Trifling trifles

When we first moved back to England ten years ago I kept getting into trouble. We'd been in Spain for 17 years and I found the culture shock rather worse than moving to a new country in the first place - I felt that I ought to understand what was going on, but in many subtle ways I was worse than a stranger.

I was unfamiliar with the coins. Worse, I had a mental pricelist which hadn't allowed for all those years of inflation, so the prices of everything shocked me and I wasn't always able to keep my surprise to myself. I could see shopkeepers looking at me sideways and wondering where I had been confined... I couldn't work public telephones. It was many months before I thought to ask someone what those rows of short white lines on the road were. I had missed bypass protestors, militant feminism, a couple of waves of immigration, the demonisation of smokers, oh, lots of things. Taking an OU sociology course helped fill in some of the gaps, and after ten years I am fairly satisfied that I know what's going on, apart from in the popular music field, where I haven't even tried.

Until yesterday, that is. I don't do much in the way of overindulgence for Christmas, but I have promised to make and take a trifle for an extended family party on Sunday. So I took myself to Waitrose yesterday with a shopping list, having discovered that the only trifle component I had in stock was walnuts, which aren't exactly essential. Sponge fingers, madalenas (the Spanish alternative) fruit, custard, jelly, decorations, cream... All got, plus the stuff to make an Eton Mess for the non triflers, including, naturally, even more cream. Sherry could wait till Lidl for financial reasons.

Quite pleased with myself, I was, until later in the evening when I was reading an email chat list where a friend had posted a trifle recipe. And several other people had corrected/improved/suggested alternative recipes. Interesting, but I have my own plan. Then I noticed something odd - they all said "cream or elmlea". Isn't elmlea cream? Emlea is what I had purchased quite a lot of from the somewhat depleted display in Waitrose - there was own brand organic double cream or elmlea or nothing and I had chosen the latter, thinking it was a brand name. Well, of course it is, it's just that it's the brand name for a cream substitute, not the real thing. Invented in 1984, apparently, shortly after I left the country. Ah well, you live and learn. A new day, a new word, a new product. I shan't say anything, just hope no one notices.

Winter Weather Report

All over the country people are reporting wintry weather, snow, ice, disruption, disaster. Here in this little corner of Cornwall, close to the coast and only 100 metres above sea level we rarely get extremes of weather - frost free in winter, and merely warm in summer when others are baking in the sun. That's what I like about it, in fact.


This last few days, however, we have actually had a bit of winter. And of course it took us (well me, anyway) by surprise. Last Friday morning was when it began. It was chilly in the morning but bright sunshine - a lovely day dawning as I took Ty down the coombe. At 9.15 I picked up a neighbour to drive into Liskeard to a meeting. No ice on the car, started nicely, out of the car park and round the corner, sun shining on the windscreen, ooh it's dirty, use screen washers, windscreen covered with ice! Luckily I was still on a very quiet side road so I could stop and clean up.


Friday night was cold. As I was making the first coffee of Saturday morning I watched a blackbird and a sparrow hopping across the top of the pond - icy! By the time Ty and I got down to the creek it was snowing, but just a very light powdery proto-snow which could not be felt, although it didn't melt... When we got back I checked the garden - the pond was covered with ice, and a planter which was full of water had ice over an inch thick on it, which I removed. The birds' waterbowl was frozen solid so it had a wash and new fresh lukewarm water put in it. I also filled two seed feeders and put out more crumbs. Once I was back indoors I watched for a few minutes as the starlings lined up to drink from the nice fresh waterbowl. But not for long - the world disappeared in a sudden white out. Ron was down at the waterside at the time, helping someone take a boat engine out, and says they couldn't even see the tools they had out on the deck. They couldn't stop work, though, as the crane had been hired and had to be paid for.


The blizzard didn't last too long, but left a couple of inches of nice crisp snow everywhere. That didn't last too long either - it had pretty well disappeared again by the time it got dark and the freeze began again.

Sunday morning dawned clear, cold and bright. A lovely day for a walk, which was just what we'd got planned anyway. It was a bit slidey underfoot, but nothing that couldn't be coped with, and the nasty white stuff on my car windows slid off easily with a towel. The roads weren't as clear as they could have been but I got to Hessenford without incident, only one very gentle slide pulling in to the side of the lane going downhill to let a line of traffic up. The Copley car park, however, was pure skating rink. It was much, much colder than Saltash as well. I watched a man try to start his car which he'd left overnight - ten minutes to get in the doors, 20 to scrape the windows even with the engine running.

Once the company was assembled - six people and four dogs, including the new and adorable Harvey - we set out. Just crossing the road was quite frightening, but we thought once we got into the valley we'd be fine. Not quite; much of the valley trail has duck boards covered with chicken wire to give a grip, but when covered by sheet ice the wire doesn't work. So it took us about twice as long as usual to get to Seaton, where it was different again. We walked along the beach in brilliant sunshine under a sky as blue as I have ever seen anywhere in the world, the sea calm, the light amazing. As far as Coleadon and back for lunch at Seaton Beach Cafe before marching carefully back through the valley to Hessenford as the light began to fade.

Seagull vs Crow and other birds

Nobody likes seagulls. In general they are loud, bold, intelligent, omnivorous, ubiquitous... and they do, I must admit, tend to make a nuisance of themselves in urban settings. Circumstances being what they are in the modern world, however, one can hardly blame the gulls for utilising the roofs of houses for look-out posts now that there are very few unoccupied cliffs.

Round here there are almost always rows of gulls perched on the rooftops, mostly blackheaded gulls with a few larger herring gulls among them. Early this morning - beautifully clear and dry but very cold - I watched as a whole row or eleven or twelve gulls were evicted from their rooftop by one single crow. It squawked, chased and chivvied them, not hesitating to nip at the tail feathers of the slowest to move, until, satisfied that it had the whole terrace of houses to itself, it perched on top of the highest TV aerial in sight and preened itself, croaking gently in pride in a job well done. Many times I've watched birds being mobbed by other species of birds, for all sorts of reasons, but never before have I seen a whole flock routed by one individual, slightly smaller if anything, bird.

The cold weather is making the sparrows much bolder, too. They are getting through a fat ball every two or three days, and they no longer move when anyone walks up or down the steps by the fence. All the birds visiting the garden seem less shy, but it's probably just that they are hungrier. The jackdaws who clamber over the roofs acting as moss removers have also removed all the moss I carefully planted round the edge of my precious pond. I shan't replace it now until the spring...

A Senior Moment

That nice Mr Automatic called me the other evening. It was the first time I'd heard from him since around last February, and it was good to hear his dulcet tones enquiring after my health and temper in this wintry weather. Are your symptoms worse than usual? No. Do you have enough medication to last two weeks? Yes. And so on. I'm not sure quite what happens if you answer 'Yes' and 'No' respectively, mind - a couple of years ago, when Mr Automatic was still experimental and not so well trained, my symptoms really were a lot worse than usual and I was having problems talking at all. After several repetitions of questions with a polite 'I'm sorry, I can't understand you' he finally just gave up, hung up and said he'd call again! I'm sure, though, that the new, better trained Mr Automatic would not behave in such a cavalier fashion but would send round knights in shining armour (or green scrubs) to make sure I was OK.

Anyway, some considerable time later I was mulling over my good fortune in having someone checking up on me so nicely when I realised that I had no recent memory of acquiring any medication. One particular item on which I depend lasts exactly four weeks, and I usually re-order as soon as I start on a new supply, so that I don't have to panic about getting down to Fore Street to collect it until I feel like it. But I was about half way through, and - had I ordered it? There was no new supply on the shelf. I had ordered and collected medication for Ron last week, but where was mine? I had to call the surgery and ask them - had I ordered it and forgotten to collect it? Had I collected it and forgotten to put it on the shelf? No, I hadn't ordered it at all. So now I have, and all will be well.

Mr Automatic, I thank you. On your very first day of operation this winter you have already saved, if not a life, at least considerable discomfort and embarrassment. According to the BBC, Mr Automatic costs the taxpayer £21 per patient per year, and he is worth every penny. Taxpayers, I thank you too.

Winter Sunshine Walking

It is so much nicer to go walking when the sky is blue and the sun is shining. Even if it is a little on the cool side. Not quite freezing in the morning, but a slight touch of frost on the grass at the side of the coombe. In truth, the weather has been clear and bright for a few days and I've been actually enjoying dog walking, just locally around the creek and Churchtown, instead of dutifully carrying out the miserable obligatory chore it is when it rains and rains and rains...

A proper walk had been scheduled for today; the fine weather was a very welcome bonus. From the small coastal village of Pentewan, half way between St Austell and Mevagissey, up and over inland round the edge of the lost gardens of Heligan, down through the woods to Mevagissey itself and back along the coastpath for lunch at the Ship Inn. Five and a half miles or so, some very steep bits with which I struggled a bit, but managed better than I had expected. I'm lucky to have companions to walk with who at least pretend to be happy to amble along at my slowish pace, taking photographs and playing with the dogs.

Inland it was quite sheltered and even warm while walking so that the strong northeast wind blowing along the coast took us a little by surprise when we dropped down into Mevagissey before climbing back up along the coastpath. No surfers, far too rough for them, and just one solitary inflatable bobbing about in the waves.

After a very enjoyable lunch (carvery, but they knew we were going to be lateish so saved some for us special) with even more enjoyable draught pear Rattler at the Ship we resisted the temptation to sit and listen to the jazz band for the afternoon and took the dogs on to the beach, as the sun was still shining and the surf still running. Ty swam for sticks, although I was careful only to allow him where it seemed fairly safe away from the rocks and the biggest waves.

