Cornish Ramblings

It was even warm on Dartmoor...

2011-04-10T19:06:00.003+01:00

We've been having an early preview of summer the last few days. I've no idea what the temperatures have been but it's been warm, properly warm, so that walking has become a real pleasure again. And this weekend has had more than its share of pleasurable walking (and dining) experiences. On Friday afternoon we foregathered at the Borough Arms, Dunmere, near Bodmin. Six humans and four dogs strolled along the Camel Trail in a leisurely manner for an hour or two, working up an appetite for dinner. The woods were full of violets and anemones, although very few bluebells yet, birds were singing and the new leaves were almost too bright to look at in the sunshine. Ty insisted on a swim, and Megs and Harvey joined in for a splash about. After rounding off the evening with a pleasant meal I went home thinking that we'd been very lucky with the weather, not expecting it to last. But it did. Rather earlier on Saturday afternoon, much the same gang plus a couple of extra humans met at the very first car park on the very edge of Dartmoor from the Plymouth direction. We were guided on a circular route, crossing the Devonport Leat (dry) then across country to the Drake Leat (also dry but in better condition) which we followed for a while then back after a couple of hours to the Dartmoor Diner for a Cream Tea in the garden. Our guide knows the area well and was able to explain a lot of the history on the way round. It was such a lovely day that I had to dig out the sunhat and the trekking sandals for the first time this year. Spring isn't quite as advanced on the moor as down by the shore where I usually walk, but what we lacked in spring flora was made up for with fauna. Our first surprise was a young adder sunning itself on the path. It was noticeably aggravated at being disturbed and hissed a bit before moving off to a quieter spot. None of the dogs noticed it, luckily, and were easily persuaded to go in the opposite direction to the snake. We saw quite a few ponies scattered here and there, grazing quietly, but then we saw several all converging purposefully and rapidly on the same point. Where we discovered a lady throwing apples in all directions for the ponies to pick up. This would seem to be a regular occurrence, as we saw her later in a different place where another small herd were waiting for their treat. Buzzards and skylarks overhead, robins and chaffinches in the bushes, many different butterflies, bees and other insects. After two long walks in two days running with the other dogs and pretending to be their age rather than the ten year old he really is, Ty didn't even get all the way upstairs when we got home, collapsing on the landing for a nice long sleep. By morning, however, he was completely restored and ready to start again. Sunday's walk was a little more ambitious, about five miles around Lydford. Lydford is a village roughly halfway between Tavistock and Okehampton on the western edge of Dartmoor, situated in a fold in the hills, not up on the open moor. It was historically one of the most important places in the area, with a silver mine and a mint, stannary courts and a medieval jail, but these days is a popular with tourists coming to visit the famous Lydford Gorge. We didn't do that, though, but went on a circular route first travelling towards Okehampton on the old railway line, now a cycle track known as the Granite Way, then cutting across country and down to a ford (with a plank bridge) and back up through pretty woods and eventually round to the village again. As we had a little time to spare before lunch we also inspected the 'castle' (actually a 12th century jail) and walked down the hill to a bridge over the Gorge, peering down at people walking up and down the tortuous paths to admire the various waterfalls. Where it goes under the bridge the gorge is almost narrow enough to reach across from one side to the other but very deep. To me it seemed dank and claustrophobic, but I am assured that it opens out and is really very pretty. It's looked after by the National Trust these days and the paths, though steep, are perfectly safe. I'll take their word for it, thank you... The Castle Inn has a garden, a very nice beer garden. At the back, through a hedge, can be spied a slightly separated glade under a big alder where there is a large round table perfect for our largish round party of seven and a dog to take lunch. And a very good lunch it was, too. It was also a very pleasant place to just sit and put the world to rights for an hour or so after lunch... I'm told the weather is about to change. Well it would, of course, as the Easter holidays are starting soon. But I'm very glad I've been able to have this little bit of premature summer, and look forward to many more pleasant walks to come.

Cholesterol - is it good or bad?

2011-01-24T16:48:00.004Z

My father didn't die of a heart attack in his fifties, despite a family history of heart disease. He was lucky enough to become involved in one of the earliest studies into the effects of cholesterol, back in the early 1970s. The research was being conducted at Birmingham University, and he was an ideal subject for the study; overweight, very fond of good living, history of heart disease, in his fifties, highpowered executive whose only exercise was gardening, AND the father of five children aged roughly between 25 (me) and 12 (my youngest brother).

So we all got tested. Dad was told to cut his cholesterol or die, and chose the strict diet (with a bacon and egg treat lunch on Saturdays) which gave him another healthy 25 years of life. Two brothers and myself had high cholesterol levels, my sister and another brother low ones. Back then there were no 'lite' foods or low-fat options - they advised me to eat steak and salad, but as unfortunately I was on a bread and cheese budget at the time I just put the warnings to the back of my mind. I had other more pressing things to think about, then and later, although I have adopted lower-fat, more sensible eating options as they have become available at a reasonable price in the intervening period.

Recently I was offered the opportunity to take part in a trial of Flora pro-activ, a spread containing plant sterols which can, they say, lower LDL cholesterol by 10-15%. Well, why not, I thought, especially as it wasn't going to cost me anything, not even for the cholesterol tests I would have to have done before and after starting the four week trial. So I signed up.

This morning I went on an adventure to Sainsbury's superstore in Plymouth to have my first test. I hadn't been there before, and took some time to find the pharmacy (I was walking round the edge, it was right in the middle). The test was simple and painless, but the results were surprising:

Total: 3.95 (recommended below 5.0)
HDL 2.00 (recommended above 1.2)
Ratio 2.00 (recommended below 5.0)

Well within the healthy recommended limits before I start, then. I must have been doing something right all these years... And now I am about to start the trial. I shan't change anything at all in my diet or habits apart from substituting the pro-activ for the olive spread I usually use, and we'll see what the results are in four weeks' time.

Boat Transport Fail

2010-11-13T18:04:00.011Z

A simple task. Pick up smallish boat and trailer from dinghy park, drive round to Millbrook, hand over boat, come home. Nice day out, take the dog, perhaps stop off for a pasty and a pint on the way back, lovely. Or not...

It started well enough; Ron had already checked that the boat was secure on the trailer, tyres blown up, bearings greased, trailer board tied on and working, etc. All we had to do in the morning was hitch the outfit to the back of the monster truck. A little bit more pushing and heaving than I really enjoy, but we were soon ready to go. The road that runs along the shore and up to the main road is fairly narrow, often has cars parked on either side, and is furnished with speed bumps every hundred yards or so. At the second set, Ron told me he was going to take them awkwardly as a roadworthiness test. Fail. Absolute, abject, utter fail. The offside stub axle on the trailer snapped in two, the wheel fell off and the trailer tipped over.

So there we were, monster truck with eighteen feet of trailer and a ton of boat, stuck in the middle of the road not going anywhere. Luckily, very luckily, we were still within the shadow of the two bridges, so I went walking back down the road to try and round up some strong men with toolboxes, while Ron looked for trolley jacks in the back of the truck. I found two likely looking lads in the carpark; one under a car with a spanner (he'd got a trolley jack and a toolbox!) and another 'helping' him. Off they went to the rescue while I carried on under the bridges to the pub, where I found another 'volunteer' just about to take the first sip of his first lunchtime pint. Into the fridge it went for later. Another kind person didn't just leave his coffee, he left his child on the shore (under supervision, of course). Posse rounded up.

By the time I'd walked back lots of things had happened: the police had stopped by and told him to get his triangles out (!), he'd jacked the trailer up and a couple of little green trolleys had been produced. They proved not to be quite robust enough, sadly, although they did just about serve to get the whole rig turned round and pointing back towards the river. And I had the presence of mind to start taking pictures, beginning with this one of the broken wheel and one of the broken trollies.

The next bright idea was to use a trolley jack as a roller skate under the broken axle. This looked quite good but didn't work - it just kept swinging round, even when anchored with half a mile of rope.

The final plan involved turning one of the broken trollies upside down and just skidding along on it. This worked, just about, until we had to go up the half inch kerb into the dinghy park, but generated a lot of noise, a vast cloud of smoke and an extremely unpleasant smell. It has also left a deep scratch gouged in the surface of the tarmac.

And so, finally, the trailer was backed down the slip and the boat was set free. This is the dead trailer on the slip.

And this is the boat on the river.

That was yesterday's adventure. It had a happy ending thanks to the people who were willing to drop what they were doing to come to our rescue - we'd have been in deep trouble without them. Friends are wonderful...

I declined the opportunity to take part in today's adventure, delivering Millie by water the couple of miles down river to Millbrook - it was raining and it meant starting before dawn to catch the tide. It was, I'm told, quite unadventurous - a two boat convoy went downriver, tied Millie to a buoy (possibly the wrong one) in Millbrook lake and got home in time for brunch.

On the trailer, by road, the scenic route is almost forty miles. It would have been easier to go by water in the first place, but the new owner had bought the boat on the trailer, so that was what we tried deliver. We'll send the trailer on later, when it is rolling under its own steam again.

Boot Test - walk from Liskeard to Looe

2010-10-24T14:21:00.004+01:00

The German word for glove translates literally as hand-shoe. When footwear shopping, I like to look for the opposite - the foot-glove which is so comfortable that you can forget you've got feet. Not too tricky with normal shoes, perhaps, but hiking boots, which by nature have to be rather more robust than a carpet slipper, are more difficult. It's possible, though; I found some in Holland about ten years ago, long worn out, and I think I've done it again now!

The new boots arrived on the Thursday, purchased online after consultation with friends, looking at Which? reports, and trying some on in a shop. They got taken down the Coombe to the creek and back on Thursday afternoon and for a very quick walk on Friday morning, then I was away to meetings and didn't have the opportunity for a longer test until last Saturday morning. A long-planned trek down the West Looe valley from Liskeard, starting at the station there and ten or eleven miles later returning back up the East Looe Valley line by train.

This may sound like a gentle downhill stroll but it isn't! In fact, it starts by going quite a lot higher up to the start of the valley. Like most Cornish river valleys, it is steep sided and mostly wooded. The paths descend to and often cross the river, but also rise up the valley sides in places, making an interesting but fairly strenuous walk on many kinds of terrain - decidous and coniferous woodland, steeply sloping grass fields, swampy valley bottom by the river, exposed rock (mostly upended slate), some bits of tarmac lanes and wide forest tracks and finally, where the river becomes tidal at Watergate, some low-tide-only muddy shore. The heavy overnight rain ensured that conditions underfoot were as treacherous as they get, although the day itself was gloriously sunny apart from a couple of short sharp showers. The river was full and fast flowing and we came across one unfordable ford (over knee depth). Luckily the map showed an alternative path on *our* side of the river, although our first attempt at it involved climbing a steep rocky path almost to the top of the valley only to have to retrace our steps...

A good test for the boots, then. I ended the walk with warm, comfortable, dry, happy feet which didn't even feel tired. I was even just as happy to put them on again the next day for another walk.

But the day wasn't all about new boots. Much more important was the walk itself, being out in the changing seasons. The sun was still quite intense, and after the heavy rain of the night before it intensified all the autumn colours - at times it seemed that we were walking on carpets of scarlet and gold satin - and particularly the autumnal smells of pine forest, cut wood, fungi, wet grass; an olfactory feast! The dogs enjoyed the swollen river, too. We stopped for our picnic lunch on a mossy stone bridge where I suppose a road once used to be and Ty was able to indulge one of his favourite sports, swimming really hard to get upstream, barking all the while, then turning round to allow himself to be swept back down under the bridge at speed before turning to start the whole game again.

It was a glorious day - possibly the last really nice day of the season - and most enjoyable, especially with new boots and good company.

Tamar Valley from the 'Wrong, Side - Bere Alston

2010-10-17T23:44:00.008+01:00

I like it when a ramble in the countryside throws up questions - what's this plant? what's happening here? I like it even more when I find some answers. Last Sunday's circular walk from Bere Alston railway station, along the Tamar on the Devon side and back was one of those days.

It was a beautiful day, almost too warm in the sun but pleasant in the shade. No wind, no clouds, not at all October-like. Knowing that it was quite likely to be the last fine walking day till spring also added to that enjoyable holiday feeling. I was a bit indecisive about whether to bother with boots or just stick with the trekking sandals - there was no mud, but there turned out to be quite a lot of wet, almost frostily cold grass, so I'm glad I opted for the heavier footwear in the end. The fleece was hardly necessary, though.

From the station our party of eight humans and three dogs walked north, downhill, to the river Tamar and turned left, downstream, along it. Several of us had never seen it from that side before, pointing "Ooh, look, there's Calstock", "Look, there's Cotehele", "Doesn't the viaduct look odd from here", as we recognised landmarks from the 'wrong' direction. After travelling about three miles along and above the river we turned inland to circle round and return to our starting point.

Most of the highlights were flora, this time. Unknown flora. The first stange thing we came across were beautiful deep pink seedcases in a hedge - the seeds inside being bright orange. None of us had any idea what it was, but Google did, of course, when I got home. Common or European Spindle. An unremarkable hedgerow tree, so inconspicuous as to be invisible except for these few short autumn weeks when it is gloriously, surprisingly beautiful. One of my fellow walkers took this picture.

Another oddity we came across was almost recognisable, but not quite. Resembling a potato (which would not be in flower, indeed would have withered by now) or it's cousin the deadly nightshade (which has bright purple flowers) but covered in small white blooms, it was another one which had me reaching for the reference books on my return. Black nightshade, apparently. Why black nightshade when it has white flowers? The book didn't say...

