Intermission. The second act is dramatic.

End of Act I: It’s been a busy time. The seaside landlady business has been hectic, tiring, fun and interesting, and the extra income has helped the cottage pay its way. It goes on, thinning out a bit as winter approaches, but steadily enough for us not to worry, and promising to be a fruitful year ahead. Airbnb has had a bad press recently, but for those of us in holiday areas, and not hosting remotely, it has proved productive – no wild parties or pop-up brothels so far! And many very nice people (and, often, their dogs) to meet and welcome.

Back in our rented home, the cats continue to love their life in this rural idyll. Squirrels and pheasants, rabbits and ducks abound, all interesting to look at and perhaps even stalk, but without serious intent. Scooter climbs trees, gets stuck 20 feet up and howls piteously for help until driven down by the lure of rattling dinner dishes.

The glacial-paced sale of the big house shows no sign of concluding, so we stay where we are, enjoying the peace and privacy, the trees and ponds, the big skies and wide views. We shuttle back and forth frequently to the cottage a few miles away to carry out our hosting duties. In comparison with our life here, the village in which the cottage sits seems busy, noisy and traffic-choked; we know this is not exactly accurate, and that it is still a sleepy place, but here it is unimaginably calm and tranquil.

Behind the iron gates we are just three humans (landlady and us), five cats and one dog, our cars and a drive that is often filled with scatty, easily-alarmed female pheasants, which ensures that our driving is slow and cautious. No one comes here except for friends and deliveries, although there was a hugely successful coffee morning recently, held in partnership with the nearby village to raise funds for Macmillan cancer charity; this brought many visitors, some, I suspect, for a rare chance to see inside the manor as much as to buy coffee and cake, and it raised over £1000.

This blog languished in the doldrums again, another slow intermission in our daily non-drama of Nothing Much Happening At All.

And then suddenly things changed, and swept us into another world of activity beyond our control. After a routine appointment in the mobile breast screening unit, my mammogram results showed what were described in the urgent recall letter, “changes”. The day after the letter arrived, to be read with violently shaking hands, I was in the county town’s hospital having scans and biopsies, and being told that same day that what was showing up was almost certainly cancer.

Eight agonising waiting days later, the results confirmed Stage 2 early breast cancer, “very treatable” but requiring surgery. A month later, the first of two surgeries was carried out, the second taking place after another excruciating and painful month. During those first weeks, we struggled with feelings of shock, fear, inability to tell all but a few of our closest family and friends, and coping with our lives running on two simultaneous but hugely different lines: running our Airbnb bookings as normal, being welcoming, chatting and friendly, and dealing with a life-changing diagnosis that rearranged our priorities, our plans and our sense of being grounded, and that brought me to helpless tears innumerable times a day.

It is a well-trodden path, the cancer journey (oh so many cliches!) and familiar to many of us. The death of our friend Suzi last year after a horrifying and aggressive version of this same disease brought additional terror until the final test results came back post-operatively, and showed that I did not have the type of cancer that she had. My version is very common, rather ordinary, in fact, and familiar to many women, and has a clear treatment plan with positive outcomes. But it is cancer, a bomb that has caused our lives to implode, changing everything.

The surgeries are over, the medication is being taken daily, a CT scan is scheduled next week in order to plot the course of radiotherapy, and we know that there is residual cancer to be dealt with and monitored. We are doing all we can to assimilate what has just happened to our lives. I have learned much about myself (not all edifying) and The Gardener (whose capacity to love and support has been deeply inspirational). Each day is different, emotionally volatile, physically taxing, and to be lived with care and attention.

So what to do next, blogwise? I feel I should start a completely new blog, a medium which now seems outdated and losing its original force in favour of Instagram, which I can’t get on with at all because of its impersonal and highly curated nature. I love blogging; I know I don’t do it very much nowadays, but I enjoy writing, and remember very clearly those first months of my first-ever blog, which for a long time had no one to read it. I knew I was probably writing just for myself, and that felt fine too. I could happily do that again.

The dilemma for me is how to write about what has happened, is happening, will happen. Another cancer blog – and there are many, some moving, some informative, some terrifying – is not what I had in mind.

I don’t really know what I have in mind….

But there are days when I just want to float a thought, a question, a feeling, or an observation, out into the ether of blogworld. The question for me is, shall I? Perhaps. Does it have to have meaning for anyone other than myself? Perhaps not. Watch this space.