On the east side of the 'harbour' (now landlocked) there's a vertical cliff about 100ft high covered in dense and mostly thorny vegetation. A terrier, Boris, had run up there after a rabbit and got himself stuck half way up in a gorse bush. His family of Mum, Dad, two small girls and another dog were standing below calling him, but for all his panicked scrabbling and whimpering he could not seem to get free. He even attracted the attention of a buzzard who came in and alighted about twenty feet up from where the dog was caught, before deciding that either the thorns were too thick or the dog wasn't weak enough to make a meal.

It was odd; there was absolutely nothing we could do, but one still feels somehow committed to stand around and wait for an outcome. We had to leave eventually after twenty minutes or so, but I still need to know. Did he eventually manage to escape? Did they call out the Coastguard? There's been nothing on the news yet...

Beautiful Birmingham

I was born in Birmingham. I lived there for the first five years of my life, went away but came back at the age of fourteen, after which I lived and worked in and around the city for the next twenty five years, give or take the occasional year or so off in foreign places like the Outer Hebrides or Cornwall. I still visit the city but rarely now, and yesterday I was reminded of why.
Birmingham was never a particularly attractive city, but always seems to have felt bad about it. Consequently, every so often it undertakes a complete makeover. I remember the city centre before the iconic Rotunda building and the Bull Ring Centre, before Spaghetti Junction, before the motorways. All of the houses I ever lived in in the city, both as a child and as an adult, have been demolished. There are some places that haven't changed at all, of course, but it's hard, very hard, to find them.
Today is the sixtieth birthday of a good friend of ours. She's having a party – not that she knows it yet – and her children have summoned old friends from as far away as Cornwall and Germany to help her celebrate. So yesterday we embarked on the long trek up the motorway, to stay with Ron's brother for the weekend and go to the ball. All went well until we tried to escape from the M6, straight into some roadworks and a diversion. Very diverting. It was strange – we were recognising the names of roads, but not anything else. A big church was still where it used to be, but now with a mosque next door. Aston Villa football ground has been rebuilt ten times the size, eating up one of the houses I used to live in. We passed the pub where Ron and I met, now semi derelict and half hidden by broken boards; apparently one may not demolish a listed building, but it's OK to let it fall down...
We got back on track eventually, of course, and found Ron's brother in his local only half an hour late. They were actually playing The Time Warp as we walked in. And now it's raining; nothing's changed after all.

Ty's Birthday - Swimming in Seaton

I have just realised, as we were taking our late night stroll along the top of the coombe, that yesterday, Sunday, was Ty's ninth birthday. He spent most of it bravely struggling upstream along storm swollen rivers and trying to clear Seaton Valley of fallen tree trunks, mostly by bringing them to me and asking me to throw them for him.


Most of the British Isles has been suffering from what I have heard described as 'the worst storm of the year' but what should better be thought of as the first good storm of this winter season. Extremely strong gales and heavy rain started in our little south west corner, as usual. It was bad enough on Friday night for the Tamar bridge to be closed to most traffic, causing all kinds of chaos on the roads and me to miss what had promised to be a good night out in Tavistock. Saturday was still wild and passed with an absolutely minimum of outdoor activity, but by Sunday morning it was calm and dry - even sunny at times, and Seaton Valley beckoned.

Very pleasant it was too. Soggy underfoot; the river had obviously been over the path in several places, although it was back within its banks (just) by the time we got there. When the Council created the Otter Trail through the valley as an extension of the country park they put in sections of duckboards here and there, but as it was a new path it was mostly guesswork, and there are some places which need then and don't have them, as well as places where by common usage the duckboards are bypassed as unnecessary. There are a couple of places this week where they are also quite broken by fallen trees.
I had a new phone a month or so ago, and it has a nice simple camera. As a result, I have taken more unplanned snapshots in the past few weeks than in the previous twenty years or so. It doesn't take pictures very quickly, though. I have one picture of a lovely empty bit of riverbank which had a dog right in the middle of the frame when I pressed the button. I also have a couple of blurs which should have been dog shaking tree trunk. Ah, well, I am sure my technique will improve...
We finished our walk in proper style with a Rattler at the Copley, which has a bit of new roof where a very large old willow lost its grip on Friday night. As twilight fell the wind rose again, but the worst of the storm seems to be over for a few days now.

Windowgazing

Three times in the last four days I have seen an unknown bird hopping happily along my back fence. Like a grey robin, with just a hint of darker edges to the wings and reddish tail. Inspection of several bird books, the RSPB website, Google images etc have convinced me that she is a female Black Redstart, apparently not that unusual round here on migration, although they definitely breed much further north and winter much further south than Cornwall. I've carefully studied pictures of the male of the species in the hope that he too may be passing by my garden, but so far it would seem not. Just the one solitary female, but happy enough to stay a while with me.

Also happily bobbing along the fence the other day was a wren. Back and forth, then running along the horizontal rail, disappearing into the red jasmine, out the other side, back again... This is the first wren I've ever seen in my garden - there are lots in the coombe, but I'm surprised one has ventured three whole rows of houses uphill! That red jasmine would be an ideal place for a wren's nest or three - maybe in the spring...

I've been doing rather more birdgazing out of the kitchen window than usual over the last few days because I caught a cold. Actually Ron and I both started snuffling and sneezing more or less simultaneously last Wednesday evening and have generally gone downhill (and back up again) since then. Ironically enough, we were due for flu jabs on Saturday morning but were deemed too ill to have them, so will have to wait another month for the next flu jab clinic.

This is the first cold I've had for almost two years but of course it developed rapidly into a minor pulmonary crisis. A small salutary reminder of one's mortality every now and then isn't necessarily a bad thing; after a night where there were doubts as to whether the next breath was actually going to happen, a morning of wrens and redstarts, sparrows, starlings, even some sunshine, reinforces the fact that still being alive is, well, quite an achievement really.

Take the Train? It's a Strain!

A couple of weeks ago I went to Bristol for a few days. A combination of circumstances persuaded me that the sensible option was to 'let the train take the strain', as they used to say, something I haven't done much in recent years.
The day before I was due to leave I gave my first thoughts to luggage. I'd planned more or less what I was going to take for a four-day wardrobe, but not considered what I was going to put it in. Small weekend bag? No, too small. Giant suitcase with wheels? No, too big and unwieldy. Normal suitcase? Yes, that will do. But no, it won't. I can't carry things any more. I can and do lift weights for pleasure and exercise, but carrying anything more than a handbag and walking at the same time just isn't possible. What I needed was one of those dinky suitcases on tiny wheels with a retractable handle, specifically designed for trains and planes. Haven't got one, no time to get one... Inspiration! Under a pile of boxes, blankets and life jackets right at the back of the box room there's a shopping trolley. It's got wheels and a handle - use that. It hasn't seen the light of day since a boating trip to Holland four years ago, but I know it's there. Got it out, gave it a dust, put my clothes in, then realised that its only method of closure is a little strip of velcro. More inspiration! The medium size suitcase slides into the shopping trolley a treat. Problem solved. Hurray! Good night.
In the morning Ron took me to catch the train at our local station, which is small and unmanned. I had a reserved seat on the Penzance-London train in a coach which was way beyond the platform, so Ron hoisted the trolley up into the train for me and I made my way back three coaches, pushing the trolley and carrying handbag and laptop case. This was my first problem - there were lots of obstacles, people and things, in my way, some of whom I may have injured quite severely. I just kept my head down and muttered a nonstop litany; 'Sorry, excuse me, sorry...'
When I found my seat I discovered that the trolley, with its big, easy push wheels and non-retractable handle, wouldn't fit properly in the luggage bay. All the way to Bristol I could hear people muttering gently to themselves as they tripped over it or tried to get their own luggage in or out of the small space available. I kept my head down and pretended it was nothing to do with me...
Bristol is a big city, with a big railway station. Getting off the train was easy - I was in the way so someone lifted the monster trolley down for me - but finding my way out was more difficult. Down in a lift to Subway, round a few corners, up in another lift to Way Out. Now which way? I'd looked on a map, my destination was only a ten minute walk away with no hills, I needed the exercise. But which direction to go in? Not a single useful map anywhere on the station concourse. The main station entrance opens out on to an enormous square and I could have wandered round there for a long time if I went in the wrong direction. I think it was the sixth or seventh person I asked who was able to show me which direction to walk, and off we went, the monster trolley and I. I didn't get lost, in fact it was quite a pleasant walk, and halfway there a young lady asked 'me' for directions!
I had a pleasant, if tiring, few days and then it was time to reverse the process. Walking to the station - fine. Operating the prepaid ticket dispensing machine - OK, although I paused to read the instructions first, causing a young lady to ask if I was going to use it, or not? You go first, I said, I'll watch what you do...
Through the barriers, down to Subway, round in circles, up to Platform 8 - and the train was delayed. Kirkcaldy to Plymouth, this one, and about a twenty minute delay. Which would mean I'd miss my connection. Still, never mind. The delay meant I had time to talk to a couple of seasoned travellers, one of whom indicated exactly where I should stand to be by the door of my coach when it arrived (he was right) and told me I'd not be able to use my dongle (he was wrong - perhaps there's too much interference up the front in first class, but I was OK). So there I was at the door of the coach and there was absolutely no way I could lift that monster thing up three feet and across two to get it on the train. No way at all. A young girl finally came to my rescue, I parked it half in half out of the overflowing luggage space and we were off.
By the time we got to Plymouth I'd downloaded and read a couple of hundred emails and dozed a bit. We'd also caught up about ten minutes so were only about ten minutes late. A porter was hovering, lifted the monster down for me and pointed out the little stopping train I needed on the other platform. Lift, Subway, lift, platform. A train like a bus, almost flat to the platform - I managed to get myself and my luggage on to it all by myself! It departed immediately, some six minutes behind schedule. I do believe it had been waiting just for me! Which was nice... and so home. I hadn't realised that trains did request stops, but there are three, apparently, in the 25 mile trajectory between Plymouth and the terminus at Liskeard. I even managed to get off the train on my own, as well, and the man and the dog carried me the rest of the way home...
I'll not be doing it again, though. However much better for the environment it may be to use public transport, until I can afford a personal minion to carry stuff for me I'll be sticking to the car, I'm afraid.