The third vegetable mystery remains a mystery, for now. We walked round the edge of a large field planted with a root crop. The leaves of the plants appeared to have been cut (or eaten), but the roots themselves were mostly still in the ground, although quite a few were plainly visible or lying on the surface. About half of them were turnips. The other half were dark red in colour, white fleshed, with an unusual waisted, almost hourglass shape. Thus far not even Google has revealed to me their identity, nor their purpose, although I'd guess they were destined for cattle feed.

Other highlights of the walk included a heron posing in a field right next to the path, a totally unexpected "Ramblers Rest" area with tables and benches overlooking the river, a bright red microlight overhead in the brightest of blue skies, and an abandoned orchard where delicious apples fell into our hands - just one each for munching as we walked. Just enough, indeed, to keep us going till lunch, which we took in the beer garden of the Olde Plough Inn, Bere Ferrers, an excellent traditional Sunday roast.

From Bere Ferrers one can look down the river to Saltash. It's so close, so very close, less than a mile away on the wrong side of the water, but there's no way to get there so it was back in the car for a 16 mile drive home.

Autumn comes to the Creek...

2010-10-03T13:14:00.004+01:00

Down at the top of the creek this morning, there where the rain-swollen stream meets the rising tide, a kingfisher was fishing. It didn't see me approaching along the stream until I got within about five metres but then flew across to the far bank, calling quite loudly. As I could still hear it calling I stood quite still - even the d0g was being quiet behind me - and the bird came back to the same perch. It was a perfect photograph, silhouetted against the sun on the water. Unfortunately, by the time I had carefully eased the cameraphone out of the pocket and switched it on, the kingfisher had seen a fish, dived and was gone in a flash of blue over to the bank again.

It's not often I see kingfishers down there - they only seem to fish there just when the rising tide fills the creek and sweeps the little fishes up towards the mouth of the stream, and although it is my normal morning destination it doesn't often coincide with fishing hour. Today I also saw a sandpiper - a sign that winter is on its way - and a couple of jays, as well as the usual gang of blackheaded gulls in winter white. And having remarked to a friend a couple of weeks ago that it seemed the grey wagtails which used to nest by the little bridge seemed to have moved on this year, I've seen at least one every day for the last week!

In the garden, too, the balance of feathered visitors is changing with the season. The largest group now is the goldfinches, who often arrive ten or twelve strong and quarrel loudly and aerobatically over the niger seed feeder. The 'losers' aren't that bothered, though - they just move over to the 'normal' seed feeders and fill up from them. On the other hand, the sparrows, who keep together in a group through the whole of the spring and summer, split up and go their separate ways more at this time of the year. They still visit the garden, of course, but one or two at a time rather than in a flock. The largest number I've counted this year - about when the second brood was fledged and independent - was between thirty and forty strong. (They just won't keep still to be counted accurately!) Now, as well, the blue tits, chaffinches and great tits are reforming their loose winter flocks and including the garden on their daily patrols. In the summer they stay in the trees in the coombe, mostly.

There has been so much rain lately that all the winter springs have suddenly started flowing again in the coombe. Because the sides are so steep, it's not unusual for trees to fall occasionally, and we've lost two in the last week. A substantial young oak fell and blocked the path on the north side completely until the Council came and cleared it. They've left the fallen tree; just sawn through the trunk and branches which were blocking the path. On the other side, up at the top, a rather foolish badger had dug a new sett in the summer. At the edge of the path and under the roots of an alder, it was already beginning to undermine the path itself - my walking stick went through into a tunnel only last week - and now the tree has gone, down into the valley. I suspect it to have been a young one setting up home for the first time, and it will either start again in a better place or perhaps move in to one of the three big setts. The tree itself probably won't die, either - when they fall down the slope like that, with some roots still in the ground, they usually resurrect themselves. I hope so, anyway.

Chester Weekend - September 2010

2010-09-30T01:05:00.007+01:00

Chester is a lovely town which we've visited many times over the years as we have very good friends who live there. The last time I was there I broke my wrist - dancing in flipflops - but this was to be the official Annual Gathering and I wasn't going to do that this time!

We had planned a nice gentle drive up on Thursday afternoon, and all went well as far as the other side of Birmingham. There were ominous signs warning of delays due to an accident on the M6, but there wasn't much alternative choice of route, so we carried on into the inevitable traffic jam. Creeping along in first gear, in the middle lane, I began to hear a rattling noise. While I was still trying to convince Ron to stick his head out of the window and listen a car came alongside in the outside line waving and mouthing 'exhaust'! Oh dear. It's impossible to do anything when you're creeping along at five miles a fortnight, and by the time the traffic cleared we were a couple of miles short of Stafford services, so I carried on to there, very carefully, and stopped to investigate.

In the carpark it became apparent that the entire exhaust system had come unstuck and was touching the ground. Ron felt that he would have been able to improvise a replacement bracket if I'd had a metal coathanger or two concealed about my person, but I hadn't, sadly, so we had to fall back on the tender mercies of the RAC. Who came up trumps, absolutely. It took an hour and a half to reach us, mind, and by the time that welcome orange van arrived it was dark and raining, but the mechanic was marvellous. He got underneath the car, got Ron to help with pushing and pulling bits back into position and clamped and bound and glued everything back into place so we were able to carry on our journey. All with a smile on his face, too. Absolutely first class service, for which we were very grateful. There was no noticeable difference at all in the way the car was driving and we eventually arrived in Chester just in time for last orders!

We were staying with a friend but the Gathering I'd come to Chester for was based in the Queen Hotel, opposite the railway station in the centre of town. It was, I was assured, only about a ten minute walk, so early Friday afternoon I decided to check it out. Ty needed a walk, I needed to find the hotel, so off we set together. I forget, I suppose, what cities are like, as I visit them so rarely. Walking along the main road into the centre was uncomfortably busy, loud and smelly. Still, we are not such yokels that we can't operate pelican crossings or memorise a Google map, and we found our way there without incident. But not our way in. There on the steps of the Queen Hotel I had the whitegloved hand of a tophatted doorman shoved rudely in my face - dogs were not permitted through their pseudo roman door. So dog got tied to their highly polished brass railings outside while I went in to check in, briefly, and then we took ourselves home.

Perhaps it was the less than friendly welcome that started it, or perhaps it was the severe backache which started on Friday morning, but it seemed to me that the whole weekend continued in a similar vein. When I returned without the dog for the official start of proceedings I met some old friends, and was very pleased to do so, but the usual air of relaxed friendliness seemed absent, somehow and I never really got into the Gathering mood at all.

Our hostess had mentioned casually that the cycle path which runs behind her house had been extended, so on Saturday morning I took the executive decision to ignore the AGM business meeting and go for an explore. Up until now, from Lime Wood Fields one could turn right and follow a nice made cycle path along an old railway line past the centre of Chester and a little beyond it, or turn left and follow the abandoned railway line under rubbish strewn bridges and through mud or across rubble. We had been in that direction once a couple of years ago out of curiousity, but decided that it was too uncomfortable and dangerous to repeat.

Now, however, as part of what I have learnt is the Chester Millenium Greenway Project, the path has been improved and opened offically all the way to Mickle Trafford, some 2.5 miles past Lime Wood Fields. Not only is there a decent surface underfoot, but rubbish has been cleared, undergrowth cut back, new plantings made in some places, and imaginative wooden sculptures put in place. My personal favourite is this willow horse, which is just beginning to come alive. On the way we met a working party of volunteers who were continuing with the landscaping by digging a large shallow hole at the side of the track which will be allowed to fill with rainwater and become a natural pond, hopefully attracting even more wildlife to the area. The whole project is a wonderful example of what very little money but lots of enthusiasm and imagination can do to transform urban ugliness. And nice, flat, easy walking makes a pleasant change from Cornwall!

On Saturday afternoon I went back for more Gathering but just couldn't work up enough enthusiasm to stay for Sunday, so we made our way home Sunday afternoon. The journey home was comparatively uneventful, apart from the pouring rain and dreadful visibility for the first hundred miles or so - for once, the nearer we got to Cornwall the brighter the weather became. The car stayed in one piece, the roads were quiet, it was nice to be home!

Tamar Valley Train Ride Plus

2010-07-25T22:43:00.005+01:00

After last year's debacle struggling on and off the train to Bristol I swore I'd never take a train again, but the Tamar Valley Line is sufficiently non-mainline not to count, and I'm glad I changed my mind. Only fifteen miles long, it goes from the centre of Plymouth to Gunnislake and back through an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and justifies its claim as 'one of the great scenic railways'. One second you are moving through cuttings so deep they seem like green tunnels, next you are way up in the air looking down on river valleys a long, long way below. If you can look out of both windows at once it's possible to catch glimpses of both rivers - the Tamar and the Tavy - at the same time.

But ours was primarily a walking day, with the train just a different way of getting there, so we didn't go to the end of the line or take a break at the Tamar Belle railway visitor centre at Bere Ferrers (it was noted down as a place to take nieces and nephews, though) but got off at Calstock, just on the Cornish side of the Great Viaduct over the Tamar.

Plan A was probably (I think) to walk along the river to Cotehele Quay, perhaps up through the grounds and look at the house (from outside only because of the dogs) and wander back, perhaps even taking a ferry ride. But we got a bit carried away with 'I wonder where that path goes?' and took a long loop up and behind the Cotehele estate, finding some fascinating bits of 'industrial heritage' on the way, then had a panic because some paths were closed and set out cross country for the folly/viewing tower which marks the edge of the estate. This strategy resulted in some rather muddy feet (that special mud that young cattle churn a perfectly respectable field into), a difficult gate or two and a scramble over the wall behind the tower in a place which had obviously been used for the same purpose many times in the past but was still protected on both sides by barbed wire and on the top by brambles. Between the six of us we own (I checked) three copies of the relevant Ordnance Survey map, but none of us had brought it because we all thought we were familiar enough with the area not to get lost. Another lesson learned! When we got back to the Quay and looked at a map it was obvious that the official public footpath doesn't go anywhere near the estate at that point.

Having broken in to the estate, so to speak, behind the folly we then took a leisurely stroll round the edge, looking at the newly planted Mother Orchard with its 270 tiny trees of old apple varieties (and a splendidly organic sculpture of a hand holding an apple), past the picnic area and the car park, down through the woods to the Mill and along the river to the Quay, where we thought we'd get a spot of lunch. No such luck; after queueing for some time at the place of refreshments, which promised pasties in several flavours and other delights, we discovered that he had nothing left but icecream. One of our party had gone home for lunch by then, but we rustled up two apples and two muesli bars between three, and the other two had icecream. The daft thing was that having realised en route that nobody had thought to bring dog treats, an emergency diversion had been organised to get some in Plymouth while waiting for the connecting train; shows where our priorities lie! Yet another lesson learned - always take emergency food, just in case...

We then headed back to Calstock along the river. Or rather up a very long hill and down the other side while the river meandered flatly through reed beds below us. We got to Calstock after the pub had stopped serving lunches (it was that sort of day), but luckily the local shop had a few cold pasties still in stock. Pasties were always intended to be eaten cold, of course, and these were actually very good ones, eaten on a riverside bench before we climbed wearily back up the hill to the station for the return journey.

Wildlife highlights of the day were mostly butterflies: not all that many, but a good variety including peacocks, red admirals, fritillaries, various whites, gatekeepers and a few more. There was some seriously competitive photography going on, too, with elbows and worse being used by two of our party to be the first to get to the perfect openwinged shot. I, too, took a photograph - there was a Jersey Tiger moth clinging quietly to the noticeboard on Saltash station, and I captured it with my phone camera. It was obliging enough to stay still while I worked out how to use the zoom, even...

After catching the train from Saltash to Plymouth in the morning without incident, and the lovely trip on the Tamar Valley Line, it was a pity that Great Western rather blotted their copybook right at the end, by putting on a wholly inadequate two coach diesel for the main Sunday evening train from Plymouth to Penzance. To say it was packed would be an understatement; and the vast majority of the passengers seemed to be either returning students or holidaymakers, with vast quantities of baggage. Dogs don't like people walking on them from three directions at once, and nor do I. At least I had a seat - a pull down one in the space between the coaches - the rest of our group were even more uncomfortable. And I was only on the train for fifteen minutes. Still, even that unpleasantness didn't really spoil the day...

Across the seas to Lundy

2010-06-30T13:40:00.003+01:00

Lundy Island sits in the middle of the Bristol Channel. It's had a chequered history, having been owned by, among others, in the thirteenth century a gentleman who plotted against his king, lived by piracy and was eventually hanged, drawn and quartered, in the eighteenth century by a corrupt MP who got a contract to transport criminals to America but took them to Lundy and used them as personal slaves, and in the nineteenth by a gentleman whose life's ambition was to build a church. Long (3.5 miles) and thin (half a mile) it also presents a hazard to shipping and boasts three lighthouses, one at each end (working) and one right on the top (abandoned because it was too often above cloud level).

Before yesterday all I could have told you about Lundy would have been where it is and that is has puffins. That's what we went for, basically, looking for puffins, but what we got was much, much more. It's a long way, too, from here to Bideford - a two hour drive - for the 7.30am boat ride, so the adventure got extended to an overnight in Barnstaple beforehand. Four of us set out from Plymouth on Monday evening, arriving in Barnstaple in time to have a very pleasant and reasonably priced meal in a lovely old place called The Cedars, which sadly was closing for refurbishment almost immediately afterward. And an early night for a 6.00am start for Lundy!

