Margaret’s Morning Routine
Margaret woke at dawn, just as the first rays of sunlight peeked through her lace curtains. Outside, birds chirped merrily, while inside, the house held that quiet hush only early mornings bring. She stretched, yawned, and squinted at the clock—six sharp. “Time to get up,” she thought, though a part of her longed to burrow back under the duvet for five more minutes. But the farm wouldn’t run itself. After quickly scarfing down a cheese-and-tomato sandwich and downing a steaming cuppa, she bundled up against the crisp morning air and headed out to feed the chickens. And so began another day, much like all the others, yet brimming with that quiet satisfaction that comes from tending to one’s own little corner of the world.
Margaret was 52 and had lived in her quaint Dorset village for a decade, ever since she’d moved after her husband’s passing. The bustle of London was a distant memory now; here, among the hedgerows and rolling fields, she’d found peace. Her cottage—a bit creaky but full of charm—was nestled behind a thriving vegetable patch where courgettes, tomatoes, and her pride and joy, the raspberry bushes, flourished. And strutting about the yard like they owned the place were her hens, whom she affectionately called “the ladies.” Mornings always started with them, a ritual as soothing as a good cuppa.
While the kettle boiled in her cosy kitchen, Margaret ticked off the day’s tasks in her head. Hens to feed, weeds to pull, cucumbers to check before they turned into marrows—and then there was her neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, who’d asked her over to natter and help with the jam-making. “Country life’s no holiday,” she chuckled, spreading butter on her toast. Simple fare, but satisfying, just like the mint tea brewed from leaves she’d grown herself. These quiet moments alone were precious, a chance to gather her thoughts before the day properly began.
Pulling on a well-worn jumper and her trusty wellies, Margaret stepped outside. The air was fresh, laced with dew and the scent of cut grass. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with countryside purity. “Now this,” she mused, glancing at the cotton-wool clouds drifting overhead, “is the life.” The chicken coop erupted in cheerful clucking the moment she appeared. “Pipe down, ladies, breakfast’s coming!” she laughed, scattering seed and tossing in a handful of veg peelings—their idea of a gourmet treat—before checking their water.
As the hens pecked away, Margaret perched on the bench outside the coop and let her mind wander. Village life had taught her to appreciate the little things: the smell of rain on soil, the creamy richness of fresh milk, the crow of Mr. Pembrooke’s rooster at sunrise. But sometimes, she missed her daughter, Sophie, who rarely visited from her busy life in Manchester. “Must ring her later,” Margaret decided, fishing out her phone—only to sigh at the nearly dead battery. “Tonight,” she promised herself.
Back inside, she remembered her promise to bring Mrs. Higgins some eggs. The hens had been generous lately, so she filled a basket—no shortage there. “Might bake a cake while I’m at it,” she thought. “Bet Doris would love an apple one.” The idea lifted her spirits, and she even hummed an old tune her mother used to sing—until her eyes landed on the framed photo on the dresser: her, James, and little Sophie years ago. Her chest tightened. “Wish you could see me now, love,” she whispered, brushing a finger over the frame.
The day flew by in a blur. Weeding done, cucumbers picked, a lively gossip session over tea with Mrs. Higgins (“Did you hear? The Wilsons’ cow had twins!”). Margaret chuckled, though secretly, she loved these snippets of village drama—they made the place feel alive. Home again, she stoked the Aga, rolled out pastry for the cake, and finally called Sophie. Her daughter was rushed but vowed to visit that weekend. “Mum, don’t overdo it!” she fussed. Margaret just smiled. “Where’s the fun in that?”
That evening, cradling her tea as stars blinked to life outside, she ached with that good, honest tiredness. The hens were fed, the garden tidy, the cottage sweet with the smell of baking. Life wasn’t picture-perfect—Sophie was miles away, James just a memory in a frame—but it was hers. Her home, her routines, her mornings with toast and tea. “Early start again tomorrow,” she murmured to herself. “But that’s how it goes.” And with that, she turned in, knowing tomorrow would bring its own chores—and its own small joys.