Caravanning - A New Adventure

It is a fact, boring but true, that when life is so exciting there is lots to write about there isn't enough time to write, and when there's lots of time there are fewer adventures to talk about. Caravanning was a Proper Adventure, though, so deserves a mention even a few weeks late.

In mid September Ron bought a touring caravan. We've never had one before, but this was a bargain not to be missed. A lovely little thing, 12ft long, in very good condition but an empty shell, not equipped at all with anything. After a week of dashing around acquiring replacements for all the useful stuff we sold with the boat - a chemical toilet, melamine plates and cups and stuff, cutlery, corkscrew, pots and pans, - we set off for our first adventure the last Friday of September, taking full advantage of the proper summer weather we'd been having.

The caravan lives in Weaver's Field, and to get out to the lane it has to go steeply downhill through two field gates, one to keep the geese in and the horse out of the caravan-boat-van field, the next to keep the horse in and the traffic out of the lower end. I opened the first gate and watched Ron driving through. The caravan tyre was flat! Absolutely flat, even at the top. Half an hour with a mini air compressor later it seemed all right so we set off, pausing regularly at laybys to check for the first few miles. In fact, the tyre stayed up and is still perfectly OK, so the lack of air remains a mystery.

We only ventured just to the edge of Dartmoor, a holiday park called Langstone Manor between Tavistock and Princetown. Less than an hour in a car from home, but quite far enough, we felt, for our first venture as 'shed-pullers'. The sun shone, the sky was blue, the people were friendly, the food was good (I didn't cook much, as evening meals were available in the bar). Ty and I strolled among the gorse and the heather, but didn't venture very far as I don't trust the moors enough to go exploring alone, even when the weather is good. We did lots and lots of walking sedately and carefully through flocks of sheep, but even more just sitting in the sun and soaking up the silence. I watched a pair of ravens flying in formation for hours, wingtip to wingtip, spiralling across the cloudless blue, while in another sector overhead a buzzard was being mobbed by jackdaws. When the two groups met the ravens just soared effortlessly and carelessly above the mob.

Ron did adjustments to the electrical system, wiring up batteries and getting things working properly, and a lot of reading. So did I actually, more than I have for months. We had no TV, no radio (the one in the caravan didn't work), no internet or email. I'm not sure if the mobiles worked; I don't think I tried to talk to anybody. We took the laptop and some DVDs in case we wanted to watch a film - we didn't bother. Oddly enough, Ron missed the internet more than I did, and insisted on acquiring a dongle as soon as we got home, ready for the next adventure. (I have actually used it on the train now, but that's another story!)

We came home on Monday hooked on the whole experience. Obviously we will need to make improvements (and remember the tin opener next time!), but in general it was good. It's like boating only a lot more comfortable, and probably rather safer...

Drenched on Dartmoor

The new boots and waterproof jacket finally got properly roadtested today - and passed with flying colours. Lovely warm, dry feet I had, and I was warm and dry under my jacket too; the only slight problem being that I had once more underestimated the force of the Dartmoor microclimate and forgotten the waterproof trousers and rainhat. Very damp indeed about the legs and the ears, I was. I can't wear a hood without a hat underneath because I become blind and deaf, which isn't a good way to be walking on the moors.

The forecast was for a gentle drizzle and it was quite dry at home, but the weather closed in more and more as I was driving up to Postbridge. Visibility on the moor road before Princetown was only a few feet, and most of the sheep and cattle had chosen to follow the road. Past Princetown it cleared a little. Postbridge itself was another first for me - a nice big car park, information centre, loos, little shop without rain hats, coach loads of German tourists, lots of driving rain. Still, booted, jacketed and wrong trousered I followed the gang up from there to Bellever Tor and back down round again. About a five mile walk which was actually mostly very enjoyable, if a trifle bracing. Once or twice it almost stopped raining and we could see a little way, just occasionally it blew up a proper hooley and we couldn't. After having had to negotiate through herds and flocks of loose livestock on the road, we didn't see any at all through the walk apart from a small group of alpaca in a field. Oh, and a shrew which ran across the track about six inches in front of my boots.

Back at Postbridge I changed into dry trousers and sandals before driving up to Warren House for lunch, which was very good when it finally arrived. We'd booked a table but had to wait a while for earlier eaters to finish their meals before we could start. A very popular watering hole, Warren House, allegedly the highest inn on the moor, and full today of extremely wet walkers. I was feeling quite smug about my comparative dryness by the time we left until I discovered that an injudicious choice of windows left open for the dog in the car meant that I had to sit in a puddle all the way home. How can so much water get through such a small space? One of the insoluble mysteries of Dartmoor.

Late night walk

After midnight after a beautiful summer day. It's clear and calm, not a breath of wind, when Ty and I go for our final stroll, me keeping as usual to the tarmac path and street lights along the top of the Coombe while he explores the scents of the night. A new sound - pattercrackle, pattercrackle - not the stream, which is quiet after a few dry days, not the crickets, which are murmuring in the background, not the traffic, which is almost absent and very distant now. I stand still, listening, feeling for the sound. It's raining leaves. All around me leaves are falling, dropping straight down to the dry earth below, pattercrackle, pattercrackle. A fox barks from further down the Coombe, eliciting a frantic response from Widget the Lurcher at number 21. Ty, mercifully, is silent, and we walk home.

Summer at Last!

I take back what I said about it always being winter on Dartmoor. Today it was definitely summer up there. About time, I suppose - I'd like to think that I triggered the recent spell of glorious sunshine being enjoyed over much of the UK by taking possession of the winter waterproofs a week or so ago, but I don't suppose anyone will give me that much credit. Anyway, walking on Dartmoor today it was t-shirt, sandals and sunhat time, and very pleasant it was too!
The meet was at Cadover Bridge, a new name to me. A quick Google revealed that it was right on the edge of the Dartmoor National Park, up at the top of the Plym valley. Getting directions was a bit vague - Google just had quite a lot of 'after 1.3 miles, turn right' without road names, RAC, Multimap and the Satnav couldn't find it at all. I reasoned that as it was only fifteen minutes from Plymouth city centre it would be well known enough to have signposts from the main road, which proved to be the case, so, having allowed half an hour for getting lost, I was there half an hour early. Ty didn't mind - there was a whole river to splash about in while we waited. I was a little surprised by the amount of car parking space available for such a remote spot; at 10am there was only one other car in what I took to be the main car park, and several other empty car parks within sight.
It turned out that we were only three and a dog for walkies. In glorious sunshine and a pleasant breeze we started from Cadover back up the road and along a lane to Brisworthy then up onto the moor proper, past a stone circle and ever upward to the top of Legis Tor. Not too high, not too difficult - even I got to the top for a magnificent view of the moor and the China Clay workings at Lee Moor. From there we descended gently to ford the river at Ditsworthy. This was fun - I had my proper trekking toe protecting instant drying sandals and rollup trousers, so I just walked on through - my two companions were both wearing boots, but our leader had thoughtfully rolled up a pair of wellies in his backpack for use at the ford - he crossed first then threw them back for Bob. It's as well I didn't need them, as I would have been able to put them on without taking my sandals off but probably not walk, let alone wade in them.
The original plan had been to climb to the top of Trowelsworthy Tor, where there are interesting stone works and such, but we had people to meet and lunch to eat, so we went half way up and then followed the leat along the side of the hill. This didn't exactly prove to be the easy option, as it was sploshy in places to say the least... Wet black stuff sucking the sandals off one's feet isn't the nicest feeling, but walking through nice clean green wet moss afterwards cleaned them off a treat and they dry quickly. Proper boots proved slightly inadequate and they don't dry the same.
About six miles we did, in the round. When we got back to Cadover at lunchtime I discovered the reason for the car parks - the river bank was full of picnickers, with kids in wetsuits (or just swimsuits) happily splashing about, windbreaks up, sunbathers, BBQs; it seemed like half the population of Plymouth indulging in general summer Sunday frivolity and every parking space taken. I might never have heard of Cadover Bridge, but everybody else obviously knows it well!
Lunch had been booked at the Moorland Hotel, Wotter, which enjoys a magnificent situation on the moor with actual sea views. We were joined by five non walkers and had a very fine lunch indeed. Good food, well presented in pleasant surroundings with friendly service and congenial conversation - and it wasn't even expensive.
Days like today easily make up for the occasional spell of bad weather and help remind me that I live in one of the loveliest corners of the world. Variety, as they say, is the spice of life, even as far as the climate is concerned.

