Maddie Grigg

Fade to grey

Earlier this week, it felt like spring had sprung.

But now it’s recoiled and we’re back to winter again.

Slightly warmer, milder, but drizzly rain and grey, grey skies.

I’ve always been surprised that grey seems to be an on-trend colour for interior design and fashionable for work suits. Is it still? If so, I have no idea why.

For me, grey equals dull. It summons visions in my head of concrete tower blocks on a wet day, tarmac roads awash with surface water hiding potholes the size of Brazil.

Grey is the colour of unhealthy pallour, ashtrays, taps, the ubiquitous ‘silver’ of most people’s cars and knitting needles.

But, then again, I have streaks of grey at my temples which some people would pay good money to have put into their hair. And I’ve just bought a White Stuff grey gilet in a sale which goes perfectly with pink and maroon and is the antidote to feeling cold in the house.

So, horses for courses – and grey mares at that. Spring will suddenly arrive and bask us all in its beauty and we’ll forget what all the fuss was about.

This week, I’ve been mostly filling in grant application forms (grey-ish), putting off a major editing job (far too grey), going to a matinee of Hamnet at the local cinema (surrounded by grey-haired people), attending a meeting about an exciting exhibition (red) coming to a town near me and watching the deeply disturbing Channel 4 docudrama, Dirty Business (definitely my colour of brown, but not in a good way). If this doesn’t shake up the water industry like ITV’s Mr Bates vs The Post Office then nothing will.

Uncomfortable viewing. No shades of grey in this series, all very black and white, and told and acted in a way which the audience can follow easily but with increasing dismay and anger. The scale of the scandal of untreated sewage pumped knowingly into our rivers and oceans is monumental, especially when set against the fact that profits come before public health.

Dirty business indeed.

And still it goes on. Something must be done.

I’m not sure how I got from grey to the devastatingly beautiful Hamnet and then to sewage pollution, but that’s my week so far. How about yours?

Cosy Cotehele

Just come back from a couple of days in Cornwall, staying in a converted engine house up a dead-end, rough track in the middle of the woods.

A busy stream rattled by, like white noise. There was bird song, a blue sky and the most wonderful National Trust property sitting high on a perch above the upper reaches of the River Tamar.

There was a viaduct, live rugby being screened at the local pub, some quaint hostelries and the pannier market at nearby Tavistock where sunshine lit up tomatoes and early rhubarb and turned them into sparkling jewels.

A woodburning stove, a tray of supplied treats like coffee, tea and fantastic National Trust biscuits, and a comfortable bed.

No phone signal and no internet. Low water pressure and only BBC channels on the telly.

Perfect really.

I last visited Cotehele House when I was about twenty and training in Plymouth to be a journalist. It’s been in my head then for years. This gorgeous Tudor manor is impressive. My memory had served me very correctly.

This weekend, the house was closed but the gardens were lovely – and will be magnificent once the flowers are actually out – and the dogs had a great time.

The National Trust has a variety of wonderfully interesting holiday cottages all over the country.

Just the place to get away from it when you’re in need of a break. I quite fancy the cosy cottage for two next to Hadrian’s Wall.

February book reviews

I’ve not done very well with books this month. This is a shame because the weather outside is frightful and there’s nothing better than curling up with a good book when the rain is lashing against the windows.

There were two novels I abandoned after a couple of chapters and then a three-star which was all right, but not that enjoyable.

However, there is one stand-out book for me and I’m still reading it. It’s A Private Man by Stephanie Sy-Quia, due to be published in April. I didn’t expect it to be my thing at all, but it’s captivating. I’ll reveal more in next month’s reviews.

Being a reviewer for NetGalley is a real privilege. Especially when I go into a book shop and see all these titles I’ve already read, such as The Wardrobe Department *** by Elaine Garvey, Three Days in June **** by Anne Tyler, The Boy From The Sea **** by Garrett Carr and The Book of Doors **** by Gareth Brown.

One of my next reads will be the new novel by Elizabeth Strout, the author of Olive Kitteridge. But I have a few more to get through first, including my first purchase in a long time, Rogue Male by Geoffrey Household, published in 1939 and set around these parts, yet I’ve never read it.

In 1976, it was made into a television film starring Peter O’Toole.

And there has been talk that British actor Benedict Cumberbatch has his eye on the lead role in another film adaptation, although it’s all been a bit quiet of late.

Anyway, here’s my one and only book review for February.

Where The Truth Lies by Katherine Greene ***

Publication date: 24 March 2026

A murder rocks a small community in southern USA and threatents to blow apart the impending marraige of Rhett and Lucinda and their future happiness together. We think we know who did it and what and why it happened, but do we?

There are twists and turns galore in this thriller/whodunnit/domestic drama and I did not see the end coming. The story is told from various viewpoints, including the voice of the murdered woman, a device I always find difficult to take on board because how can she tell a story in the first person, past tense, when she’s dead?

I also didn’t much like any of the characters through which the tale unfolded.

Anyway, that aside, this was a tense and generally fast-paced novel which would be an ideal basis for a Netflix adaptation in the Harlan Coben mould.

Nice weather for ducks

Oh, what weather we’re having here in Lush Places.

Rain, rain and more rain. And when it’s not raining, it’s grey skies.

Dull, dull, dull.

It can be foggy here at the best of times. When other places nearby are bathed in sunshine we sit under the misty radar.

There’s a kind of microclimate at work, but not in a good way.

No-one tells you that before you move here, you find out only after it’s too late.

Currently, the village is in a grey state of doom, as are many places in the country ever since the new year began.

There are parts of South Wales and South West England where it’s rained every day since the door opened to let in 2026.

This weather saps the soul and, coupled with the worldwide fall of humanity on the depravity scale, it’s enough to make you want to curl up and come out in May, along with the bluebells and tulips.

My headphones are drowning out my sorrows and tinnitus, with wall-to-wall Stevie Wonder, an old friend’s Sunshine Pop playlist on Spotify and out-of-this-world ethereal music by We Are All Astronauts.

Still, if it wasn’t for the weather, we wouldn’t have anything to talk about.

There were blue skies on Wednesday and the snowdrops in my sister’s garden were chattering away like nobody’s business. Small joys to cheer up a dreary time.

On that note, have a great weekend.

Love, Maddie x

There’s not mushroom inside

I’m just taking a yellowing copy of Machineries of Joy from my bookcase.

It’s a collection of short stories by the master storyteller, Ray Bradbury.

I love his small town, big wonder style. Something Wicked This Way Comes is one of my favourite books, a coming-of-age novel where good and evil do battle against the backdrop of a sinister fair in a sleepy town in the American midwest.

The reason I’m grabbing this book is to familiarise myself with a story on page 47 – Boys! Raise Giant Mushrooms In Your Cellar!

Because when we looked into our grow-your-own-mushrooms box this morning, the Bradbury story came straight into my mind (as well as this scene from the 1940 Disney classic, Fantasia, where the toadstools are choreographed to the Chinese Dance from Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. You can see it from about a minute in – I’ve left the rest for context. That Walt Disney and Tchaikovsky knew their stuff).