...and a butterly fluttered by...

... A comma butterfly to be precise, which landed right in front of me in Hessenford wood this afternoon. The first one I've seen this year. And there have been other 'firsts' this week. In the Coombe the ramsons (wild garlic) are already coming into flower, although in Seaton Valley (and at Polkerris yesterday) there are still no flowers. I saw the first flower in the Coombe last Wednesday, and now there are hundreds. Although we have bluebells, daffodils, primroses, celandines and snowdrops locally, none of them do that English Heritage, home counties, picturesque carpet thing apart from the ramsons. In a couple of weeks the woods will be knee deep in white stars and wonderfully flavoursome. I always feel spring is really here when the garlic overpowers the cherry pie scent of the winter heliotrope. And yesterday, out on the cliffs the gorse, which has been flowering odourlessly all winter, was seriously into bee attraction mode with great dollops of coconut scented pollen.

I like this time of year. Every day something has changed, grown, burgeoned a little bit. One cannot but be optimistic...

What a beautiful day for a walk! We started from Polkerris today and did a round trip, following a bit of The Saints Way to Ready Money Cove, where we had a picnic on the beach, then back along the coast path by way of St Catherine's Castle and the DayMark at Gribbin Head to where we started from. A long walk - we took about five hours to do the 7 or 8 miles, but it was far too nice to hurry.

The first (and shorter/easier) half of the walk is mostly through farmland along the Saints Way. After a steep climb to begin with it was fairly easy walking, well trodden and well signposted. On the way we passed a small herd of Large Black pigs, as black as their name with muddy highlights and long floppy ears. One or two of the younger ones were curious and came over to touch noses with the equally curious dogs. By the time we got down to the delightful Ready Money Cove with its turreted shelter we were ready for lunch, parked on the rocks in the sun. The dogs went straight to the water and did their various usual things. Ty swam loudly round in circles, Jake stood in the water with his head on one side, patiently waiting for someone to throw something, Meg raced madly up and down the surf line. As usual, they attracted playmates. We watched Ty patiently lure one woman from the top of the beach to the waterline with a heavy piece of driftwood which was quite unsuitable for throwing. Still, he persuaded her to throw it and patiently corrected her every time she threw it away from the water until finally he had her with her boots off paddling and correctly throwing the log into the water for him.

Back on the trail there's a steep climb (naturally) up from the cove to St Catherine's Castle, part of the Henry VIII's coastal fortifications against the French, now ruined but with lovely views. Past there it got very breezy with the wind in our faces along the cliffs. We heard our first skylark of the year. Five minutes later we could hear half a dozen all round us. Another steep down, this time to Polridmouth, where there is a rather odd obviously man made lake (three mallard and a swan) and a bit of concrete wall passing it with stepping stones. Odd enough for me to have googled it. It appears that the lake was built as a decoy for Fowey during WWII!

Up again, down again, up again, up a bit more on to Gribbin Head, where the DayMark tower was locked so Bob couldn't climb to the top. Shame. I had no intention of trying, me. I was quite high enough up already, thank you. From there it's cliff top all the way, very narrow and very close to the edge in places, but fairly flattish until you get back to the steep bit through the woods back down to Polkerris. And now that I'm home I see (and feel) that my face has gone a delightful shade of salmon pink.

Growing Old Graciously

Ron was going over to Downderry this afternoon, and I had some serious housework planned, so it didn't take much persuasion to hitch a lift with him to Hessenford and walk Ty the rest of the way through Seaton Valley and along the beach. We had a pleasant and peaceful walk, comparing the progress of spring in the valley with Saltash (fewer daffodils, less advanced ramsons, lots of primroses, smaller and fewer tadpoles than at Latchbrook but some newly laid frogspawn, etc). There are kingcups flowering in the marshy bits of the valley - we don't get them at home at all.

I'd expected the tide to be fairly high, but in fact it was battering against the sea wall after the onshore gales of the last few days. The steps at the end of the wall down on to Downderry beach were well under water, giving a choice of the long way round (a couple of extra miles up a steep hill along a very busy, narrow road with no footpath) or scrambling down the end of the wall over the huge granite lumps and bits of fallen cliff of which it is composed. Well, I don't like it but I've done it before, it's OK as long as one takes it carefully, no problem.

Ty ran on ahead of me, tried the steps, turned back, skipped lightly down the boulders and was playing with a couple of other collies on the beach by the time I got to the end. The young couple with the collies greeted me nicely, asked me if I was going back, and when I said I was going on to Downderry scrambled up the wall to 'show me the best way down' although actually (I suspect) to keep a careful eye in case the poor old lady slipped and fell. And then we strolled along the beach more or less together. Lovely people, nice dogs.