These Boots Were Made For Walking

The nicest thing about shopping on the Internet is that Christmas feeling when the parcels arrive. Today I took delivery of new guaranteed waterproof walking boots and a new, bright blue, waterproof jacket. Never again will I walk all day with soaking wet feet as I did a couple of weeks ago round Lanlivery - or at least that's the plan.
The boots fit, the jacket's lovely, all I need now is an opportunity to wear them, but sadly the rain has gone and been replaced by bright sunshine and a strong, drying wind. Ah, yes, but... up on the moors it's always winter, so it's OK to wear all the new gear!
I took a quick hike with the dog up and down the coombe to test the boots for comfort (great) then took them for a proper test up at Minions, on Bodmin Moor with the usual walking gang. The wind was cold but the sky was bright, the tracks were pretty dry but the grass was swampy, the feet were snug, the new jacket kept the wind out, result!
We went to Goldie's first, mostly for Ty's benefit. I think it's his favourite swimming hole in the whole world, and he was off down the track at full gallop, pausing occasionally to look to see if I was calling him back but not quite giving me time to actually call him. When he had made sure the pool was there where he remembered it was he came racing back for the other two dogs. By the time us slow humans caught up all three of them were in the water.
There were campers there, including two young men in wet suits who were walking around, finally climbing up to the jumping cliff and looking down. Thirty years ago, for two whole summers Goldie's was THE place to go and play, jumping off the cliff, swimming, picnics. One year there was even a scaffolding to make it fifteen feet higher, and a pulley across and down to the other side for sliding down and letting go half way. I never did it myself, being more the sort of person who held the towels and made the sandwiches, but I have several reels of super8 film somewhere I really should dig out and get put on DVD. And the sun always shone, the water was always cold, none of that global warming nonsense then! Anyway, back in 2009, one of the young men did jump. Well done!
From one former granite quarry we walked across to the next one, Cheesewring, intending to follow the old railway track back to the village, only to discover our way barred by some high fences keeping us away from a very, very big hole in the ground where a new mineshaft had apparently opened itself up. Bit of a detour then back on the track and back down to Minions to the Cheesewring pub. It was getting dark by the time we got back about eight; soon it will be impossible to walk in the evenings.
We had a good meal, too, to round off the evening. No Eton Mess, but a non messy even sweeter equivalent called a Big Gooey Meringue. Quite an accurate description. That's my pudding allowance over for another month...

When it rains, the pond fills...

It's two weeks and two days since I started digging the pond. Twelve days ago I poured in a bucketful of stored rain water and left it more or less to its own devices. We haven't actually had 12 inches of rain in the last fortnight, as I've been collecting water in containers and adding that as well, but still it's been quick!
I didn't put the pond liner in quite level. I wanted a mini marsh at one end and I've had to wait for it to overflow before I could be sure of building it in the right place. This morning it was ready, so I built ramparts of the slate I mined and filled it with compost and moss so that it slopes nicely down into the water. Hopefully now the level will rise that final couple of inches.
Less than half an hour later I watched a dozen sparrows go from the seed feeders down to my new marshy pond margin and drink! If they like it hopefully so will other creatures. I did actually see a big adult frog within a hundred metres of my pond one day last week when I was picking blackberries just after a heavy shower. It was crossing the lane and going into the coombe, but at least it shows they are about.
I've now got three types of weed - some feathery plants from Roger's pond which are anchored to the bottom, mini floating plants which also came from Roger's by mistake and a big handful (85p) of proper oxygenating duckweed from the aquatics shop at Carkeel. I've stuck some more bits of ground cover plants at the back by the wall, as well. Viewed from above I feel that it does now actually look as if it is a permanent feature of the garden. There's something very satisfying about landscaping, even on this miniature scale. I find myself looking around for the next project...

Things with wings

I walked into the kitchen yesterday morning and there they were, a whole flock of them – great tits, blue tits, coal tits, chaffinches – dancing between the birch trees, swooping down to the feeders, back to the fence, back up to the trees... It’s a sign of approaching autumn when they group together like this, and there were fifty or more in this flock, the first such visitation of the year. Unlike the sparrows they take turns, playing follow my leader round and round, tree, tree, fence, tree, fence, feeder, fence, tree... All of them bright and shining with new feathers in the Late Summer Bank Holiday drizzle. What had I gone to the kitchen for? I’m afraid it was forgotten in the whirring, whistling, chirping exuberance of the display.
The phone rang, I went to answer it, and when I returned less than five minutes later it was as if they had never been, all was quiet and still apart from the few sparrows who had come over from Sparrow Central in the Escallonia hedge just to remind all comers that they had first dibs on this particular feeding station.
This flocking behaviour is a sure sign that the birds’ breeding season is over and autumn is on the way, as if one couldn’t already tell from the proliferation of blackberries, elderberries, hips, haws, sloes, etc in the hedgerows. Trees are still in full green leaf and the woods are as green as they ever get, but there’s still the feeling that the season will be turning any moment. The weather doesn’t help, of course – autumnal drizzle leads to autumnal thoughts and behaviour.

Another sign of autumn, so they tell me, is that wasps start to take an interest in beer and jam and that sort of thing. When I got to the Copley after walking through the valley with Ty in the drizzle in the afternoon, the gang was there on the terrace under the big umbrella, having a lovely time as usual, plus a couple of visitors and a wasp. Visitor from Midlands took delight in destroying said wasp by drowning it in J2O. Another wasp wandered in and was swatted with a menu. Yet another tried his luck – swatting AND drowning. This went on all afternoon and quite spoiled the day for me. Watching a man in his sixties take a delight in murdering things that weren’t doing him any harm or posing any threat, time after time, by methods as cruel as he could think of, was quite depressing. The wasps kept coming, though, one at a time - I wonder if they can sense that a sister is in trouble?
I can understand and accept that wasps’ nests occasionally have to be humanely destroyed if constructed in a place which clashes with human activity. It’s sad, but it’s life. This was something else altogether. He also mentioned casually in passing that the most stings he had ever had was 25. Why? He’d been digging out a nest to take the grubs as fishing bait. Serves him right, say I. Not out loud, though; he’s a very good friend of a very good friend and it was too trivial a matter to argue about, although it won’t be forgotten.

Sunday, Saints Way...

A sunny Sunday stroll along the Saints Way. That's what we'd planned, anyway, but the day dawned cloudy and the clouds rapidly came down to ground level, where they stayed for most of the seven mile circular walk starting and finishing at the Crown, Lanlivery, and taking in bits of the Saints Way. When the rain clouds lifted slightly we found ourselves walking through clouds of butterflies instead!
It was lucky, in a way, that it was raining when we set out, as the wet weather gear gave us some protection from the totally overgrown public footpath that started the walk. The usual summer walking shorts and sandals would have been quite inadequate, and a machete would have been nice. The second section, also public footpath, wasn't much better; it wasn't particularly well marked and involved stepping over a section of electrified fence which was just lying on the wet ground. Two of the dogs didn't quite manage to miss the wire and found it quite distressing. Two fields further up the hill we met the farmer on his quad bike, who found our exaggerated respect for his electric fences quite amusing - he said they weren't on. When we told him about the bit at the bottom he went racing off to put it right, blaming other walkers for knocking it down, which is probably right.
Through Luxulyan, which has some very old and attractive houses and gardens, then on to the Saints Way proper along another short but very overgrown stretch of path. This part of the path goes through green and secret mossy woods along a disconcerting stream - it seems that you are walking down hill but the stream flows the other way. Then up and up, through a bit of a nature reserve to Helman Tor (which we skirted round) and along a green lane full of butterflies and back down to Lanlivery for lunch at the Crown.
I spent almost the entire walk with wet feet, so I'll need to look for new boots before the rainy season proper sets in. On the other hand, the Peter Storm waterproof overtrousers I found for a pound in a charity shop worked jolly well on their first outing.
Today, Monday, it really is sunny, which is nice. My new pond is almost two inches deeper than it was yesterday, which is even nicer...

We dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig...

This is my new pond. It is quite small, although it's as big as it possibly can be given the size of my gravel patch, and has cost an inordinate amount of effort.

I've been wanting a pond ever since my first attempt at landscaping - the rockery - two years ago, and experimented with a miniature water feature (old roasting tin recessed into the gravel, pretty stones and a couple of ferns round it) but wasn't content with that and have been looking for a nice small deep preformed pond for ages. Finally found one on the internet, it came last Tuesday and I've been digging more or less ever since.

I knew that there was heavy duty plastic under the gravel, and that under that there was red clay, because I got down that far when siting the compost bin, but what I didn't realise that under a couple of inches of clay there was solid slate. Should have done really, in hindsight, there's slate everywhere else... What's worse, about three inches down alongside the wall where I started digging there was also quite a thick layer of concrete extending about a foot from the edge. With my little trowel and Ron's entrenching tool I made quite good progress for the first eight inches or so down from the surface as the slate was fairly loose but the last few inches (pond is just over a foot deep) was really, really, hard. And I couldn't do anything about the concrete at all - it's got a lot of granite in it and was causing sparks to fly every time I hit it feebly with the digger. Ron sorted it, though. In about ten minutes with the big sledgehammer then the small sledgehammer and a big chisel he made more hole than I had in two days, and left me with just the finishing off.

It's in now, bedded in with nice soft compost, ferns replaced and a few muscari bulbs and other bits stuck in here and there. Almost empty still, of course; I keep looking out at the clouds and hoping it will rain. I've got lots of buckets and bowls strategically placed to catch as much water as possible, as well.

I want it to be a proper wildlife pond, and internet research suggests that the very best way to do this is to leave it to be colonised naturally - just fill with rainwater and wait for stuff to arrive. I don't think I have quite that long to live, though, so I may have to help it a bit. Come the spring I shall probably be stealing frogspawn from somewhere...