The weather's been settled, hot and sunny, for weeks now - it has become my habit to cover my face with factor 50 sunblock straight after my morning shower - but the forecast for Tuesday was a little uncertain. There was nothing uncertain, however, about the downpour which woke me just after 3.00am. And it was certainly still raining when we got up at 6. Still, we'd come all this way to visit Lundy, so I turned my sunhat inside out, put on all the layers of clothes I'd brought and off we went.

The Oldenburg makes regular trips from Bideford to Lundy. It takes supplies, passengers, post, everything. Assembled on the quay yesterday morning in the pouring rain were 262 souls, all a little dejected. Most, like us, were taking a day trip, a few would be staying in the holiday accommodation on the island. The other members of our group consisted of two from Exeter who had driven down in the morning and a family of five from Salisbury who had only arrived back in England from Sri Lanka the day before and were a little jetlagged, to put it mildly. We all filed on to the boat. Due to the inclemency of the weather, the interior accommodation was very quickly bagged by the people at the front of the queue and four of us found ourselves squashed on a bench for three outside by the aft gangway, sitting on a wet wooden bench in the wet air.

And we were off. The captain announced the sea state was 'slight' by which it quickly transpired he meant slightly choppy. A young crew member spent the whole two hour journey walking round solicitously dispensing sick bags. Our small corner of the deck quickly became even more crowded with unhappy clingers to the rails. On the plus side, it stopped raining, and there were bacon sandwiches to be had. A bacon sandwich, I always find, helps in a choppy sea. We reached our destination just after ten. As we arrived the captain announced that a (voluntary) round-the-island trip would be available in the afternoon before the scheduled departure back to Bideford - I didn't see much enthusiasm for the idea.

Our whole trip had been organised around the availability of our own personal guide to the island, and he was waiting for us on the quay. He was brilliant as a guide, was Simon, both knowledgeable and enthusiastic about all aspects of the island, its past, present and future prospects, the wildlife (puffins and other birds) and the introduced life (sika deer, soay sheep). After some brief introductions and a quick check on preferences as to what we'd like to see, off we set.

It's in the nature of islands, particularly small ones, that one arrives at the bottom and all the interesting bits are at the top. Four hundred feet up, to be precise, which was a bit of a challenge, but I got there. It helped that it was in short stages with stops for explanations. At the first stop, only fifty feet up or so (Trinity House landing stage) I was happy to get rid of the waterproof and fleece I'd started the day in, by the time we got to the Village (about two thirds of the way up) my sunhat was back the right way out, but I waited rather too long to get the anti-sun applied and went a bit pink in places by the end of the day - so did almost everybody else!

In the village there's a pub/tea room and a shop, and a mini museum which consists of wallboards with highlights of the island's history and a small display case in the middle. On top of the display case is a stuffed gannet in a glass case. I like gannets, but when I later enquired whether we would see any I was told that they don't nest on the island any more. I wonder whether this is in solidarity with their poor motheaten brother in the glass cage.

Upward and onward from the village to the central plateau of cultivated fields. As we passed through a gate there were a small herd of sika deer (a stag and a dozen or so hinds and young ones) posing beautifully on the skyline. They were far enough away to be unworried by us, but close enough for inspection through binoculars and photographs. Eventually they wandered off, down to a fence which they leapt in turn into an area of bracken and bushes. We went on through fields of sheep to a more open moorland area where there were Lundy ponies. These were originally a cross between New Forest ponies and a Welsh Mountain stallion but are now classed as a breed on their own. Tall for ponies, quite elegant, with beautiful gold or copper coloured coats.

By now we had crossed to the cliffs on the west side of the island and our guide took us to a clifftop where we had our picnic lunch and puffin watch. I must admit that given the amount of fuss they make about the puffins - almost every item in the shop was puffin branded, for example - I was expecting a large colony. Our guide explained that the colony had almost been wiped out by black rats, and was only just now recovering after the eradication of the rats. There are appoximately fifty birds, with about ten active nests, that's all. But they posed for us nicely on the other side of a little cove, halfway up a cliff. There were other birds on the cliff as well, guillemots and razorbills and a few gulls, but the puffins were the prize.

It's interesting that everybody present accepted the need to get rid of the rats to preserve the puffins without demur. When I mention to people that my nephew in New Zealand is working on the eradication of hedgehogs from his islands they are usually horrified. But the hedgehog in New Zealand is just as much of an introduced pest destroying the native wildlife as the black rat was on Lundy, surely?

After lunch we walked back inland, across moorland full of wheatears, skylarks and chocolate brown soay sheep, up to the original lighthouse on the very highest point. Built in 1819, designed by the same man who created Dartmoor prison, it wasn't a great success because it was too often invisible due to fog or low cloud. It makes a great vantage point, though; the one member of our party who made it to the top claimed he could see America! From there it was time to descend a little way back to the village for a most welcome tea break in the welcoming Marisco Tavern, which had a generous library of reference works, bird and wild flower field guides, and I amused myself by identifying an unknown pink flower we had come across as Centuary, one I'd not met before. One or two of our party opted for the trip round the island (they saw seals!) but most of us stayed on land, checking out the church and the castle, looking down on the South Lighthouse (unreachable from where we were) and generally wandering about until it was time to go home.

There was no sign of the sick bag dispenser on the way home; an altogether much more peaceful crossing. I did see one gannet and a few cormorants but, alas, no exotic marine creatures at all - I'd hoped for a basking shark or two. Altogether it was a memorable and thoroughly enjoyable day. The weather was kinder to us than we had anticipated, the deer and the puffins posed nicely, the island lived up to expectations. But it would not have been anywhere near as good a day without our guide. On the cliffs we met quite a few disappointed walkers who hadn't seen a single puffin, mostly because they didn't know where to look. Simon took the time to steer all of them in the right direction, as well as treating us to a proper display. But there was a lot more to the trip and the island than just bird watching, and it was thanks to him that we were able to get so much out of it.

I'd love to go again, I'd love to stay and explore Lundy properly. Unfortunately, however, the one strict rule they have there is that dogs are forbidden. And a day trip is about as much as I can manage without my dog. Or my man, come to think of it...

Following the Camel Trail (didn't see any camels!)

2010-06-20T21:17:00.005+01:00

Once upon a time there was a railway which ran from Padstow inland to Wenford Bridge, a matter of about 18 miles, running alongside the River Camel and carefully engineered to follow the river valley as levelly as possible. Since it ceased to function as a railway back in the 1960s it has been resurrected as a hiking and riding (bike and horse) trail and is hugely popular with visitors to Cornwall. Or at least part of it - the 8 miles from Wadebridge to Padstow, largely along the estuary with views of golden sand and seabirds when the tide is out and the possibility of fish and chips or something posher on the coast at the end of the journey - is hugely popular.

Go the other way, though, and it's a completely different story. Inland from Wadebridge the trail passes mostly through woodland along the river valley, although the river itself is often quite a distance below the path. There are sunny stretches and (welcome) shady patches, birds and flowers and butterflies abounding but hardly any people, and those that we met were well worth meeting.

The day began with one or two minor logistic problems involving motorbikes with dead batteries (lifts can be arranged) and no reservation for lunch (picnics are nice). A somewhat reduced party of four dogs and three humans convened at the car park by the Borough Arms at Dunmere to walk, well, as far as we felt like, really, which turned out to be a nicely appointed picnic area in Shell Woods, just a bit less than five miles from our starting point. Because this end of the trail is so quiet we were not constantly having to marshall dogs at the side of the path out of the way of careering cyclists, and they were freer to explore, dashing down to the river wherever it was possible and generally racing about as they do. At Helland Bridge the path crosses a road, but apart from this it is flat, gently curving and free from hazards all the way.

Since joining our pack the spaniel, Harvey, has become quite adventurous. He has discovered a passion for swimming, and having been taught by the master swimmer, Ty, he follows his favourite technique of barking all the time he is swimming. Which got us into a little bit of trouble, just past Helland Bridge. The dogs had dashed down to the river. Ty and Harvey were swimming (loudly), Jake and Megs were paddling. We were joined on the path by two more people and their three dogs, who also went down to the river to play. Lots of fun was being had by all until a lady on the opposite bank asked us to stop, as the noise was scaring her piglets! Very embarrassing.

We joined packs then for a mile or so, until they turned back and we stopped for our picnic lunch. The return journey passed pleasantly but without incident, although we did try to visit a pottery but it turned out to be shut. We had done almost ten miles in about four hours, including our lunch stop and several dog paddling stops. Nice easy strolling, enough to be tiring but not too exhausting, and on the flat I can keep up quite easily!

We took a slight diversion on the way home to join Ron and the gang at the Inn on the Shore in Downderry. Ty insisted on being taken down to the beach, but when he got there he was quite happy to come back and lie down after five minutes. The beach was quieter than I would have expected, with very few people playing, considering the perfect seaside weather. The sea was looking beautiful, flat and blue and inviting. Sadly, (!) I had forgotten to pack a swimsuit, so I settled for liquid inside on the pub terrace instead of a refreshing swim. So did Ty, so he must have been tired.

Day Out in Somerset

2010-06-14T01:03:00.006+01:00

A very long day out, as it happens. Sixteen hours of nonstop activity, and all thoroughly enjoyable. But not my usual sort of thing, not like a normal Saturday at all.

It was a sort of a party; a gathering, anyway, of people from all over the south west of England. From Salisbury and Saltash, Bideford and Bristol, we all converged at a cider farm near Taunton. Entertainment was to be provided, and one of the entertainments was to be bell ringing.

There is a mini belltower, complete with bells, which converts to flatpack for transport and can be taken anywhere. It looks like this when assembled. The problem was that it needed a vehicle large enough to get a 7ft heavy box of bits on the roof and six bells in a frame inside. My car, in other words. So I got up before dawn, walked my dog, fed the birds, had a quick coffee and was on the road at half past eight.

Picked up the organiser in Plymouth, picked up the belltower in Kingsteignton. Was instructed in the method for fitting the bits together like a jigsaw in the case for transporting, but as it was on my roof and above my eyeline I didn't get it all...

And then I drove very slowly and carefully to Three Bridges Farm, where Sheppy's Cider comes from. Because the weight on the roof was all on one side, corners were quite interesting. So, given the total weight of about five tons (perhaps a tad exaggerated, but quite heavy), was going down Telegraph Hill. I was quite glad to get there, to be honest.

A few willing volunteers got it up and running just as easily as I'd been told it would be, and it was a successful part of the day. We also had a talk on bellringing in general which was interesting, a very nice lunch (for 60 in a smallish room) and various other activities, most of which I missed. Although I did try my hand at Smite. A little known (because rarely televised) sport, Smite involves throwing one piece of wood at other named and numbered pieces of wood to achieve a perfect score of 50 and win the game. I'm not very good at it, although other people were pretty impressive. Somebody took a picture:-

After a long and enjoyable afternoon messing about, talking to people I haven't seen for years and some I'd never met before, it was time to disassemble the bell tower for transport home. About ten people helped to take it to bits very quickly, but then spent hours arguing about how to do the jigsaw of getting the bits in the box. We got it wrong, but it was functional. I only had to take it somewhere in Taunton and wait for someone else to come and collect it, but it took hours - long enough to have a meal in the town, then sit watching swifts circling until it got dark and they went to sleep to be replaced by bats - finally it was collected and I could drive home. I arrived at half past twelve, tired and ready to sleep. Ty, however, who had been out with Ron all day running round and going to beaches etc, was worried in case I hadn't been getting enough exercise, and insisted on taking me out for a good walk before bedtime. After he'd had the cookies he deserved for being abandoned, that is.

Oh, it was nice to lie down, when I finally got there...

