730 things — Day 96 of 365

 We moved to the house where we now live at the end of 2009. 

It doesn't have an enormous garden, and at the front there is just a little patch of garden — even so, we knew we wanted to plant trees, as many as we could fit in, for the birds and bees, for fruit for us to eat, for the future of the Earth because trees are the guardians of hope and health — and just because we love trees.

The summer my husband Bernard died, I was living with him in his cottage on the edge of Flatropers Wood at Beckley. It was a very hot summer, the sun blazing down; but in that lane on the edge of woodland, and with a great oak tree in the garden, the air always held moisture and a breath of coolness. When I went into the town in Rye or Hastings, the heat bounced off all the hard surfaces of buildings and metalled roads unbearably.

I specially wanted a greengage tree here, and we put one in the front garden, just within the wall beside the pavement (US = sidewalk).

My room now is at the front of the house. When I sit on my bed and look out of the window, this is what I see.

It's worth planting a tree.

I hope the trees will be cherished and protected in our garden for ever and ever, but the house could do with shaking a few manufactured objects loose from its hair.

Today, leaving my life are a camping mattress and a stainless steel thermal water bottle.

I've had various modes of sleeping in the years we've been living here — on the floor, in beds, in the attic, in the hut Komorebi — and acquired a variety of related items. Most have been released into the wild, of which this excellent and blissfully comfy camping mattress is the last to go (apart from the sleeping platform and futon I actually sleep on these days).

The water bottle — my sense of caution and desire to be prepared has a very deep tap root indeed. Why did I buy two water bottles when I only need one?

I have no idea. Away goes the spare.