I do like to be beside the seaside

It was perfect picture postcard seaside weather on Sunday, warm, sunny, just enough breeze to make it bearable...
Our walk, for walking was the purpose of the trip, started at Bigbury-on-Sea, just a few miles east of Plymouth, famous mostly for having an almost island, Burgh Island, accessible along a causeway of perfect picture postcard golden seaside sand. We briefly admired the island, the causeway and the people enjoying the beach from above in the (pricey) car park before turning our backs on all that and trekking uphill and inland, climbing high above the Avon but following its path for a while. At the top of the hill we looped westwards through the village of Ringmore and back to the coast at Toby's Point. A magnificent look-out point this, with Burgh Island to the left and views all the way to Wembury at the entrance to Plymouth Sound to the right. From there we walked down through Challaborough, a small town of holiday caravans with its own shops and a more or less private beach, and back up and over to Bigbury again. About four miles in total.
I was once more extremely impressed by the standard of waymarking of the paths we followed and slightly surprised at the absence of any other walkers on the inland part of our route. South Hams council do seem to keep their public footpaths in better repair than most. Part of our walk was SW Coast Path, but not all of it, by any means.
The two most interesting bits of wildlife, oddly enough, were both right at the end of the walk, on the very busy path between Challaborough and Bigbury. I heard a peregrine falcon, looked up, and saw a buzzard. Strange! Then I saw that the buzzard was being buzzed by a pair of peregrines, who were flying up above it and divebombing it, while the buzzard flapped slowly round in circles. This is not behaviour I've seen before. Then, moments later, my eye was caught by a couple of scabious flowers which were being visited by three red and black variable burnet moths each (and one had a bumble bee as well). There were plenty of other scabious flowers around, but only these two seemed to be of interest. I thought perhaps the flowers only produce nectar for part of their flowering cycle, like gorse does, but they have such a short season that it would surely be counter productive.
Anyway, there it was, lunchtime, high tide, and the only pub on Burgh Island. Out of reach? No, not at all. There is a sea tractor which plies its way from Island to shore (about 200 metres) at high tide for those who do not wish to get their feet wet (and have £2 to spare) but with neap tides and a gentle sea there was only a matter of ten metres of ankle deep water to cross at the Island end to get to the pub, so we walked and paddled it. The pub is famous, apparently, for being a favourite of Agatha Christie, but I was somewhat disappointed in it. They know they have to cater for summer visitors, but they don't want to and do it with extreme ill grace. Half the pub is out of bounds to visitors; in the other half strangers who have braved the tide are allowed to queue (out of the door) for an overpriced drink and a choice of overpriced tired baguettes and sit on the non reserved benches outside in full sun to consume them, while the shady outdoor tables are reserved for 'proper' customers, of which there were none.
The island is privately owned, so I suppose one should be grateful for being allowed to step on to it at all. There is a path up to the top and back and after lunch my companions wandered up there, but I didn't bother. And another disappointment - two of my friends were determined to try to sea tractor to go back, but the tide had gone out again and it had stopped running by the time we were ready to leave. I paddled all the way back along the eastern side of the causeway, just so that I can say I have actually been in the sea (up to my knees anyway) this year, and Ty swam.
So there it was, our day beside the proper seaside. Enjoyable, as long as one can avoid actually sitting on a beach!

1066 and all what?

I went to the local leisure centre for an aquacise class this evening. All the doors there are locked with numeric keypads, and the code is changed randomly whenever the duty manager feels like it. Tonight the number stamped on my ticket when I arrived was 1066, and I made some offhand comment about somebody having been studying history. "Ah yes," responded the DM, a bright young man in his twenties, who happened to be sitting behind the reception desk at the time, "I had history drummed into me so hard at school that I will never forget. 1066 - Battle of Hastings." Don't know why, probably my schoolmistressy nature, but I asked him if he knew what happened at the Battle of Hastings. No, no idea, not an inkling, zilch. So he asked the new trainee receptionist, her having been at school rather more recently - "No, sorry, I gave up history in year 8. Was there a war?" The aquacise teacher, late fifties but very fit, walks past and joins in. "Was it the Vikings?" Her second guess was Normans, but even she didn't know who against, why, nor who had won. I'd have expected her to, she's much of my generation, so she was at school when education was education... By now it was becoming a challenge. The receptionist shouted up the stairs to the Gym Manager, who was leaning over the banisters looking down on us, and who actually knew the names King Harold and William the Conqueror, so he got a tick and a gold star. And I had a very enjoyable splash about, mentally tutting to myself about the standard of education today, etc.
But then it happened that I asked myself whether, in fact, knowing that the Battle of Hastings changed almost everything at the time, even the language spoken on this island, is actually relevant to these young people's lives? After all, it was nearly a thousand years ago. To them, the Dark Ages are the days of my youth. They cannot conceive of a world without computers, mobile phones, nonstop music in the ear, instant communication - blogs even. I don't often think of myself as being old, but am amazed sometimes at the things that have changed in my lifetime. And grateful for many of them...
1066 and - so what? 2009 is where we are at.

Nature Notes (assorted)

Here we are at the beginning of August. It's raining, which seems to be pretty much the norm for British summer weather. Nothing spectacular is happening, but I've seen lots of little things in the last few days which I don't want to forget...

Yesterday, 2nd August, I saw a moorhen chick which couldn't have been more than a day or two old. This was on the Dragonfly Pond in Seaton Country Park, which is pretty well covered with waterlilies this time of year, making it ideal moorhen territory. I also saw three adults and three full grown juveniles. The little one was being assiduously cared for, but only by one parent. There were five juvenile mallards in a group, as well. No sign of any dragonflies...

At home there are a fair number of baby sparrows sitting on the back fence and begging again. These must be the second or possibly even third brood of the year. There aren't nearly as many of them about as last year, however. I haven't seen more than about 20 at a time, parents and offspring, while on one occasion last year there were more than 100 in a single flock on my tiny patch.

Having devoured and no doubt relished my entire blueberry crop, the marauding gang of mixed tits and finches has now moved on to rowans. There are a dozen rowan trees around and about, all presumably planted when these houses were built. Every year they ripen in the same order over about six weeks - the first tree is feeding the birds now, while on another just along the road the berries haven't even started changing colour. The fact that the birds are now back in a flock shows that the breeding season is over for them, although there are still some fairly immature looking bluetits about.

Out of the window, right now - seven juvenile blackbirds, daddy and baby chaffinch on the fence with the rest of the family in the trees, one baby sparrow who is perching under one of the seed feeders with his mouth open (apparently quite an effective way to get fed) 13 other sparrows, lots of goldfinches in the silver birches, black headed gulls who've gone grey... Just arrived, a greenfinch and two baby bluetits. One of them is picking seeds out of the fat ball and spitting them out, which seems a little ungrateful.

Blackberries are ripe and are already being eaten. Again, like the rowans, there are places where they ripen earlier than others, but we know where to go... There's a pink early-flowering clematis on Henry's fence which is coming into flower again. Out of 12 nasturtium seeds I planted, only two have germinated, but they seem to be taking over the whole garden.

I saw my very first mole yesterday. It was dead, unfortunately, although only recently and seemingly non violently. It just seemed to be asleep at the side of a path through the woods in Seaton Valley - not at all what I would have considered mole country. Good to have the opportunity to study it (but not too closely!), sad that it had to die first.

In the Coombe, this morning, suddenly a fairy ring! Well, a fairy semicircle to one side of the path, to be precise, but the right shape and about four feet across. They looked just like the button mushrooms you see in the supermarket, but I doubt if they are, and I'm not hungry enough to take a chance on it.

I think that's about it for the nature notes, for now.

Feathered Felons, or "B****y Birds!"

I am a friend to birds. My little back yard has two bird seed feeders, fat balls, peanuts, home made wholemeal breadcrumbs, and a separate covered bird table for the shy little ones. I keep them all topped up at all times, and make sure they have a bowl of clean water. I am even cultivating (or deliberately chose not to weed out) a teasel which is now over seven feet tall and bears 19 flower heads, just so the goldfinches will have somewhere nice to come this winter. Mostly I am visited by sparrows, but there are many others as well. Lots of juvenile blackbirds at the moment, for example.

What with the gravel patch where the rotary clothes line goes and the vertical scree around the edges there's not much room in my garden for 'real' plants, especially edible ones, but I do have two blueberries, two strawberries and a tomato in pots. I've been eagerly watching my small crop of blueberries swell and ripen since early March. Two days ago they were almost ripe, bluish but not quite the colour they are in the supermarket. Yesterday it rained all day and the garden was full of birds. Today the sun is shining, there isn't a bird in sight and my blueberries are gone! And the first and biggest tomato, which was just beginning to change colour, is on the gravel, neatly hollowed out. I must confess to a certain disappointment. In hindsight, however, I suppose it was inevitable - they are encouraged to eat everything else, why would the blueberries be any different? Is it worth trying to save the four on one plant and two on the other, yet unripe, they left me? No, not now. Next year, netting. Maybe.

Not Rough Tor (again)

Over on the north edge of Bodmin Moor there are two high bits, Rough Tor and Brown Willy, that I have never been to the top of, although they are fairly accessible on foot without requiring any serious climbing. Over the past few years, several expeditions to walk them have been planned, but each time something has gone wrong - one time there were severe gales, another there was very heavy rain, once I think I wasn't well but something else went wrong anyway.

So the 2009 Rough Tor/Brown Willy Expedition (bring a picnic) was scheduled for yesterday, Sunday. Saturday had been hot and sunny, and Sunday morning was overcast but dry so it seemed as though it was possible, this time. I duly packed the dog, a picnic, grandad's spiky walking stick and some walking clothes, and set off quite optimistically. Bearing in mind that although it is mid Summer it is also always colder on the moors, in addition to my usual summer walking outfit of trekking trousers, t-shirt, sunhat and sandals I took a light fleece, a fleece lined waterproof jacket and trousers, a rainhat, a warm lined hi-vis jacket with hood, heavy duty waterproof boots and socks, not to mention the emergency poncho which lives in the rucksack. Prepared for the very very worst, I was - or so I thought.