Summer finally comes to Dartmoor

2010-06-13T22:54:00.005+01:00

Not the wildest part of Dartmoor, just the edges, but warm enough for shorts and a shirt for the first time this year. A circular walk, generally gently down on the way there and gently up on the way back, nothing strenuous, lovely after the long day I had yesterday.
We started from the carpark at the edge of Roborough Down, behind the Paperweight Centre in Yelverton. Getting there was a bit of an adventure in itself - as I was driving through Yelverton a large black bird dived into the front passenger window of the car. Luckily (for me) it was shut at the time. Yelverton was full of some sort of cycle event, including tandems and bikes with kids on the back, so I couldn't really stop to check on the state of health of the crow (almost certainly, but possibly jackdaw or rook).
According to the map, the first part of the walk was a National Trail Recreational Route but it wasn't at all obvious, and our leader led us through the gorse bushes with a compass. When we were due to turn off the downs onto a public footpath leading to Buckland Monachorum, we found that the waymarker at the beginning had been deliberately sawn through and cast aside. Which is not good. Even worse, five minutes later, was the discovery that a short section of green lane between two fields was so overgrown as to be almost impassable, especially for the shorts wearers amongst us. One wonders which came first, the removal of the waymarker or the failure to keep the path clear. And is it worth reporting it? Probably, yes...
The path was in better condition further down, although some of the stiles were difficult for the dogs as they had been wired up. Another black mark for the landowner. Ty, who learned the hard way by spending a lot of time on boats, can work out how to get over most obstacles, and he'll also trust me to show him the way by tapping the places I think he should put his feet. Jake, who spent most of his formative years in kennels and didn't know how to get up steps at all when he was first liberated, isn't very agile at all and struggles. He's also the heaviest of the pack. Megs has a tendency not to see the paw traps and sometimes gets caught up. Harvey's a spaniel, with a totally different technique - dig through if possible, if not let yourself be picked up!
We entered Buckland Monachorum from behind the church, which has what seemed an excessively large graveyard for a small village. The village was decked overall in bunting, but it wasn't to welcome us; we'd missed the village fete by a day. A stroll round, a quick visit to the pub (two minutes after opening time) to use their facilities, then upward and onward. Coming out of the village the path leads around the edge of The Garden House. From what we could see by peering over the bridges and through the fence this probably deserves its 'magical' description, but apart from a bit of 'Do you know what that is?' and 'I'd love one of those' we had to pass it by. Going round the garden proper would have taken too long, and, of course, is not free.
After the Garden House we met a lot of horses. Proper horses in small fields, not loose ponies. I'd never seen horses in beekeeping helmets before, but I was informed by someone who knows about horses that they are for the prevention of flies, and can be seen through from the inside perfectly well. I believe this. Ty was several times sniffed by curious horses again, and Micheal was pursued like a pied piper by a couple who wanted to go home with him!
Around Axtown we had a slight diversion. We were following the footpath signs until our leader's trusty compass indicated that we were going in the opposite direction to the way we should be, so we had to backtrack a little and find the right path (not so well signposted) up back to Roborough Down and across to the car park.
For lunch we drove to the 16th century Who'd Have Thought It Inn at Milton Combe. I was intrigued by the blue cheese, spinach and walnut bread and butter pudding, which proved to be delicious, served with an imaginative and delicious salad featuring more walnuts, grapes, apple, cherry tomatoes and green things. It was surprisingly filling too, which was a pity in a way because there was Eton Mess on the dessert menu, and I didn't have room.
After lunch we had another little adventure, driving down to Lopwell, where the River Tavy is dammed to form a reservoir which provides water for Plymouth. Below the dam it's possible at low tide (which it was) to walk across a wall to the salt marsh on the other side. It isn't possible to swim, not even for dogs, although it's possible for spaniels to find quite stinky mud to frolic in, apparently.
And so home, tired, but happy. A lovely summer day out.

A Day by the Sea

2010-05-31T21:02:00.004+01:00

Cornwall has got more miles of coastline than any other county, and a coastpath which faithfully follows the ins and outs and ups and downs of it all the way round. I don't suppose I'll ever manage it all, but I walked another little nibble out of the south coast yesterday.

For a late spring bank holiday the weather forecast was pretty dreadful - I took a sunhat, a rainhat, waterproofs and sunblock, not knowing quite what to expect. In the event the weather was bright but breezy, not too warm but with strong enough sun to merit the use of protective measures.

Porthlune Cove was our rendezvous. A popular tourist spot, obviously, with a large carpark. Golden sand in copious quantities, a bit of gentle surf, safe for children to splash about it and that increasing rarity these days, dog friendly. And we had a full complement of friendly dogs. They had a splash and a dash about on the beach but the coastpath beckoned. Which way? East towards Goran Haven, or west to Portholland? In the end we did both, going east first and climbing up to the top of Black Rock to look down on Lambsowden Cove. Back to base then, for a snack in the beach café and another paddle, then west towards Portholland. In both directions the views from the cliff tops were magnificent and the flora interesting, although probably not very pleasant for hayfever sufferers; we could actually see the clouds of pollen rising from the meadows as we walked through!

There was one puddle in the car park when we arrived, and a large group of martins were determined to take full advantage of the building material it provided. The arrival of cars didn't put them off very much at all; they just circled round until the cars stopped, then straight back to work. Later in the afternoon they had moved on to the field next door, feeding on the insects stirred up by a rambling herd of half-highland cattle, a herd which included some very small calves.

One (probably the main) reason why such a small insignificant cove as Porthlune has such a large, well-organised (and not cheap) car park is its proximity to Caerhays Castle, which has a convenient entrance to the grounds right over the road from the cove. It looked quite attractive viewed from the beach, if you like your castles to be large victorian gothic houses, but we decided not to tour the grounds or the house on this occasion. Maybe another time. There are also some circular waymarked walks available from the cove, but we didn't try those either yesterday. It was a good day with enough walking as it was...

Rough Tor conquered, finally!

2010-05-23T19:50:00.010+01:00

Rough Tor. Not quite the highest point in Cornwall, but it only comes second by a couple of feet to its neighbour, Brown Willy. Several times over the last few years we've planned to go up it, but either the weather has been too awful or I've just not been fit enough - sometimes both - and I had almost come to believe it was unachievable.

The 'easy' walk consists of a long fairly gentle haul across wide open moorland up to a ridge, then turn right along the ridge to the summit. We got as far as starting out a year or so ago in horizontal driving rain - down to the stream and through the gate was OK, but as we started to climb up to the ridge I became aware that despite all the proper waterproof gear my right ear was full of icy cold rainwater. The prospect of turning my face into the weather to do the last steep bit was too much, and I chickened out and turned back. I have to say that my companions didn't bother to carry on without me, either...

Yesterday, though, was different. Glorious weather, hot and sunny with just a welcome hint of breeze. Walking fairly slowly but steadily straight up the slope to the col and along the ridge to the war memorial to the men of the 43rd Wessex Division at the top of the tor (but not quite the highest point) took about an hour. The view was every bit as impressive as I'd been promised; out to the Atlantic to the north, Dartmoor miles away to the east, many familiar radio masts and hilltop monuments identifiable in all directions, sapphire lakes concentrating and focusing the colour of the sky above.

Someone said how wonderful it was that however many people were up there walking the place always seemed empty, and we were almost immediately joined by a large party of ladies on a proper walking holiday, complete with official guide (male) who reached the top a few minutes after his group did. After exchanging pleasantries we moved along the ridge a bit and became the only people in the world again. Photographs were taken and a picnic was consumed in the lee of the rocks before we started down.

The ground underfoot was completely dry; even the normal boggy patches had dried out and much of the grass was crackly white underfoot. Not a lot of grazing for the few animals that were up there. We only saw a couple of small flocks of sheep (with only one lamb between them) and several ponies, quite a few with very young foals. There were lots of skylarks around and one cuckoo in the distance - the first I'd heard this year.

Back down at the bottom of the hill there's a small stream which the dogs much appreciated. We walked along it for a while and were amused to see how many ponies had decided to go for a paddle too!

Altogether it was a much easier walk than I'd been expecting; every failed or aborted attempt had increased the height and steepness exponentially in my mind until I'd decided it was almost impossible. I was - and am - inordinately proud of myself for getting up there, especially as next week I'll be reaching a birthday three beyond the one I didn't expect to see. No one else seems to understand, though. I keep telling people 'Ty and I climbed Rough Tor' and they just say 'That's nice.'

In fact, it was such a gentle walk that we went for another one after we got home, down to the creek and round to the waterside to meet Ron and see if he'd got any fish, and Ty took it upon himself to teach a young retriever to swim, spending almost an hour in the water while I had a well-deserved glass of cider.

Sunshine, blue skies - can this really be Dartmoor?

2010-04-12T15:44:00.003+01:00

What do you call a Cornish Hedge when it's in Devon? At the risk of offending some sensibilities, I'll have to call it a Cornish Hedge as I know of no other name for a double stone wall filled with earth, covered with grass, hedging plants and sometimes even whole trees growing on and in it. How do you get over a Cornish Hedge? With a fair amount of difficulty, even on a public footpath where some slight concession to accessibility has been made.
Yesterday's walk, in glorious sunshine, began with an obstacle course which nearly finished one of the dogs and most of the people. We were nine humans (more than half of whom have bus passes) and four dogs. We met at the Elephant's Nest, Horndon, near Mary Tavy on the edge of Dartmoor. Immediately opposite the pub there's a footpath sign next to a five foot stone wall. A few hundred years ago when it was built across a footpath, three of the stones were turned round to offer slight projections as footholds, now precariously worn. A flat grass bit on the top, then a similar descent into a field. All the humans managed it, some with greater agility than others. Of the collies, Megs flew over, Ty was workmanlike, and Jake struggled because he's a bit heavier. Harvey-the-spaniel had to be given a bit of a bunk up but got down unaided. Regroup with a sigh of relief, now we're in the country, off we go...
Well, not quite. This barrier was only the first of half a dozen between narrow grassy fields. The first field contained two horses and a donkey, then we clambered over another giant wall before a second, empty field. To get into the third and largest field there were two separate walls with a stream between to jump, and here the access had been 'modernised' by providing sloping ladders either side. Easier for humans, but trickier for dogs. In the third field there was a large flock of sheep, all with very small lambs, which required some interesting logistics; one person passing a dog up on a lead, a second on the other side catching. Just throw walking sticks and poles over and retrieve later. The sheep ignored us, but their minder, a wild white woolly llama, danced over to investigate, legs flicking out in hamstring kicks. Not too close an investigation, thank goodness - he just stood about 20 yards away, keeping between us and the sheep, and stared spittily until we were safely across this field to the very last barrier - ladders again. And this time Megs managed to get one of her back legs hooked over the top and swung helplessly till rescued. Didn't even squeal, and wasn't hurt at all, luckily. Thence across the final field, through a farmyard and out a gate into a lane. There was a sign leading back the way we came - 'public footpath to the Elephant's Nest public house'. I wonder how many merry souls have struggled over the obstacle course for a well deserved pint or two, and how well they managed to negotiate it on the way back!
Out of the farmyard into a lane and up (and up) on to the open moor at Kingsett Down. Did I mention that the weather was glorious, warm sunshine and blue sky? On the moor it stayed glorious, but with the addition of bracing cool breeze. Visibility was as good as I've ever seen it - we could see back into Cornwall as far as Caradon Hill and Kit Hill on Bodmin Moor.
From up on the Down a gentle descent through green lanes (wild flower spotting - celandines, primroses, violets, wild strawberries) to meet the River Tavy at Hill Bridge. There's a new concrete weir there, with a salmon ladder to one side and what we thought was a take off to a reservior. Below it there was a pool just deep enough for the dogs to have a bit of a swim. We walked along the leat which starts there through Creason Wood, watching and listening to the river fall away downhill to our left. And so back into a lane which led us back to Horndon village and back to the Elephant's Nest for lunch. I have to say that their steak and kidney pudding (cabbage with pancetta, boiled new potatoes drenched in butter and parsley) was one of the nicest I have ever tasted, and even more enjoyable for being eaten in the open air in the garden.
It was well worth all that effort at the beginning, a really good day out on Dartmoor.

2010-04-02T22:37:00.003+01:00

Standing right on top of the wildest, most open, bleakest, emptiest space in Bodmin Moor in a hailstorm is not top of my list of ways to spend Good Friday (or any other day), but that is what I did today.
There was a walk planned, from St Breward to King Arthur's Hall and back, and the day had dawned sunny, warm and deceptively peaceful. The last few days have been dreadful everywhere (except, apparently, in Canada) and although we haven't had the heavy snowfalls they've had in Scotland it's been pretty wild, with rain, sleet, snow, hail, very strong winds and general unpleasantness. So when it was so warm and bright in the morning I was inclined to believe the forecast that said the worst of it had passed, with only a few showers remaining.
I *know* about the moors now, I prepare for the worst. There *will* be walking, but I will wear; from the waist down, leggings, showerproof trousers, heavy duty socks, waterproof boots; from the waist up, pique shirt, fleece, Swedish loggers' fleece lined waterproof coat (passed down from my sister-in-law's brother) either a fleecy hat or a waxed rain hat (took both, opted for the warm one), and good gloves. I *will* be weatherproof. And, in view of the fact that we are going to be eating in quite a nice establishment afterwards (with a 'touch' of just-in-case) I will also take some spare trousers and spare footwear.
St Breward is a long way from everywhere. It's right up on top of Bodmin Moor - it claims the highest pub and highest church in Cornwall, and although there are other contenders for both it is definitely up there with them. Ty and I left Saltash at lunchtime in lovely weather. There's a place where I had to cross the main A30 road and had to wait for ten minutes for a gap in the traffic going west for the weekend (nothing going the other way at all) and as I waited there it started to rain. Across the road it stopped, but a couple of miles further on there was a flurry of hailstones - heavy, but only for a couple of minutes.
We got to the meeting place first and I had plenty of time to get all the heavy weather gear on. When JakeMegs(Harvey) finally arrived they brought a new walker with them - come all the way from County Cork for her very first visit to Cornwall and straight off the plane onto the moor. She'd been warned, of course, and had the waterproofs, and even looked as if she was going to enjoy it! King Arthur's Hall and back, that was the plan.
King Arthur's Hall is a megalithic place of stones and bog, sort of house shaped, right on the top of the moor in the middle of nowhere, with Roughtor and Brown Willy (two of the hills I have never actually got to the top of) looming in the background. The way there was fine, good walking, bright sunshine, wonderful views. You can almost see the sea on both the north and south coasts from there. Well, you can see the St Austell china clay slag heaps to the south, and the Delabole wind farm to the north, both of which are within a mile or so of the shore. It is really and truly on top of the world.
However. As we stood there, within sight of King Arthur's Hall, checking out the visibility in several directions, a line of squalls suddenly appeared to our left. We looked right - another line of squalls. Within five minutes they had converged and the horizontal hail started. Nothing we could do but stand there with our backs to it. It was stinging my legs even through trousers and leggings. It was impossible to look into it. And that was the exact moment that Ron chose to phone and see where I was and if I was having fun! So I told him...
It seemed to last forever but was probably about ten minutes. But by the end of it I was wet in places I didn't think the weather could reach. (Down the back of my neck, for example.) Still, the sun came out and we gradually dried off as we walked. The ground was a lot boggier than it had been half an hour before, though. Down from the moor to a ford which was flooded (but passable in proper boots). Up the hill the other side and we could see the church in St Breward, although we couldn't get there in a straight line. We were on lanes for a while and round one corner all the dogs went to look at something - the three collies turned away, but Harvey-the-Spaniel didn't leave it until told twice. It was a dog fox. It had been shot, with a rifle, one shot through the heart, and left there at the side of the road. Within the last 24 hours or so. Why? Why shoot it in the first place? Why leave it lying there? One wondered whether to report it to somebody, but then what good would it do? Shortly afterwards we went past some sheep. Although all the dogs are well behaved round sheep, we were shocked enough by the sight of the shot fox to put them on leads just in case the farmer with the rifle was still around.
Upward and onward through a farmyard and several muddy fields then back to St Breward and the pub. We'd booked a meal for six, and we got there at five to. Which isn't bad at all. I was glad I'd had the foresight to bring dry, non muddy trousers because the Old Inn is a very nice, clean establishment. The food was very good, too, and we had a pleasant couple of hours eating and putting the world to rights.
Suitably restored, I drove home. Just between the A30 and Cardinham, suddenly the road was covered with half grown rabbits, the first of the year. From there, of course, I spent about ten miles avoiding rabbits, until I got back on the main road home.
It was a good day, although I could have done without the hailstorm. Perhaps next time we'll get a chance to actually explore King Arthur's Hall...