When I got where I was going I mentioned this incident, and it was suggested that perhaps I should have resented the interference and the implication that I was incapable of looking after myself. I hadn't given it much thought till then, but no, I didn't resent it, I wasn't embarassed, I was actually quite grateful for their solicitude. So it would seem that not only do I look old, I'm beginning to think like an old lady as well. Is this a bad thing? I don't think so - but it's getting obvious that I'm no longer seventeen even on the inside!

Dartmoor in the 'Spring'

The weather has been quite mild for the past two or three days and this morning dawned bright and blue, in spite of the forecast for heavy showers, so an executive decision was made to go a little lighter on the heavy weather gear for the scheduled walk. This decision was wrong, very wrong. I went to Dartmoor wearing only jeans, a T-shirt, a wind/waterproof fleece lined jacket, sensible boots and a last minute woolly hat I only grabbed on the way out because it was a bit breezy down in the woods. No gloves, no vest, no inner fleece, no fleecelined waterproof trousers...

I picked up Micheal and Roz, similarly lightly clad, and the dogs and we made our way to the meeting point in Peter Tavy, right on the edge of the moor. As we arrived it suddenly clouded over and the brisk breeze turned into a howling gale while we were milling round the car park gathering the group together. Not too bad, though, and seven of us set off uphill, making for Stephen's Grave and White Tor with the wind behind us. The wind got very wet very quickly, a combination of hail and sleet hitting us more or less horizontally, but still from behind, so not unbearable. Or at least not until it had soaked through the jeans. It was only a short(ish) shower and we carried on climbing. The higher we got the stronger the wind and the sleet returned in earnest near to the top of White Tor. On the lower slopes we passed several small flocks of sheep sheltering behind rocks or walls; higher up the ponies were doing the same. Nothing was actually moving across the open ground except ourselves and the weather!

We made it all the way up to White Tor, where Roz, Vanessa and I promptly squeezed ourselves into a very small cave to shelter, leaving the men and the dogs to play. Ian found enough snow to make a very small snow figure (more duck than man, we decided) which was duly photographed by those whose fingers were not too cold to take pictures, the precipitation ceased (though not the wind, alas) and we made our way back down from the moor by a slightly different route which took us through farmyards and along a pretty stream back to the pub car park. I'm not sure how far we went, but we were out two and a half hours which was quite enough.

I had at least been sensible enough to take trackies and trainers to change into after the walk. When I took my jeans off in the ladies I found that my legs were absolutely bright red as if sunburnt, and as they thawed out they were quite sore. Lunch was good, though, and well deserved. As always, the conversation more than made up for any discomfort suffered.

This time I have learnt my lesson. I should have known better, I've been caught out before. On Dartmoor, ALWAYS dress for mid winter; that's what it's like up there. Invigorating.

Wild(ish) Weekend in Milton Keynes

The long awaited Milton Keynes Weekend finally arrived - and was over in a flash. All that remains is the warm glow of good fellowship and plans to "do it again soon", hopefully in less than the seven and a bit years it had been since the last time.



Like all good adventures there were some new experiences on offer. Milton Keynes itself was a place I had never been, chosen for its central location but still a long, long way from Cornwall. Not that I was driving, thank goodness. I have to confess that I didn't explore very much - the biggest shopping centre in Europe was immediately opposite the hotel, and I never even got over the road.


Ikea, now, that was different. I'd never been to Ikea and still would not have done, but there was a Belfast sink to be purchased, so I went along for the adventure. And now I don't have to do it again, ever. I'm afraid that for me it came into the category of "all new experiences are good experiences, even if they teach you nothing but not to do it again".

Bletchley Park was odd - the best bit was the pigeon room. No, the two best bits were the pigeon room and the slate statue of Alan Turing. Oh, no, the three best bits were the pigeons, Alan Turing, and finding an item of furniture (linen basket) in their "wartime home" identical to the one which regularly receives discarded linens for processing in my very own 2009 bedroom!

Apart from all that, there was much drinking and more laughter. Old friends, virtual friends suddenly made flesh, rather too much unsuitable food (this morning I weighed 2kg more than on Thursday), and a serious moment or two to remember those who weren't there and should have been.

To steal a toast from William Topaz McGonagall (who has a few to spare, I'm sure) - Milton Keynes Unoff. May it be remembered for a very, very, very long time.