By the time I met the gang in the car park at the foot of Rough Tor it was already raining. I duly changed into the waterproof trousers, jacket and hat, and put on my heavy duty boots before we started up the hill. The higher we got the harder it rained and the more the wind blew, so that I very shortly found my right ear was full of icy rainwater, although my left side was comparatively dry. The weather closed in even more so that we couldn't even see the top of the hill, and then I realised that when we got up to the ridge we would have to turn and face directly into the wind to start the steep climb. At this point all enthusiasm for conquering Rough Tor left me. I was only slightly surprised at the alacrity with which my announcement that I was going to turn back was welcomed, by the human members of the party at least, the dogs weren't too pleased!

As we'd only been out an hour or so we decided to go for a flatter, hopefully more sheltered walk at Colliford Lake, which is also, coincidentally, on the way home. By the time we got there the rain was even heavier, so I swapped the original waterproof jacket (which had leaked down the front zip, so my t-shirt was quite soggy) for the hi-vis yellow number with hood. The dogs had a five minute swim and we went a quick walk across the dam and back, getting thoroughly soaked again. The waterproof boots were full of water by now, too, as it was more than a little marshy underfoot.

By this time we should by rights have been having the picnic lunch - soggy sandwiches, anyone? An indoor picnic sounded like a much better idea, especially with a new kitchen extension to show off. It's much, much nicer eating sitting at a table wearing dry clothes and drinking tea. And the new kitchen is even better than it looked in the photographs. It's comfortable, warm, light and spacious - all the things that a room at the heart of a house should be.

Ty rather disgraced himself; he's not used to cats at close quarters, and spent most of the time just standing and staring at them, quivering with tension, while they ignored him. Just before we left, however, he just had to have a lunge at Greebo, and came home with a bloody nose. I'm not sure whether he has learned anything by it, though.

By the time I got home all the clothes I had taken with me were wet. Even the poncho which I had to put on to come home, as it had started raining again while we were lunching. How can it be possible to get through three complete sets of waterproofs in one day, and not even get to the top of the hill? In July? In Cornwall? Easily, that's how...

Ermington to Yealmpton - 4 miles in 3 hours

Yesterday, on foot, by a very circuitous route. We started from the centre of Ermington village, having inspected the crooked spire of its Church, back down Town Hill and onto the main road before going over a stile to join the Erme-Plym trail, which could have taken us all the way to Laira Bridge in Plymouth, had we wished. The first part of the walk follows the river, which Ty found very exciting, and even Jake swam. Much of the rest of the part we followed goes through the Flete estate, through fields and woods. It's very well signposted but seems little used - we didn't meet any other walkers at all, and the path was overgrown in places. And in one place the signpost had been vandalised, so the finger pointing in the direction we wanted to go wasn't there! Luckily Ian had a map... When we reached the outskirts of Dunstone we decided we had lots of time to spare before lunch, so went off the trail and followed Ian's map along some very well marked public footpaths, reaching the Rose and Crown in Yealmpton just in time for our lunch booking at 1.30.

We were lucky with the weather - on the Cornish side of the Tamar they had some tremendous downpours, but we only had one short sharp shower. Fortuitously, it started just as we were passing an enormous storybook spreading chestnut tree in the middle of an open field, so we didn't even get wet! It was windy, it was cloudy, it was glorious sunshine; typical 'four seasons' summer weather. Quite warm though, and pleasant walking. This part of the South Hams is some of the best farming land around, and this was reflected in the fields we passed through. There were proper ginger Devon cattle, newly sheared sheep with fat lambs, fields of oats, barley, wheat, maize, all looking very healthy and almost ready to eat. The footpaths were well waymarked and modern stiles provided everywhere. Some of them were a little difficult to manage - one of the dogs had to be lifted over one of them - and some were a little OTT. As we walked down the side of one field of maize, for instance, we were directed through the hedge to walk down the side of another. There were three stiles - a modern wooden one, an old upright slab of stone and another modern wooden one - all to be negotiated with about a three foot clearance above them before the hedge closed in on all sides. Slowly and carefully all safely through - seven people and three dogs - we continued down the edge of field two, only to find within the space of ten yards a tractor width gap in the hedge!

The Rose and Crown at Yealmpton isn't really a hikers' pub - wildhaired and a bit muddy we contrasted with their other Sunday Best customers - but they put us in a private room to eat. The food was both pretty and tasty, with some unusual combinations.

Altogether a most enjoyable day out.

Minack in the Rain with Hungarian Cushion

The outing was planned months ago, the tickets bought, the travel and dining arrangements made - all that we couldn't control was the weather.

The Minack Theatre at Porthcurno www.minack.com bills itself as "Cornwall's Theatre Under the Stars", but it can also, of course, be Cornwall's Theatre Inside a Raincloud, as it was last night. Still, it had been raining most of the day so we were all prepared with waterproofs and warm things, just the thing for a midsummer evening. It was the actors I felt sorry for, but they put up a splendid show, making a bit of business out of tipping water off the chairs before they sat down, etc.

As well as waterproofs, of course, padding is required to sit on. The seating is basically tiers of stone steps, although they seem to have been turfed. I thought we had some vinyl cushions about the place, but they all seem to be on an Elsewhere, and I didn't really want to take a dinky velvet scatter cushion off the sofa. Emergency racking of brain during a grocery shopping expedition on Friday morning brought up a vague memory of cushion covers in my mother's old sewing box among some old silk scarves, crocheted doilies and other things I haven't looked at for years. When I finally got down through the piles of books, lamps, fuel pumps and other stuff on top of the sewing box I found not one but three large cushion covers, brand new and unused, made of a furnishing weight cotton cloth, two of them geometric red white and black, the third mustard yellow and black. "Ugly", I thought. But good enough for an outdoor theatre seat cushion.

On closer inspection I discovered that they still had their original labels - in Hungarian, and dated 4th September 1963. I can only guess that my father brought them back from one of his business trips, and my mother could not find a colour scheme in her tastefully decorated home they would go with. He always brought stuff back from trips - here a Daum vase, there an 'ethnic' cushion cover, often some exotic alcoholic beverage or confectionery, the very first pocket size transistor radios ever seen in England... Anyway, 46 years later, stuffed with an old pillow and wrapped in an official Council Recycling bag, one of his souvenirs made my evening at the Minack very comfortable indeed, and they'll make very good boat or camper cushions when I get round to doing the other two. Thanks, Dad!

It brought tears to my eyes...

... but I have no idea why.

This weekend is Saltash regatta, which includes a full programme of entertainment on the waterside, continental market, etc, etc, as well as the gig racing and other waterbased activities. There was a torrential downpour in the morning but it didn't last long enough to put a dampener on the festivities at all, so we went down for a look in the afternoon. It was very busy, with many people either watching the racing or enjoying the entertainment.

I was wandering around the stalls with Ty peacefully on his lead beside me when I became aware that he was quite insistently wanting to move in the opposite direction. Away from the percussion band which had just started up. I suppose it did sound a bit like gunfire, or fireworks, and he definitely didn't like it. I made him walk past it, being quietly encouraging, because it's good for his soul, but then took him down to the old quay and left him sitting with Ron in the comparative quiet by Solan Goose so that I could go back and look round at leisure.

Back past the folk duo, the shire horses, the music group on the green, Wreckers Morris under the bridges, a Frenchman from Plougastel (our twin town) giving away strawberries, stalls selling all kinds of food, drink, strange clothing and even stranger jewellery, herbal remedies and shiatsu massage...

Under the bridge I noticed, with quiet delight, that Crooked Tempo, Ty's nightmare drummers, were creating a substantial stone-and-metal echo. Their music was strong, rhythmic, complicated, joyous - and when I turned the corner and could actually see them, energetic, enthusiastic, smiling, dressed in turquoise, my eyes filled with tears and I had to look away. Why? No idea, but I will remember their performance.

Mint Resurrection

Much as it pains me to admit it, I am not the best gardener in the world. I try, but things die, usually because I treat them wrong, I suppose. Last year I did particularly badly, and almost everything new I planted disappeared. Betty down the road gave me a dozen anemone corms - I looked up the proper way to plant them, obeyed all the instructions to the letter, and not one of them ever came up. When I eventually emptied the planter I had put them in, there was no sign that anything had ever been there. The jasmine that Marjorie gave me started well, but didn't survive the winter. I bought a dozen alpines - half of them have done well, but the others have just disappeared. And I bought some herbs. There were half a dozen different ones - thyme, basil, chives, curry mint, rosemary - that I put in a planter together, and they are doing well. And a garden mint, mint sauce mint, which I put in a separate, large pot, where it grew well for a while and then died. It looked as if it had been got at and nibbled away.

Last weekend, almost a year later, I was gardening again. I've been given even more plants this year and some of them needed planting out in big pots. Being tidy minded and economical, I decided to finally give up on the mint and empty the pot to reuse the compost. In a horizontal line lining the pot about half way down, four or five inches from the surface, there was a strong white shoot circling round. Coming up vertically from this at regular intervals there were half a dozen white shoots, about an inch or so high, with what looked like miniature white leaves at the top. I didn't like to throw these in the compost bin, so I experimentally stuck them all in a small pot. Five days later they have gone green, the leaves have at least doubled in size and the shoots have grown taller! After I had tipped the old compost and buried mint plantlets out of the pot there were three slugs clinging to the inside about half way down, and I suspect that they were responsible for the original disappearance of the plant. They've been consigned to the compost heap, where a good slug belongs.

Now I'm not sure what to do - I bought another small mint plant from Lidl a couple of weeks ago which has survived so far. Should I risk putting all my new bits in one big pot, or should I stick bits here and there and hope? This is a very tentative mint resurrection, so far, but I feel more hopeful already. There will be mint sauce...