Walking with wild ponies

2010-03-22T22:21:00.005Z

(picture by Vanessa)

Bodmin moor wild ponies aren't quite as wild as they're supposed to be. This one - the shortest, gingerest, hairiest of them all - has quite obviously worked out that the Foredown car park is the most likely place to profit from the visitors. It is the first car park past the cattle grid, coming out of Liskeard on to Bodmin moor, and very popular with walkers, kite flyers and people with interesting things in their pockets.

Yesterday, Sunday, was shining spring - three days of nonstop rain (good for the gardens) gave way to proper spring weather, and Caradon Hill beckoned. Round it rather than up it, a nice long moorland walk with proper Cornish mine workings (the picturesque stone kind) ponies, sheep, buzzards and skylarks, pools full of frogspawn, streams full of weed, ankle deep mud, gorse in flower, new grass being nibbled as fast as it can grow.

We started at Foredown, and as soon as we opened the car door the pony trotted over. Nose to nose it went with Ty, pony and dog breathing each other's breath for a good five minutes before Ty turned his head away. I got the treatment next, being thoroughly investigated in all the places I could possibly have pockets (all empty, alas!). I eventually gave in and gave the pony half a dog biscuit for sheer cheek, although I know this is not to be recommended, gets them into bad habits, etc. Duly rewarded, it strolled off and was last seen nudging a young girl in pink three cars down.

So to the walk. Five people, four dogs, from Foredown anticlockwise round Caradon Hill. The plan was to go to Crow's Nest but we got diverted by some really attractive mineworkings and the dogs' insistence on playing in every pool, puddle and stream we came across, so went up past Gonamena instead to Minions.

Minions itself was very busy with parked cars and serious mudrunners in lycra, but we had a very welcome pasty and cuppa sitting outside the teashop before moving on. From there we made our way back to Foredown along the old dismantled railway track to complete the circuit. Ty's friend had wandered on by then but been replaced by other equine panhandlers...

The weather wasn't perfect, or even very consistent. One moment the sun was blazing down and fleeces were being tentatively unzipped, the next the clouds came over and the cold wind made its presence felt - hats back on! Bracing, I think they call it... To complete a very pleasant afternoon we had a couple of hours sitting on the terrace at the Copley with Ron and the Old Codgers until the sun went down.

I think it may be spring, finally...

2010-03-14T21:17:00.004Z

Mid-march, and finally the weather is turning. Skylarks, primroses and heavily pregnant sheep were the outstanding natural features of today's walk, far outweighing (for me, anyway) the 'sights' we went to see. No hat, no gloves, boots worn but not necessary (no mud); I wimped out and changed my fleece for a waterproof in the car park as we assembled because a Big Black Cloud appeared overhead, but it went away again and we had glorious spring sunshine and a gentle breeze. Lovely. What Sunday morning walks 'should' be, but so often aren't...
We assembled in the car park of the Miner's Arms at Hemerdon for a walk planned to include a visit to the workings of Hemerdon Mine before lunch. It was a one-way walk rather than circular so involved a bit of logistics carrying eight walkers (and one dog) to our planned starting point in a helicopter flying field. Model helicopters, but definitely flying, which led to minor misgivings in the part of our drivers as to what precisely they'd tell Churchill if we came back to find one of the whirlybirds had whirled into a car!
Uphill from there across a long stretch of recently burnt moorland. Surely they don't burn it deliberately this time of year? Skylarks show up astonishingly well against a black background, anyway. Then down through woods to a ford and back up again to the old mine. My expectations of old mine workings have become Cornish, it would seem - I was expecting stone buildings and chimneys, perhaps a waterwheel or two - but Hemerdon was a tungsten mine of 20th century origin, all broken concrete and metal reinforcing, crumbling but not at all in a picturesque way. There are, apparently, plans to expand and renew the mine on an open cast basis in the near future, so our walk leader kept reminding us that this could well be the last time we could walk that way.
All downhill from there back to the Miner's Arms, across a couple of fields of pregnant sheep, through pretty woods which are, apparently, a paintball jungle (complete with forts, graveyards and other scenarios to satisfy the inner cowboy or indian that all men hide within them) and down a quiet lane to the pub for lunch.
The Miner's Arms looks from the front like a typical old stone country pub, although it has a suspiciously large car park - and the bar part is old, traditional, flagged floors, low ceilings, the lot - but there's a large modern restaurant built on to the back. When the weather is slightly warmer than today they open the glass wall up and serve food on a big terrace as well. We'd not realised the significance of the date when we booked it a couple of months ago, but of course it was Mother's Day and therefore very busy. With a special Mother's Day Menu or nothing. The food was lovely, though, and the company as always even better.
It's been a long winter, this. Flowers, trees, birds, tadpoles, all delayed waiting for the sun. And today it happened, at last.

March Winds and Daffodils

2010-03-03T11:16:00.002Z

"March comes in like a lion..." is the saying. This year the wild winds are a couple of days late arriving, but here with a vengeance this morning. A pair of woodpigeons are trying to build a nest high in an ivy-covered alder right at the top of the coombe as it sways in the breeze. Down at the creek the tide is just retreating from its highest of the year, leaving behind a thick mat of twigs and vegetation funnelled in by the wind. And there where the coombe is steepest, nearest the shore on the south facing slope, the first daffodils are in flower. Always there first, but within a week they'll be flowering everywhere. Spring is definitely, positively, on its way!

Good day, Bad day...

2010-02-25T20:06:00.002Z

Yesterday was a Good Day. The sky was blue, the sun was actually warm for the first time this year, spring was really getting on with it. Down at Latchbrook the rookery is being loudly refurbished, smaller birds are racing round madly chasing each other in and out of the bushes - and there was so much frogspawn in the little marsh that I didn't feel at all guilty about taking some home to populate my little pond. A Good Day.
Today started well, too. The weather was wet and miserable, but we had an excellent meeting at Rilla Mill this morning and I was still quite cheerful when I left there to come home at 12.30. I got as far as Callington before the day turned Bad. I got a puncture. Right in the middle of the town where the main A388 is constricted by all the old buildings and the articulated lorries, tractors, buses and other traffic are all struggling to negotiate their way through. I managed to get half off the road, but I could sense the lorry drivers thinking evil thoughts at me as they struggled past.
The RAC took an hour and a half to get to me. Then the spare tyre was soft, and when the RAC man tried to blow it up the valve exploded, which meant even more standing around in the cold and rain while he blew up the punctured tyre and put it back for (just) long enough for me to drive up the hill and round the corner to a tyre place. It wasn't repairable, naturally; there's a cut over an inch long right across the middle of the tread. Goodness knows what I ran over to cause that. So now I have two new tyres on the front, and the best three of what was left on the back wheels and as a spare. I am rather less solvent than I was this morning, and consider the day to have lost its bright promise. I haven't even been to check up on my frogspawn!

Rats!

2010-02-19T12:21:00.002Z

I belong to an email chat list where no subject is taboo, discussions get very involved and topics quickly get diverted into all sorts of interesting byways - almost like being in an old fashioned pub but with a couple of hundred people chipping in with their own points of view.
A couple of days ago a conversation which began (I think) as a discussion of what is and isn't VATable segued into an explanation of what fat balls are. One person pointed out that in his experience all fat balls did was attract rats to the bird table and the birds never got a look in.
Smug clever me responded that the rats don't get at my fat balls, housed as they are in a hanging cage, and someone else continued with another more complicated method involving old CDs - sounds fun.
Then I moved from my computer at the front of the house to the kitchen, glanced out of the window - and there was the brownest, sleekest, fattest, biggest rat I have ever seen, spread across the crumb tray scoffing homemade brown bread crumbs with gusto! He still couldn't get at the fat balls, though...
The crumb tray is the lowest item on the feeding station, but it still at least seven feet off the ground. There's a vertical pole to climb to reach it, but it does go up through the hebe, which would assist in climbing. Also, I've pruned a lot of the branches to make it easier for me to climb and reach up for refilling purposes. As soon as the rat sensed me at the window it scurried down the pole and across to the other side of the garden, taking refuge under a loose pile of unused plantpots behind the compost bin. Immediately it vanished, a dozen sparrows that had been waiting chattering on the back fence flew straight down to the feeders in what almost looked like desperation, but is actually just normal for them.
After a few minutes the rat came back, ran across to the base of the feeders, turned straight round and back under the pots. And vanished. It hasn't been seen since, although I am well aware that that doesn't mean it isn't there, just that it's being a bit more careful.
I'm a bit equivocal about rats; I admire them as intelligent and resourceful animals, and if I'm having a wildlife garden then there should be a place for all wildlife, but I still have this feeling they're not quite safe to have around. So I've compromised. I'm taking Ty down into the garden with me a couple of times a day, in the hope that that's enough to make my new friend move along. And I've stopped putting out breadcrumbs for the birds, which means disappointed pigeons gathering on the roof and protesting quite loudly. So perhaps I'll have to start again - perhaps I'll try the old CDs dangingling trick!

Cross Country City Walk

2010-02-14T20:12:00.005Z

Walk across Plymouth without crossing a road? Ian said it could be done, so we tried it. Actually in our four or five mile walk from the Tesco superstore at Woolwell to the Beefeater at Marsh Mills for lunch we had to cross three, although the first to get from the nearest car park to the entrance to Cann Woods shouldn't count, and the last two little ones on the way from Coypool to Marsh Mills wouldn't have counted either if we hadn't wanted to go to the pub for lunch. I reckon Ian passed the challenge with flying colours, and we had a very enjoyable stroll through the woods. I had no idea that the woodland along the river Plym came as close in to the city centre as it does, nor that it was possible to get under all the flyovers and round the islands at Marsh Mills so easily on foot.
It was gentle walking, too, all along good paths and tending downhill all the way - we started at about 500ft above sea level and got right down to the tidal part of the river. There was plenty of water for the dogs to stand, play or swim in according to their mood and some interesting industrial ruins. I was intrigued by the information board by the water wheel pit at Cann Quarry. Apparently it was built and opened in 1865 to replace a steam winch used for hauling slate wagons up from the quarry. Even then, it would appear, the green faction were trying to provide cheaper, less fuel hungry alternatives. Unfortunately it was not a success, and closed again after only a year, being replaced by the original steam winch.
At the Coypool end of the walk we travelled alongside the three quarter mile stretch of restored railway line which is part of a project to get all the way to Plym Bridge (twice that far!). From there we were back near, but not in, traffic and bustle. There are footpaths parallel to the road but hidden from it, and then a fascinating view of the A38 flyover from underneath, then more secret footpaths to Sainsbury's and a very long footbridge over the Embankment to the Beefeater, where we had lunch. Normal lunch, not the St Valentine's Special.
Eight human and three canine walkers today, joined by three more humans for lunch. The weather was, well, pleasant enough but undistinguished. The walk and the company were of the best.

Avian eating habits

2010-02-09T16:08:00.003Z

It's always exciting when a non-sparrow comes to eat in my garden. Bluetits, great tits and longtailed tits, chaffinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and starlings all pass by fairly regularly, and I still have my (hopefully) resident robin and wren, but it's the sparrows that come in the greatest numbers and most frequently.
At this time of year the fat balls are probably the most popular food on offer, but as those nylon nets they come in seem to me to be nothing but claw traps I have a special container for them. It's about the same size and shape as the traditional peanut feeder, but made of a much larger mesh - big enough for the sparrows to get their whole heads through. It also makes the fat balls accessible to larger birds such as starlings, which love them, especially as I have modified the original feeder by fixing a substantial twig across the bottom for birds to perch on.
Sparrows attack with gusto, frequently dropping bits, concerned to get in first and eat as much as possible as fast as possible. And three or four starlings in a concerted feeding frenzy can (and do) demolish a whole new fat ball in just over an hour. The feeding behaviour of this afternoon's new visitor appeared very strange by comparison.
A blackcap. A beautiful slim bird in shades of grey, almost blue on the breast, with a neat black crown, the first I've seen in my garden. Perching on the fat ball feeder, quietly enjoying a snack.
So what was strange about that? As it was feeding, every so often a crumb would fall onto the hebe about four or five inches below. And the blackcap would swing upside down on the perch, stretch out and very delicately retrieve it. The most elegant, fastidious eater it has been my privilege to watch from my kitchen window. I just hope it returns and that the sparrows learn some manners by example!

