainy day. The sun, accepting the loss of this battle glows hot and bright then sinks behind. The sky-war rages on.

In the news, there is Hurricane Milton abroad. On this far western front of an island in the north, on an island in a lawn, are mere training grounds for weather like that. Epic in their own right but no real danger to anyone.

Drops begin to fall. Gentle at first, like finger to palm, then two, then tentative claps, now stronger. And wind creating angles, adding texture to the sound. Not quite making it to stamping feet. Wherever cloud gets lazy sun peeks through, but cloud is stronger now and settles.

In between the showers, pigeons coo. Dampness underpins all the summer house sounds. Occasional passing cars coarse through roadside puddles and everything has a drip, drop, drip, drop coat to shed. Somewhere to either side is the sea. It’s presence, at this distance, is imagined, but look out at the other side of the house and there it meets the sky in place of land. Tramp in waterproof and boots down muddy track and you’re on a cliff above it. Vast and seemingly limitless.

A single annoying housefly has woken up, but it cannot emulate alone the insistence of summer insects. She can ignore it.

A bus goes by. The open-top tourist bus runs year-round here connecting villagers with coastal towns. She assumes no one has chosen to sit on the top deck today but can remember summer holidays in rain-macs braving changeable conditions because it was nice, when the sun did come out. And everyone wanted to see the view.

Drawing back in, Lucy looks down at her hands. Rough skin catches as she runs thumbs over fingers. Thousands of tiny lines criss-cross the backs of both hands. Skin feels dry and a little thin. Less elastic than before but she makes a fist and many of those lines still disappear. Her nails are mostly short and all unrefined. Some broken edged, all uneven. A few carry the remains of the last time she bothered to paint them several weeks ago. Ringless. For work.  Several painful chits and snags on fingertips from worrying at idle hands of an evening. Although, she notices, less than usual. And she feels the promise of fresh finger canvas ahead as days become filled with healthy occupation and nights with restful sleep.

Today Lucy has already had a healthy breakfast. She has made soup for her lunch in case she forgets the time and hunger leads her to snack and graze and not eat properly again. She has planned her dinner and will work until it is time to put the gammon in the oven. She will slice some to eat tonight, use some in a soup, and still have leftovers with any luck. It’s comforting to have a routine punctuated by her own needs for a change. She has control. This ‘getting away’ is a gift she’s given to herself. It’s been hard-earned and she intends to make full use of the days ahead.

Pleased with this beginning, Lucy decides it’s time to wander back to the house to make a mid-morning coffee. There is a kitchenette out here, but she likes the idea of keeping it separate. Life in there. Work out here. She downs tools and puts her shoes back on. But not before noticing with mild annoyance that the single fly has woken a friend, and the window won’t open to let either of them out. Never mind, she’ll deal with that later.