Boat Adventure

Quite suddenly, we have a new boat. For months and months Ron has spent night after night poring over eBay, and boats for sale websites, dithering over whether he likes this boat better than that boat, whether this one might be too small, that one might be too expensive, that one could go on the back of the mooring with Sarnia, this one could go in the dinghy park, that one is cheap but needs a lot of work, the other is expensive but he could sell lots of bits he doesn't want... it gets a bit repetitive and sometimes I just tune out altogether, not being able to tell a pilot from a pearn or an oyster from a pearl, indeed.

Until Monday. On Monday morning he saw the one he wanted, by Monday night it was his, cash on collection, and on Tuesday we embarked on an adventure to go and get it. Just to complicate matters, Tuesday is my morning in the Resource Centre and I had promised a master class on uploading photos to Facebook, no less, so I couldn't swap days. Anyway, he had enough to do in the morning running round trying to remember where the trailer board was (Downderry), getting the money out of the bank, trying to remember where we filed the TomTom (on top of the dresser), filling tanks with diesel and tyres with air, etc, so by the time we were ready to leave it was 3.30pm on the hottest day of the year so far, making Emsworth (Hampshire) and back rather more of an epic that we fancied for one day.

We got there quickly and uneventfully. The boat was exactly as described and pictured, just what he wanted, on a lovely new trailer, absolutely perfect, so that was OK. We asked the man who was selling it for a recommendation of a place to stay and he suggested the nearest B&B pub, about two minutes' walk away. The Railway Inn, Emsworth, can be thoroughly recommended as a place to stay. Comfortable, clean, friendly and easygoing, not too expensive, a perfect choice. We arrived there hot, tired and ready for refreshment at about 7pm. I left Ron sitting outside on the tiny terrace with the dog while I registered and took the bags to our room, and by the time I got back he was deep in conversation with a girl from over the road. We sat on the terrace until about 10pm, sending out for a Chinese which was both cheap and delicious (the barmaid brought us out plates and cutlery) while a succession of friendly customers, staff and locals came and talked to us. I learnt the best place to walk the dog, was advised on where to eat and when, was offered the use of a laptop to check emails etc (turned down, I was enjoying the day off!). At about ten I decided I should take the dog for a last walk before it got too dark, and that I'd better show Ron where the room was first. We had planned to go back down for a last drink afterwards, but by the time I got back from finding the Meadow Ron was well settled and we didn't bother.

It was still very hot - hotter than it ever gets in Cornwall at night - but we still slept pretty well. By 8 am Ty was getting a bit twitchy for a walk, so we went to explore Brook Meadow properly by daylight. Not the biggest bit of open space around - we went round two and a half times in a bit less than an hour - Brook Meadow is delightful, well cared for and obviously loved by the locals. It was a bit late in the season for the majority of wild flowers, but I sat happily on a bench breathing in the scents of mind and meadowsweet, listening to the birds... Until Ty asked me to throw a stick for him, and on running back with it skidded in a heap of dog mess. This in spite of the fact that not only are there plenty of dog bins, there is even a dog bag dispenser by the entrance to the meadow. Time for a paddle, I thought, well away from the water vole conservation area, of course. The brook comes into the meadow through a high brick tunnel under the railway line, and the arch frames a vista of parkland with impeccable lawns, sparkly weirs and rustic timber bridges, quite in contrast to the shoulder high vegetation on the meadow side. A dog walker I met told me that the other side of the tunnel was the garden of a private house, belonging to the widow of a former Admiral, he thought.

I'd have loved to have explored the village further - I also caught a glimpse of the river Ems with its swans and waterside, moored boats, small shops and a pretty square, but the boat awaited, so after a good substantial breakfast we walked down the road to get it.

When we got there the seller had already put the wheels on the trailer (it had been up on bricks the night before) and all we had to do was strap it down, hitch it up, plug in the trailer board and away! So far, the whole adventure had been utterly idyllic, free from problems of any kind, like a storybook in fact. One had wondered idly when it would start to go wrong, and when we took to the road home was when.

It was even hotter than the day before. The first part of the journey is A road then motorway, and after 25 miles or so we stopped at Rownhams Services, so that Ron could check that all was well with the boat and trailer. It wasn't. He touched the hub of a trailer wheel with the back of his hand to check the temperature, and it promptly blistered, burst and bled. White hot, they were, the trailer wheels, both of them. This was when we discovered that our RAC membership, paid for for ten years and only used twice, does not cover trailers. They could arrange recovery for us, but we'd have to pay. We were 25 miles in to a journey of 185, and we do not have money to spare for that kind of thing. That's what we thought we were paying the RAC for...

Ron had a few spanners and things but not his full collection. He came to the conclusion that the brakes were binding and had seized on. The trailer had not been used, we knew that, for a couple of years, but as the wheels had been put on by the time we got there in the morning he hadn't bothered to check to see if they were going round! Two hours or more we were there in the carpark, taking off wheels, trying to free up the brakes, trying to get oil (no grease available in the garage shop) on to the bearings with straws stolen from the Costa coffee machine. Ron's burnt hand was bleeding quite freely, my right shin lost some considerable amount of skin (and blood) while I was proving to myself that I can't jack wheels up, it was very, very hot, and 70 year old men should not be putting in that kind of physical effort. And another (minor) grouse - why do motorway services plant cherry trees as their only source of shade? Not that it would have mattered at any time but yesterday, really, but I tried to put myself and my dog in the shade, carefully removing all the old cherries from the ground before sitting, and was promptly rained upon by red squashiness. Luckily I was wearing a dress which doesn't show stains much - the cherries were only adding to the blood, oil, and whatever else that was already there!

Finally after a couple of hours Ron decided that it was safe to move on, very slowly and carefully. We stopped and checked the trailer wheels every few miles - one of them stayed cool and seemed OK, and although the other kept heating up (and had more oil poured in through a straw in a layby somewhere, plus cold water thrown over it when we found a garage with a tap) we did eventually make it to Downderry at 9.00pm, having left Emsworth at 11.15 in the morning. Drop boat, pick up fish and chips, eat, shower (second of the day) and bed. All sorting out and organising to be left for the morning. Adventure over, thank goodness!

Auntie Kate's Clock

It had been silent for a couple of months - a failure to remember to wind it one Sunday had resulted in a two and a half hour discrepancy between clock and chime, so we stopped it - until Ron got round to the complicated procedure for setting it right a couple of days ago. I hadn't realised how much I had missed it, actually, but when it is ticking and chiming away on the wall life seems altogether more right, somehow...

'It' is a long case chiming wall clock with a pendulum, often called a grandmother clock to distinguish from the floor standing grandfather, but in this case it is a great-aunt clock, Great Aunt Kate to be exact.

Auntie Kate was somewhat eccentric for her time. She was born around 1880, never married, and was for many years a subpostmistress in Penarth, going out to work and looking after her elderly parents at the same time. She was my maternal grandmother's elder sister. Until she died, in her 100th year, she kept the crown of braids hairstyle that was fashionable in her youth. Pure white her hair was, and easily long enough to sit on, but seeing it unbraided was a very rare sight. She told me that she had been ill in her early twenties (glandular fever, I think, but my memory may be at fault) and that all her hair had fallen out. When it grew back it was straight and white instead of red and curly.

When my grandmother died she had already retired. She sold her house in Penarth and moved in with my grandfather in Birmingham. We saw a lot more of her, and her eccentricities were a little more noticeable. One thing which we could not understand at all was her food choices - she was very fussy about what she 'could' and 'could not' eat, but there didn't seem to be any logic to it. Finally, one Christmas Day, it came to me - she restricted herself to food items which were white or beige - white bread, chicken breast, weak coffee (she liked Camp coffee best!), marshmallow biscuits... It would seem that at the time she was recuperating from her serious illness her doctor had told her to stick to a 'light' diet. She has misinterpreted his words, but had kept faithfully to what she believed he had meant all those years. And she was fit and healthy right to the end.

For many years she also was part of the shopping monitor, writing down each week what food she bought in response for a small reward. I'm not sure how much good she did their statistics, though - in the early 1970s there was a sugar crisis, sugar could not be got for love nor money, and Auntie Kate revealed a cupboard full from top to bottom with bags of sugar - she had bought one a week for, well, years and hardly used any! The sugar was solid, the bags were yellow, but we did manage to persuade her to part with a few of them at a profit.

As well as her clock on my wall I also have her sewing machine - a Singer hand machine which she bought new in 1905 (price five guineas). She lent it to me back in 1970 when I was recently married and broke, making me promise to let her have it back when I upgraded to an electric one, but I've never bothered to upgrade as it still does everything I need it to do.

Restarting the clock has brought Auntie Kate back to mind more vividly than ever.

Mt Edgcumbe in midsummer

And here it is, midsummer. The shortest night was last night, and from now on it's all downhill to Christmas...

Doesn't seem like all downhill, though. In fact, it promises to be quite a good summer from the traditional point of view of nice weather for the beach and the bbq. Yesterday and again today there was a complete reversal of the normal Cornish morning. Normally we start with a cloudless blue dawn (winter as well as summer) which rapidly deteriorates into cloud at best. Overcast dawns like today's, however, sometimes give way to glorious sunshine...

Yesterday's overcast dawn turned into one of the hottest days of the year so far. Ty and I went walking at Mt Edgcumbe, a country park estate overlooking Plymouth Sound. There were four people and five dogs, as we were joined by the giant poodle and the hyper springer, back down here on holiday. We all had what we thought were ample supplies of water - about four litres between us - but that was all gone by the time we stopped for our picnic! The dogs especially got very thirsty, and there were no streams along our route, which is quite unusual for Cornwall. We stopped for lunch almost at the top of the valley that leads to Maker church and were treated first to the sight of a green woodpecker flying back and forth across the valley and then to a couple of fallow deer running across just below the top of the hill. They stopped and stared (or probably sniffed) at us in that classic alert pose for just long enough for Micheal to take a couple of pictures, then carried on running across the hill down to the trees.