Sunday walk with snowdrops

2010-02-07T20:34:00.003Z

There are basically two ways to start the day as far as Ty is concerned. The first is that the alarm goes off, I get out of bed, shower, dress and take him down the Coombe. After that I have a cup of coffee and do things with keyboards before changing my clothes, combing my hair and going out. Somewhere around the hair combing stage he goes to bed and lies there, sulking, knowing he's going to be leftat home. This happens three or four days a week.
The second plan is that I get up when I wake up, sit about in a dressing gown drinking coffee and staring at a computer screen (sometimes for hours), before eventually showering, dressing and taking him out. I don't think he's all that bothered which we do, as a general rule.
Today was different, though. With the first ring of the alarm he jumped on the bed and pointed at it, wound up tight waiting for me to switch it off. Usual routine, dress, drink of water, off down the Coombe. Back again. Make a cup of coffee, sit down at keyboard. Instead of lying down quietly somewhere as usual, though, Ty took up station by my right elbow, sitting and staring, poised and ready... Coffee finished, I started gathering bags and stuff together as usual. Picked up my comb. Instead of going to bed for a sulk, he ran to the front door. I sat back down at the computer, he started with the nose under the elbow 'get up, get up, I want something...'
Eventually the phone rang, our lift was outside, and off we went for a day's adventure. But how had he known that today he was going with me? The routine was absolutely normal. I was careful not to say anything about walks. I didn't even put my big boots on, but still he knew.
It was a good morning's walk, too. From Pentewan, halfway between St Austell and Mevagissey, we took a valley trail along an old railway track (this one carried iron ore, I believe) by the side of the White River, so called presumably because its bed is mostly china clay. From there we took a diversion uphill through and round the King's Wood, a bit of ancient woodland now well looked after by the Woodland Trust with maps, waymarks and boards with bits of history, see http://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/en/our-woods/Pages/wood-details.aspx?wood=4357 then back along the riverbank to an excellent carvery lunch at the Ship Inn.
We saw lots of snowdrops and winter heliotrope in flower. The heliotrope had been starting to flower before the big freeze at the beginning of January blighted and shrivelled the leaves, but it's grown new smaller ones and is filling the banks with odour of cherry pie. Here in the Coombe the wild garlic is well grown, but there have been very few celandines this year - the freeze caught them too.
In spite of the greyness of the sky today and a chilly wind I do feel that spring is on its way - I'm just not sure when!

Luxulyan Valley Walk

2010-01-26T20:53:00.004Z

I almost always come home a little wiser from our walking days; there's always something to learn. One lesson I took from last Sunday's expedition was never to rely on the driver knowing where we are going, even if he 'has' got SatNav! I'd quite deliberately decided that it wasn't necessary for me to look up the details of where the meet was - the person who'd kindly offered me a lift had decided he'd rely on my local knowledge and hadn't bothered to check the exact destination to programme into his machine. As a result we actually went past where we should have stopped and spent some time wandering around the village of Luxulyan trying to find the Treffry Viaduct, which was a mile or so back down the road. We'd been so busy concentrating on whether to turn right or left at the bottom of the hill (Ms Garmin was silent on the subject) that we hadn't even noticed the carpark!

I'm not all that enamoured of the SatNav, anyway. On Sunday it took us to the village, yes, but along the very narrowest of lanes with grass and 'cornish hedges' ( high vegetation covered rock walls) either side. There are wider, more travelled, signposted lanes to choose from. Later, when directing us to a nearby village for lunch, the SatNav chose a lane so narrow that there wasn't quite room for a toddler on a pony on a leading rein to squeeze past the wing mirrors of our stationary procession of three cars, and a man in a hi-vis jacket and a stetson leapt up the 'hedge' rather than risk us driving past! What was wrong, I asked myself, in going up the hill to Luxulyan and then taking the signposted lane to Lanlivery - single track it may have been, but at least it had passing places.

But I digress. We went for a walk. The fog was thick and the air was icy in Saltash, but at Treffry Viaduct the sun was shining and the sky was blue and it was almost warm enough to take my gloves off! Luxulyan Valley follows the river Par deeply and steeply down to the coast. There were quarries there and tramways to take the granite and the clay out. Quite a lot of work has been done there on improving paths, clearing leats and making some of the industrial remains safe, making it a pleasant place for a walk even in midwinter. One's boots got muddy, of course, but the mud was china clay white, which is much superior to the usual brown stuff... The Friends of Luxulyan Valley have a website at www.luxulyanvalley.co.uk with photographs and a history lesson which I wish I'd looked at before we went.

We were six people and four dogs on Sunday. At one stage the conversation turned to wondering how many dogs made a pack and whether our motley group of collies-and-a-spaniel would count. Almost immediately afterwards our path was crossed by a 'real' dog pack - seven identical golden retrievers bouncing around in a friendly manner, accompanied by four or five assorted humans.

We followed one tramway down from the viaduct on the left side of the valley, starting high above the river and the railway line, descending steeply past cataracts, water wheels and mysterious remains of buildings, to meet another tramway which took us back up alongside the boulder strewn white water rapids they call the river Par to our starting point, in nice time to repair to the Crown at Lanlivery for an excellent and very welcome Sunday lunch.

Wrens and Robins, Sparrows and Snow

2010-01-06T20:03:00.005Z

So it's winter. A winter rather more severe than has been usual of late. It's been a bit late getting to us here in Saltash. There was dry snow on dry roads yesterday morning which didn't cause too much difficulty so I went into Liskeard to the resource centre as usual, but by 12 it was snowing again - big, wet, flakes - so I made an executive decision to close early and go home. By the time I got home the snow had turned to rain and disappeared altogether. Nice afternoon, just not quite nice enough to dry everything up before it all froze as soon as darkness fell. And then it snowed. The dog and I went out for a last midnight walk on a thin crunchy layer of 'proper' winteriness, owls hooting in the distance, crisply peaceful, pleasantly cold and still.

By morning there must have been almost an inch of snow. However, from shortly before dawn until slightly too late to go to work or school there were blizzard conditions and the world came to a halt. By the time I took the dog down to the creek (10ish) it was starting to melt and again was almost gone by the time everything froze at dusk. Apart from walking up and down the coombe twice I've not been out at all; I would have gone to aquacise tonight, but the leisure centre had also made an executive decision to cancel all classes, so I couldn't even do that.

One of the bright sides of this weather is that it's giving me more birds to watch. A robin has recently created a 'territory' which encompasses my garden, the birches on the grass by the car park, and (I believe) one garden on the other side. I've seen and heard him several times, singing that 'keep away all you inferior birds' song, and he was singing his heart out from a birch branch at 8 this morning when I looked out of the kitchen window. Then he came down to the feeders for the first time. There was a certain amount of exploration and hesitation before he settled on fat balls for breakfast. Ten minutes later the sparrows started wandering over from the escallonia over by the community room where they roost, and were quite viciously driven away from the 'robin' food. Or at least when they came one at a time. By lunchtime they were all sharing quite happily with only the usual sparrow squabbles.

I am now certain that at least one wren has taken up residence in the rare red jasmine, which is, let's face it, the only thing around with proper cover. It's an amazing bush, as high as the fence, and spreading out like a small tree. In milder winters it will flower all through, but even with this icy weather it's hardly lost a leaf. If anything startles the birds on the feeders, a couple of dozen of them can disappear instantly into its bulk. And every day now for more than a week I've seen a wren hopping out for a stroll along the fence rail and a dip down to the garden. Today I watched one come out, hop down behind the pond, then I saw it come out on to the fence from the top of the jasmine again! So maybe there's more than one. I do hope so... Normally I feed the sparrows and that's it, but today I have also seen bluetits, chaffinches, starlings, blackbirds, great tits and longtailed tits and a thrush all in my patch. There was at one time a line of 24 blackheaded gulls all facing into the wind and snow on the ridge of Hugo's roof opposite (two actually had black heads) with a lone herring gull behind them.

It's now (10.30pm) freezing hard again but the sky is clear. I shall shortly go out for a slide. Thank goodness for sensible hiking boots and spiky sticks!

New Year Walk - Camel Trail

2010-01-01T19:55:00.004Z

A nice long walk on New Year's Day is getting to be a bit of a tradition, but I can't remember ever having better weather for it. Last night, New Year's Eve, was a full moon in a clear sky and the first morning of the new decade dawned clear and cold. Serious car windscreen defrosting was required - there was even ice on the inside, something I've never had before - even at 10 o'clock when I was getting ready to leave. And lots of layers of clothes, of course. There had been talk of a packed lunch, but at 9am an executive decision was taken that it was probably too cold for a picnic.

Wadebridge to Padstow along the Camel Trail - former railway now cycle track - is five and a half miles, flat but not boring. On the way there the tide was out, and we saw lots of different birds. We met a man who was properly watching the birdlife with a telescope on a tripod. When we expressed an interest he let us have a look - I have never seen an egret in so much detail. There were curlews, lapwings, oystercatchers, gulls of all descriptions, egrets and herons, sandpipers, greenshanks, and many smaller waders I was unable to identify with the naked eye and my incomplete knowledge. The trail itself was much busier than I expected, thanks to the good weather. All three collies are pretty well cycle track trained now, but the new cocker spaniel hadn't quite got the hang of stopping and waiting for the bikes to start with. By the end of the day he was fine, though.

Padstow was manic, with queues outside all the pubs, cafes and restaurants. We really should have taken a packed lunch, but in the end we got fish and chips (very nice) and ate them sitting on a bench on the quay in the sunshine, with dunlins pretending to big sparrows and nicking what crumbs they could. Not to mention dogs pretending to be gannets...

New Year's Day is a traditional 'Darkie Day' in Padstow, when the locals have always blacked their faces, put tinsel round their hats and made music through the town. I'd heard that it had been banned for political correctness, but apparently not. Or not quite. The repertoire now seems to consist of instrumental versions of 'Scotland the Brave' and 'My Grandfather's Clock' rather than the more controversial traditional songs. And I overheard a lady with a north country accent telling her friends that the black faces 'were something to do with the miners'. No, love, it's tin we mine (or used to) round here, not coal.

Then it was that long haul back to Wadebridge through the increasingly cooler afternoon. The tide was rushing in and many of the waders had moved along a bit, flocking here and there on a mudspit or the shore. Having been so pleased to spot a couple of individual lapwings earlier, I was really happy to see a big flock of them flying round before presumably settling down for the night. As we got nearly back to Wadebridge Ty did finally manage to sneak off for one quick swim and was quite unhappy that I wouldn't let him stay longer. The truth was, however, that on leaving Padstow for the return trip I had detected a certain unhappiness in my feet, and it got worse as we went along. I didn't dare stop for too long, for fear I'd be unable to carry on...

We got back to Wadebridge just as the sun was setting, 4.30ish. It had been a beautiful day and a wonderful way to start this new year, but I must confess that I was quite glad to stop. By the time I got home after an hour's driving my feet did not want to put themselves down, and when I took my boots off I found out why - my socks had worn completely through. They were only cheap kiddies' socks from the pound shop with pictures of huggy bears or something on, and I've probably been using them a couple of years, so I deserved to suffer. New socks tomorrow!

Trifling trifles

2009-12-24T14:51:00.003Z

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

2009-12-22T23:47:00.008Z

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

2009-12-18T20:33:00.004Z

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

2009-12-16T11:12:00.003Z

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

2009-12-13T19:32:00.004Z

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

2009-11-21T14:57:00.000Z

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

2009-11-17T00:01:00.005Z

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

2009-10-21T01:08:00.006+01:00

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!

2009-10-13T19:21:00.002+01:00

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

2009-10-12T15:50:00.005+01:00

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

2009-10-11T22:26:00.003+01:00

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

2009-09-14T00:22:00.004+01:00

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!

2009-09-13T21:26:00.004+01:00

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

2009-09-04T22:49:00.004+01:00

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...

2009-09-03T19:32:00.006+01:00

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

2009-08-31T13:17:00.002+01:00

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...

2009-08-23T21:32:00.006+01:00

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...

2009-08-22T18:12:00.003+01:00

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

2009-08-17T21:31:00.004+01:00

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?

2009-08-05T23:03:00.002+01:00

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)

2009-08-03T14:58:00.002+01:00

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!"

2009-07-30T17:54:00.002+01:00

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)

2009-07-27T15:33:00.002+01:00

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

2009-07-20T10:17:00.004+01:00

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

2009-07-11T18:59:00.004+01:00

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...

2009-07-05T01:27:00.003+01:00

... 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

2009-07-03T00:36:00.003+01:00

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

2009-07-02T15:19:00.005+01:00

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

2009-06-28T14:07:00.002+01:00

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

2009-06-22T09:47:00.004+01:00

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...