I had never seen a woodpecker in flight across open country before - if we hadn't first seen it in classic profile against a tree trunk I wouldn't have been sure what it was, as its back shone golden in the sun in flight.

Good doggie, clever doggie...

I don’t like people who tell you how clever their dogs are. Dogs aren’t all that clever really, although it seems to me that they are manipulative. That’s not to say that they can’t think, or remember (somebody tried to tell me yesterday that they couldn’t, but what she meant was that they don’t/can’t reminisce, which is a different thing altogether). What is not so certain is whether they can anticipate and plan for the future...

One thing that dogs like is routine. Do the same thing at the same time two days running, and it becomes an unalterable habit and will cause the poor animal all sorts of unhappiness if it doesn’t happen on the third. In consequence, I am very careful not to do the same thing twice running, thus giving myself an edge and the opportunity to make my own mind up now and than when and where and what we shall do. Apart from bedtime – the bedtime routine is fairly similar, but not at the same time every day (edge, see!). I tidy the kitchen, then I take the dog out for his last walk, come back and put the babygate across the stairs so he can’t eat the post in the morning, then he usually has a late night snack and goes off to sleep, leaving me to go straight to sleep or stay up all night if I wish...

Last night we did all the above, then I went back in the living room while he went for a drink and a biscuit or two. Instead of going off to sleep he came back in and went into his ‘I need something’ routine – paw on knee, eyes boring into mine, etc. He only does this when a) he wants to go out, b) he wants to eat something (usually people food he thinks he has identified as abandoned, but daren’t touch without permission) or c) I am talking to someone else and he wishes to remind me that he is the most important being in my life. Well a) and c) were quickly ruled out as we had just been out and I wasn’t talking (Ron was watching TV). So – b)? When I stood up he led me straight into the kitchen and looked pointedly at his water bowl, which he had just emptied. I filled it. He watched me, then turned away and went off to sleep. He didn’t have a drink, obviously didn’t need to. So he must have been anticipating future thirst and preparing for it. Or am I just falling into the ‘What a clever dog I’ve got’ trap?

First Fledglings

I heard them first, of course, such loud noises for such tiny creatures. Just before half past eight, a sunny, windy morning, and I was taking Ty out. There they were, right on edge of the coombe, a nestful of wrens trying their wings for the first time. I counted seven in sight at once, though there were probably more. Three of them landed on a tree trunk just in front of me; two went off to the sides, the third came to a branch within two feet of my eyes and stayed there for more than a minute. I've never been that close for that long to a wren before, so close I could count the spots on those new shiny feathers. I didn't realise they fledged with such short tails - there is nothing there to take away the roundness of the outline.

Our local Lidl was advertising folding wooden garden chairs this week, available from Thursday. On Tuesday, or thereabouts, I showed the picture to Ron and we decided we'd have a couple. Yesterday (Friday) I went to get some - and discovered that they had sold out within a couple of hours of the shop opening on Thursday morning! They did, however, have some of the rather more substantial (and more expensive) folding armchairs, so I got one of those instead.

It's really too big for our 'garden' - I'm fairly certain I won't be able to use it when the rotary clothes dryer is opened out - but very comfortable, and I tested it for an hour yesterday afternoon with a cup of tea and a good book. If we have a summer (and it seems as if it may happen, judging by this week anyway) I am prepared. Next project is to get a laptop, after which I may well move outdoors altogether...

Sunny Sunday

I put shorts on (well I unzipped and discarded the lower legs of my trekking trousers) for the first time yesterday. Even at 8.30, when I experimentally tested the bare legs down the Coombe, it only felt strange for a minute or so, then perfectly natural. Good, I thought, summer is here...

It was a beautiful day, sunny and bright with just about enough of a breeze to make it comfortable. We had a nice, gentle six mile walk around Wadebridge, starting in the Jubilee park, ascending gently up through footpaths and shady (even sometimes muddy) green lanes to Burlawn, down through the village then along the Forestry Commission track through Bishopswood to join the Camel Trail and thence back to Wadebridge. It was what summer walkies should be - no unusual sights but a general feeling of warm green brightness sparked through with bright flowers and birdsong. Lots of water for the dogs to play in, as well.

It was Ty's first proper walk since he hurt his paw, and he was fine. A slight limp when he got tired, but apart from that he seemed to enjoy himself. So much so that he slept most of the afternoon!

I went home and collected Ron at three so that we could spend a typical Sunday afternoon at the Copley - sipping cider by a trout stream in good company. The sunshine was a bonus - and in fact at one stage we gave some consideration to moving over the bridge to the shady side of the stream, but decided this was still a little previous.

Today, though, Bank Holiday Monday, all has changed. It's cool and dull and slightly spitting with rain. I was pleased to observe that for the first time this year it was drier under the trees in the Coombe than out in the open.

Tide out, tide in

It is always a pleasure to go down to the Creek. And often an unexpected pleasure, as it is impossible to see whether the tide is in or out, and what's there, until you cross the bridge and go down a narrow overgrown footpath beside the stream to where it suddenly opens out into a panorama framed by the railway viaduct.

This morning, a flock of upwards of two dozen house martins. Circling round and round, always gliding in to the same favoured bit of damp mud before taking off again. I hadn't seen them since this time last year, and I don't know whether they nest somewhere around here or are just passing through, although the mud testing seems to suggest they are thinking about settling.

When we lived in Spain our apartment block - and several others around the square - had big overhanging concrete porches supported by concrete columns, and it seemed that every corner had a martins' nest in it. They seem totally unfazed by the presence of people, cars, animals, noise, pollution...

The tide was right out this morning, but yesterday afternoon it was different. I'd somehow managed to acquire an extra dog on the way through the Coombe (well Ty and gone and charmed Marjorie into a nice heap of cookies, so it seemed only polite to take Tilly on our walk). She's not the most obedient of dogs, and she flew over the road and down the path to the creek faster than I could see that it was full of water and covered with swans (and Gordon the Goose, of course). By the time Ty and I had walked sedately to the water's edge she was in it, standing there staring at me in exactly the same way as Jake does. Not swimming, in fact refusing to swim when a stick is thrown, but wanting the stick to be thrown anyway.

I wasn't bothered about the swans as they were all the adolescent gang from the Waterside, well used to dogs and not protecting cygnets, although from the way Gordon bullies them I wouldn't put it past him to pick a fight with a collie. Anyway, as Tilly was in the water I had to let Ty go for a swim as well. Very noisy he was too, which got the swans all milling around staring at him from a safe distance of about ten feet away. And appeared to amuse the audience I eventually realised we had, standing in their garden looking down on us. I suppose they had been admiring the wildlife before the mad dogs and wild lady arrived...

On the way back I saw the first dog roses of the year in flower, and also suddenly a lot of brambles. Summer now seems to be well and truly here - all we need now is the weather to go with it.

Egyptian Geese revisited and pictured!

Well the promised card reader arrived from Ebay today - and the card from my camera is not compatible. This is spite of the fact that it was actually listed on the Ebay description, which is why I chose that particular reader from the several dozen models available. I was deeply disappointed, and have emailed them for advice, but in the meantime I fiddled and played and got all sorts of error messages but eventually managed to download the pictures I took on Saturday by way of the USB lead supplied with the camera. What software (if any) it was using I'm not sure - I'd downloaded a Windows 98 update from the Camera site (the only free update available) then when I plugged the camera in XP 'detected' it as new hardware, offered to find the software, claimed it couldn't and it wouldn't work, and it did... So now for today's second technical question - how to put a goose on a blog?

And at the third attempt, it's even more or less where I wanted it to be! So there you are, that's three new things I've done today.

The first new thing was a Tai Chi class at lunchtime. I imagine that when one knows what one is doing it may be destressing and relaxing, but I can't even walk the way I'm supposed to without falling over at the moment, let alone do a 'hip brush push' at the same time (if that's what it is called). Very great concentration is required and I can see that it will be good for my coordination and balance eventually, so I shall persevere with it for a while.

It is interesting that I have had to learn yet another 'correct' way of standing and breathing - yoga posture and breathing are different from pilates, and tai chi is different again. I wonder which is really the ideal? None of them seem quite natural to me...

Egyptian Geese

The Egyptian Goose is neither a goose nor from Egypt. It's not very British, not a native, but this afternoon there were a pair of them paddling up the river Avon (not 'that' Avon, either, but the one in the South Hams). They very obligingly came out of the water and posed for photographs, too.

We were looking at a boat for sale moored on the Avon near Aveton Gifford, out towards Kingsbridge. Ron was clambering all over it and I was watching swallows swooping down for mud for nest building when these strange birds suddenly appeared. They are actually shelduck, not geese, and only the second pair I have ever seen - the last time was in Holland on the Markermeer in 2002.

So why is there no photograph accompanying these words? Ah, well...

Last week I acquired a new printer through Freecycle. A rather posh one, all singing, all dancing, photos and faxes and scanning and everything. With card slots so that I could get the pictures from my outmoded digital camera - so old there's no software for it any more - actually on to the computer. Or so I thought. When we got home from our expedition I was keen to admire my wildlife shots (and some pictures of the boat). Unfortunately, however, the printer is so new that it doesn't accept the old photo card. Ebay will sell me a card reader for £6.95, thank you very much, and when it arrives I'll have something to try it out on.

This totally outmoded camera is probably less than ten years old. It takes very good photographs, and I don't see why I should replace it, but I may have to if I can't get it to work. Time was when good quality equipment lasted, now it's not supposed to...