2009-06-08T09:49:00.002+01:00

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

2009-05-30T08:56:00.004+01:00

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

2009-05-25T12:21:00.003+01:00

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

2009-05-23T11:52:00.005+01:00

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!

2009-05-19T17:27:00.003+01:00

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

2009-05-16T23:27:00.003+01:00

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...

Milgram vs Portillo - a course in TV ethics

2009-05-13T00:30:00.003+01:00

This evening I watched BBC2's Horizon - Michael Portillo on the subject of violence. He was asking himself and various 'experts' what makes people violent, is it inborn or taught, etc. Right from the beginning when he went to a remote south american village to watch the indians having their once-a-year fight festival I found the whole thing annoying - he didn't, for example, even wonder what the level of violence among the tribe was for the other 364 days a year - but in the second half of the programme he invited us to watch some social psychologists at work on an experiment.

Now when I was studying psychology we talked about ethics a lot. There were some experiments which had been done in the past which it was now realised had been unethical; we even discussed whether it was ethical to take the results of these experiments into account (yes, otherwise all that pain had been wasted) and whether it would be permissible to repeat any of these experiments (no, certainly not). As I understood it, anything which could potentially traumatise the subjects, human or animal, or an experiment was no longer permissible. Nor was any deception allowed, such as telling a subject that the purpose of the experiment was X when in fact it was Y.

So what does Portillo do? He repeats Milgram, that's what. The single most infamous experiment, the one which where people are encouraged to give other people more and more severe electric shocks in the interests of scientific study. The one which sparked off the entire ethics debate in the first place. The one which I was repeatedly told when I was studying would and could never be repeated in our modern enlightened times.

Basically a study of how obedient the average person is to authority, Milgram found that 65 percent of his subjects would administer what they believed to be a lethal shock to another if told to by a person in authority. As I understand it, several of his subjects were traumatised for life when they realised what they had done and how they had been duped into doing it. Portillo only had three refusals out of 12 subjects, which is a similar enough result to be acceptable, but why do it? Surely there must be ethics committees involved in television programmes? Well, perhaps not. I really do feel, however, that there was no good reason for repeating this.

Another wonderful conclusion he came to was that when someone has been deprived of sleep for three days their judgement is somewhat impaired and they are slightly more aggressive than usual. What a surprise!

This programme has made me slightly more aggressive than usual. And that is a surprise.

Sand in my Sandals

2009-04-26T21:37:00.003+01:00

This has been a good weekend for walks in the rain. After yesterday's epic, a nice flat eight mile or so Hessenford-Seaton-Downderry and beyond and back was a cooldown, no more.

Although the forecast was for showers and the ground was wet from the last couple of days' rain I wore sandals - it's almost always possible to do that walk with dry feet, whatever the weather. The local council have done their best to make the path through Seaton Valley as easy as possible, with duckboards over the muddiest bits, and although it isn't completely successful it did make a lot of difference. The old country park bit of the walk is tarmaced anyway, and the beach is the beach. My sandals filled up with nice damp sand as we struggled back from Clayden into the wind and the rain - the heaviest rain of the day was, of course, when we were walking straight into it.

There have been even more home improvements at Seaton Beach Cafe over the winter, and a cup of tea and rock cake in an elegant beach shelter with its own woodburner was very welcome. On the way back through the woods the sun came out, gilding all the new green until it was almost too bright to bear.

Liskeard-Looe Walk

2009-04-25T19:47:00.003+01:00

Liskeard is nine miles inland from Looe and much higher up, on the edge of Bodmin Moor, in fact. So a stroll down the Looe River valley should have the emphasis on the down, don't you think? Nice and peaceful and come back on the train, lovely day out.

There was an article in one of our local free papers last summer waxing lyrical about 'our Cornish rural heritage, woodland, meadows, fast rushing streams and unspoilt green lanes where only a distant tractor may disturb the sound of bird song.' Pisky wells, Cornish Crosses, herons, Giants' hedges - it all sounded quite inviting, so we thought we'd give it a go. The first minor difficulty was that the trains (for getting back uphill) don't run on Sundays until mid-May, but not to worry, Saturday will do instead. Then, of course, the weather, which has been beautifully springlike lately, turned against us, with very heavy rain and gales overnight. By morning it was still very windy but the rain was only occasional, so I packed the lunch, dug out the boots, fleece, rainhat, lightish jacket but an extra waterproof poncho (not needed) and off we went.

The walk starts at Liskeard station, and the first mile or so was down lanes but very busy ones. Since they built the new Dobwalls bypass anyone wishing to visit the Farmers' Co-operative at Mole Valley either has a five mile detour or zips down one of two lanes out of Liskeard - and all Liskeard was going shopping this Saturday morning, it seemed. Down the bottom of the hill by Coombe Junction the road got quieter, although it was still a metalled lane which went uphill for a very long time. Proper high banks, though, with lots of flowers coming through. At the top we turned left, as instructed, and looked for 'an unsignposted lane by a house named Lunghwa.' We found a signposted lane (to Scawn) near an estate with no visible name, went down a while but it didn't quite match the description, went back up to the road, carried on a bit further and found a gate with the name Lunghwa on it, decided it must have been the right road anyway and retraced our steps. About half a mile and a whole village further on the instructions caught up with the road again, happily, and from there on we were mostly walking through woods and along streams. It wasn't exactly glorious sunshine but it was pleasant enough, and the occasional flurries of rain weren't much of a problem at all.

At a place where we were instructed not to cross the river but to take a track along it instead we stopped on the stone bridge for our lunch. Ty was pleased - the river under the bridge was deep enough for swimming, and stone bridges echo so well! There was some activity in a field right next to where we were - tents and some vehicles and a few people. We couldn't work out what they were doing so far from civilization, and when a couple of people walked out of the field on their way back up the hill I just had to ask them. It turned out that the sister of the gentleman I was talking to was getting things ready for her golden wedding anniversary party, which was to take place in the field that evening. They'd had a bit of difficulty with the tents blowing over during the night, unfortunately, but were carrying on. Posh frock, extra underwear, fleeces and wellies the dress code, I think.

After lunch we carried on to a ford which offered, as well as the actual ford itself, a log bridge to the left and a very narrow wooden footbridge with missing planks to the left. The footbridge actually felt quite solid, although it had an apologetic notice on it from the parish saying they'd mend it as soon as they could. From the ford the instructions said 'Climb the track steeply uphill for several hundred yards to a stile on the left.' The track was very steep indeed, slippy slate with most of the earth covering eroded, requiring great concentration to get up without mishap. Such great concentration, in fact, that we totally missed the stile on the left and carried on right to the top of the hill. A kilometre of unnecessary steepness, according to the map I consulted when I got home. In retrospect, we had seen the place where we should have gone off the track but it was a gate, not a stile, with a 'no cycling' notice on it. Anyway, we took another lane back down to the left another kilometre or so and got back to where we were supposed to be. From there it was all quite tame and flattish, although very pleasant, along the river watching it gradually become tidal then wider and almost estuarial in nature. The last part of the walk is through Kilminorth woods, a popular excursion from Looe, with waymarked paths and different coloured routes. We took the flattest and shortest!

As we got into Looe the weather started to deteriorate, such that I changed my mind about treating us to an icecream and we went straight to the station, just in time to catch a train back at 16.07. We had met in Liskeard at 10.30 and set off almost immediately, so it was quite a long day. I reckon about 12 miles, and not by any means all downhill as promised. A good day, though, and a walk we may repeat later, now that we know the way.

Things I have learned today: Not only should one make sure one has plenty of the right kind of clothes (I got that right!), one should never be without a map, even (or perhaps especially) when following instructions. Things change, landmarks and signposts are altered, and that nasty feeling that one is going the wrong way is very unnerving. Not that we had that feeling clambering up from Plashtown Ford - we had had experience of the distances being a bit vague and guesswork, so we just carried on. Next time, I'll try not to.

Dartmoor - a Different View

2009-04-20T16:15:00.002+01:00

Yesterday we walked on Dartmoor again - and what a complete contrast to our last visit, only six weeks ago! This time everybody had spare clothes, waterproofs, extra boots etc, and we didn't need them at all.

The meet was at Meavy this time, and the day was not only bright and warm in Saltash but just as nice when we got there. I knew it would be good when I got out of the car to see the first swallows of the year on the telephone line. We set off uphill (naturally) up on to the moors to a marvellous viewpoint looking over Burrator Reservoir then came down through the woods, alongside the reservoir and back to the village for lunch. The reservoir is surrounded by conifer plantations which are rather more airy and attractive than most, to the extent of having flowering plants such as wood sorrel and violets, and we walked down along a leat where a lot of felling had been taking place, so the warm air was redolent of hot pine and resin.

This part of the Dartmoor National Park is extremely popular with visitors - there were many walkers but also picnickers and others who weren't venturing too far from their cars. We had an enjoyable and well deserved lunch sitting outside the village pub in Meavy, watching the local chickens cross the road in search of scraps. On the village green is an Ancient Oak. The centre has completely vanished leaving a three columned arch rather taller than I am, but with a healthy looking crown above. It is supposed to be almost 1,000 years old (known to King John), and gives its name to the pub.

Why aren't bluebells always blue?

2009-04-16T20:47:00.002+01:00

When I came to live here in 2002 there was a small clump of Spanish bluebells in the front garden which had one white flowerspike among the blue. This year the rather larger clump has nine white flowerspikes, which is roughly one more each year. They are evenly scattered through the clump, what's more, not all in one place. Over the years I have looked, idly, at other clumps in other people's gardens, and have never seen any white ones.

In the coombe there are quite a lot of native bluebells, as there should be, but there are some Spanish ones as well. I suspect that some kind soul has attempted to improve on nature in the coombe in the past, as there are a few other not-quite-native species. Daffodils and narcissi, for example, which although naturalised are definitely not the native daff. The garden bluebells. Pittosporum, that NZ import which scents the nights so strongly this time of year. A lone clump of cyclamen. There have been at least two bouts of tree planting, probably coinciding with the storm water drainage that was put in there; at the top of the coombe, the earliest planting, there are still trees, both native and non-, with support stakes either side, and down at the bottom a later session which have been given the marginally less ugly curly plastic protectors. Luckily, however, there's been more neglect than 'management' over the years.

However, I digress. A couple of years ago I noticed that one patch of native bluebells had a couple of pink flowerspikes. Not barbie pink, more a delicate mauve, but definitely not blue. And again last year; same patch, same pink bluebells in among the normal ones. This year they are there again, but now there's another four pink flowerspikes, some three feet away from the originals. I could understand a mutation spreading in one place, but a yard away seems quite adventurous.

Now green. I saw the first green caterpillar of the year today, quite well grown. There are more and more butterflies about - an orange tip last Sunday at Hessenford, for example - and quite a few crane flies. I seem to have mosquito bites on both arms, but just in case they aren't mozzies I've given Ty a dose of Frontline. It's coming up to tick season, after all, and we are going on the moors at the weekend.

I think my white jasmine is definitely dead, which is unfortunate. Poor little cutting wasn't strong enough to resist the unnaturally cold winter. On the other hand, last year I shoved half a dozen lily of the valley in here and there, and thought I had lost them all to slug attack, as they didn't really flower, just dwindled. But suddenly at an inch or two a day there are at least two in the back garden and the one in the front garden has become three!

May is Out...

2009-04-05T23:08:00.002+01:00

...or at least there are flowers on one particular Hawthorn, a red flowered tree in Kings Road, Plymouth, which always seems to be a few weeks in advance of the rest. People are casting clouts all over the place - the sun is shining, true, but the wind's still cold and the temperature in no way justifies the shorts and suntops I am seeing all over the place. The nearest I will get to 'summer' clothes for a while is the replacement of the woolly hat by a cotton one and a slightly thinner fleece!

The last few days have been wonderfully springlike. Every day there is more and more evidence of the changing season - that Hawthorn is a case in point, but it is happening everywhere. This year, as so often before, I promised myself that I would faithfully record the 'firsts' of spring, but as usual much of it has got away from me and caught me by surprise. There are bluebells now on the sunnier hedgebanks, although not yet in the woods. The hedges are white with blackthorn blossom, gardens pink with flowering cherries. The smallest wild cherry in the coombe, not much taller than I am, is already in bloom, as is the despised cherry laurel. Primroses, celandines, violets, campion, are all competing with the ramsons for ground space among the trees. Cuckoo-pint has come up overnight, seemingly.

One 'first' this afternoon - the first lizard I have seen in the wild in England. A male common lizard walked across the path in front of me in Seaton Valley and I was able to follow its movements for quite a while through the undergrowth. It can only recently have come out of hibernation.

It's almost midnight, and there has just been some consideable commotion outside in the coombe. First a jackdaw started chattering and scolding, then a female tawny owl screeched back. The jackdaw and the owl argued for a minute or two (I guess the owl woke the jackdaw up, rather than the other way round). Now the male and female owls are calling to each other up and down the coombe.

I don't know where the sparrows are nesting this year - not in the escallonia, or at least not yet, and not in the eaves and soffits of the empty house in Frobisher Drive because it isn't empty any more and it's all been repaired. They still seem to be going round in groups at the moment, although most of the other birds I see are courting or fighting. Blackbirds are being particularly aggressive at the moment. I keep seeing one blackbird which is brown but with a bright orange beak - is it male or female? No clue in any of my books...

...and a butterly fluttered by...

2009-03-15T20:19:00.002Z

... 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...

2009-03-14T20:41:00.004Z

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

2009-03-09T22:26:00.005Z

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'

2009-03-08T20:50:00.005Z

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

2009-03-01T23:46:00.003Z

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.

Facebook Farewells

2009-02-17T10:41:00.004Z

A couple of days ago I heard, via an email list, that someone I knew had died. I almost wrote 'friend of mine', but in truth although we had been acquainted for about twelve years or so we had never met. We belonged to the same society, both belonged to a virtual group of that society, he was the controller (if that's the right word) of the first chat room I ever visited, way back when you had to book a space weeks in advance to arrange an online meeting. He was a follower of this blog, as I was of his. We had many friends in common. And so I do feel that he was a friend, and am saddened by the loss of this man I had never seen. Ironically, we would have met, should have met, in two weeks' time at a real life reunion of our little online community, but it won't happen now.

The news of his death was announced first on Facebook. From there the word went round by email. And I have been brooding darkly about Facebook ever since. He was not the first friend of mine whose death I have learned about by this means. Only a couple of months ago, a man that I did know in real life but had not seen for years because we live in different countries now was killed in an accident. The first I knew of this was when a mutual 'friend' set up an 'RIP' group for him. Earlier last year, something similar happened, not on Facebook this time, when I heard via an email group that a former member of the group had died. It had been some years since she had been an active member, and some of our community didn't know who she was. I was able to post a link to her personal website, which was, of course, still out there in cyberspace.

And this is what concerns me, a little. Lennie and Francis are still listed as 'friends' on my Facebook page. This blog still officially has a 'follower' who will never read it again, and will never again post to his own blog; he only started it a month or so ago. Andrea's home page is still there. So how long does one's virtual presence stay around for? Are we creating a society of ghosts who can be summoned at the click of a mouse? Websites, home pages and even email addresses will, presumably, eventually disappear when they are no longer being paid for, but what about blogs and Facebooks or similar accounts, which are kindly and generously hosted free of charge? And the email lists? Will one in future have an obligation to leave 'unsubscribe and/or delete' instructions along with the list of bank accounts and direct debits to be cancelled?

Not Snow This Time

2009-02-07T01:56:00.002Z

Yesterday evening the entire south west region of England disappeared under heaps and heaps of snow. Snow had been forecast, but not in the quantities nor at the speed that it arrived, and people were stranded, villages were cut off, twins were born in a fire engine with snow chains on, etc. It carried on all day today, too, and has now been followed by a bit of a freeze. Life is on hold again, and it's worse here now than it was in London last Monday...

...except that it isn't. The rain was coming from the south, see, and the cold air was coming from the north, and where they met there was chaos, everywhere except a very very narrow strip along the south coast of Devon and Cornwall and the shore of the Tamar in between where it never happened. When I went to bed last night it was raining. When I got up this morning it was raining. What snow (a fair bit) had fallen during the night was rapidly being washed away. There was enough left on Josie's windscreen for passing schoolchildren to have written a rude message on it, but my windscreen (nose in to the wall instead of nose out) was clear. All the talk in the yoga class was about who was snowed in and where (nearest less than eight miles away) while we looked out on a nice clear green football pitch and did extra breathing exercises.

Anyway, in Saltash it has actually been quite a nice day, albeit with a cold wind blowing. Ty found a rugby ball in the stream yesterday and insisted on having it kicked up and down the coombe for him. He stashed it on the way back, as he always does with the toys he finds in the woods, and went straight to it this morning to play with again. And again this afternoon. I've never kicked a rugby ball before - and I discovered that if you kick the sharp end by mistake it's actually quite painful, even with the heavy duty winter boots on. It's even more difficult for Ty to guess which way it's going to go than when I'm kicking a 'normal' ball, which is good, because it gives him more exercise. For some reason this ball, although obviously a child's toy, is made of much stronger stuff than the usual footballs he finds and shakes to death so that they are easier to carry, if harder to kick, so the dog is developing new techniques as well, pushing it down the hill with his nose instead of trying to pick it up in his teeth and throw it.

In my front garden this afternoon there was muscari in flower. In my back garden I think the young jasmine Marjorie gave me last summer, which was doing very well, appears to have shrivelled and died with all the cold weather. Primulas, campanulas, pansies and white periwinkle are in flower, daffodils are in bud. Spring will come, soon...

Snow!

2009-02-03T12:21:00.002Z

At last, snow in Saltash. All day yesterday I was feeling quite deprived, listening and watching the reports from all over, but nothing here at all. Late, very late, last night there was a slight dusting of snow - I missed its arrival, but it was there when I took Ty out for his last walk. This morning I was due for a session in the Resource Centre in Liskeard, and had decided that it would be perfectly feasible. Got up, looked out of the window, everything much as the night before, had a quick shower and looked out of the window again to a total whiteout! It only lasted half an hour or so, but it was long enough for me to cancel Liskeard, and for all the kids to be sent home from the community school. They've been wandering about a bit at a loss, really, because there wasn't enough snow for anything useful.

After it stopped I piled all the outdoor gear on and took Ty down through the coombe to the creek. By this time the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and it all looked quite attractive. Especially down at the creek, where a gang of a dozen or so swans was milling about. A man in mittens was trying to photograph them, but they weren't being very photogenic, as they were all extremely interested in something edible on the far bank, and all he could see was a row of wriggly tails.

I had thought it was all going to improve this afternoon, but we have just had another flurry of heavy snow - only ten minutes or so, but enough to make it quite slippery underfoot, judging by the occasional passer-by. The Leisure Centre is closed, too, so I can't even go and run round there or even have a paddle, which was what I was planning for later.

February Frogspawn

2009-02-02T17:18:00.002Z

We had an extremely chilly walk through Seaton valley yesterday. In the valley itself it was fine, but along the shore from Seaton to Downderry there was a strong Siberian wind blowing straight in my face, which would have been quite unpleasant if I had not been wearing the fleece lined water-and-windproof trousers, Swedish loggers' ditto jacket, red felt hat and black felt gloves, thermal socks, big boots, woolly scarf round face... I was ready for the Arctic and enjoyed the walk. Ty didn't swim, for once. He dipped the toes in and decided against it. The river was quite high and running pretty fast, so it's just as well.

There were lots of snowdrops in flower through the woods, and lots of frogspawn in the ditch beside the path at the country park end. No ice on the water yet, but that may change over the next few days, as the forecast is for even colder weather.

I saw an egret investigating the rock pools at Seaton, the first time I've seen one there, although Jenny tells me that she sees it often, and that it patrols all the way from Seaton to Bass Rock.

This morning it was quite a lot colder than yesterday, although the wind has dropped. Walking down through the coombe I was crunching ice instead of slipping on mud. We have no snow - possibly the only corner of England without any, according to news reports - and it's been a beautiful sunny day. Churchtown was particularly lovely this afternoon, full of strange birds. At least I thought some of them were strange until I realised that they were goldfinches that were robin shaped because of the cold. And the robins were as round as tennis balls.

It is absolutely dry underfoot, not snowing, not icy at all, and yet for the first time ever a council workman has been round spreading grit on the path outside our front door, and on the car parks at the back. Not on the steps, though, that would be too sensible. And not on the roads, either. The only other place I saw that had been gritted was the Co-op car park.

I saw an egret investigating the rock pools at Seaton, the first time I've seen one down there, but Jenny tells me that she sees it often, and it patrols all the way from Seaton to Bass Rock.

This morning it was quite a lot colder, although the wind had dropped. The mud in the Coombe had frozen solid, as had all the puddles, but there was no ice

Tintagel Walk

2009-01-27T19:10:00.004Z

After a few days of really dreadful weather, gales and rain and ice and hail and sleet (sometimes all at the same time) I was quite surprised when Sunday dawned calm, clear and even warmish. Surprised but grateful, as we'd scheduled a walk around Tintagel for the morning. A walk described in the book as 'tough' - and it was!

It didn't seem too bad to start with, crossing muddy fields from stile to stile with three dogs on leads because there was different livestock in each field (cows, sheep, horses, more sheep, etc) although the stiles were those lovely traditional Cornish stone ones with a big sharp blade on top, which the dogs don't like, and I managed to fall off the third one! Muddy but only slightly bruised I was happy enough to carry on. Down into the valley of an unnamed river at Halgabron the path took us upstream a little way, over a bridge then back up the other side of the valley, passing St Piran's well and along lanes into Rocky Valley.

Rocky Valley was somewhat of a disappointment to Roz, who remembered it from her childhood, because half of it now appears to be a holiday compound, with 'keep out' and 'dogs on leads' signs and lots of fences and lawns. We had a bit of a problem with the injunction to keep the dogs on leads because the path was very slippery, very steep, moss covered tarmac, most unsafe when being pulled along behind a dog. Still, that was only the top part of the valley, and we carried on through the rocky bit, past Trewethet Mill with its bronze age labyrinth carvings and trees decorated with votive ribbons. Not quite sure why, but there's one elaborate wind chime made from limpet shells, the caps from champagne corks and a newcastle brown ale crown cap, among other things. As we crossed the bridge below the mill we met a young lady walking in the opposite direction - the first walker we had seen all morning.

Where Rocky Valley meets the sea there is a narrow gorge into which the sea was pounding with considerable force and greater spectacle. From the top above the valley we had looked down and seen that there was a considerable swell running, but from sea level it was much rougher, after the gales of the previous few days, pounding into the gorge. The cliffs there are slate and form natural steps down the side of the gorge - tempting to the dogs, but not to me!

From there we were on the coastpath and turned back along the cliffs towards Tintagel. There had been nothing 'tough' about the walk up to this point, but the last bit was pretty difficult. There are steps cut into the steeper (well, almost all the) bits, but the whole path was very, very muddy. Climbing fifty or so steps at a time when you can feel the mud trying to suck the boots off your feet at every step is quite wearing. And then, of course, there are another fifty steps down, only to go straight back up again. Several times. Lovely views, though. Right down at the bottom of Bossinney Cliffs was a bay full of tiny surfers, a couple of hundred feet below us on the path - they must have been really dedicated to have walked so far down off the road to play, and then having to climb back up afterwards. From what I could see, they weren't getting much opportunity to surf anyway, just paddling about beyond the surf line being patient.

Half way up the third or fourth flight of mud steps we met someone coming down - the same girl who had crossed our path in Rocky Valley! I still haven't worked out how she could possibly have done that...

By the time we got back to Tintagel we had used all the three hours recommended in the book for this four-mile walk (having reckoned originally to do it in half the time, of course). The sky was clouding over and the wind was getting up, but at least we had had beautiful weather for our walk. A big all-day breakfast in a local hostelry was very welcome before the long drive home in the rain.

Noss Mayo Walk

2009-01-11T22:23:00.002Z

Comparatively warm weather - temperature just up into double figures. We were invited over the Tamar into the South Hams for a walk today, starting from Noss Mayo up along a bit of the coast path to Warren Point then down again for lunch at the Ship Inn. Westerly gales had been forecast, but Noss Mayo is well inland and sheltered so it felt quite balmy and mild as we set out. I'm glad I took my hat and gloves, though, because once we got on to the coast path the westerly gales were very much in evidence. I was wearing a lovely windproof jacket which, unfortunately, is a bit big round the hips; it filled up like a balloon and nearly lifted me off my feet. Not all that comfortable, but it made an amusing photograph... I was very glad that we were doing the walk in an anticlockwise direction because we met quite a lot of walkers coming the other way who were struggling with the wind in their faces.

A bracing but very pleasant walk was followed by a very pleasant lunch at the Ship. I like going on occasional adventures out of Cornwall.

Lapwings

2009-01-09T15:17:00.003Z

I saw a couple of lapwings at Churchtown this afternoon, in the field where horses graze between the green lane and the cemetery. This is the first time I have ever seen lapwings in Cornwall, and was a great surprise. I wonder whether they are merely passing through, or looking for somewhere to settle.

When I lived on Harris the lapwings were a constant presence day and night - if you couldn't hear them you could see them - and in the nesting season were quite aggressive if you walked near a nest. The only place I have seen them in quantity since them was up at Strensham in the fields there. I thought they only liked flat grassland or arable fields, and that Cornwall would have been too hilly, but the girl I was talking to at Churchtown who also saw them said that she had been brought up in the Scillies and there were a lot of lapwings there.

While we were comparing notes on lapwings, Ty was haring round the fields with her two Borzois. One of them is quite young, although many times Ty's size, and it was comical to watch him being all submissive and puppyish. Ty, unusually for him, was quite happy to play too.

Ice in the Creek

2009-01-08T21:46:00.003Z

The Big Freeze seems to be over. Well, it was a big freeze for here, anyway, two nights and two days with the temperature below zero - the stream was frozen and the creek itself was full of ice. It's put paid to all the unseasonal flowering things; even the heliotrope looks all withered and unhappy. There's blackthorn in blossom up at Churchtown, though.

This afternoon almost all the ice had gone from the creek, and there were a dozen swans there, including two which still have brown plumage, presumably the ones I saw at Waterside. They were all milling about quite calmly until suddenly one of the brown ones ran across the surface of the water, wings flapping wildly. I thought he was attempting to take off but actually he was just eager to be first to the crumbs which the lady who lives overlooking the creek was throwing off her balcony on to the shore. The other young one used the same technique to get on shore, while all the rest paddled as usual. Ty and I decided that we didn't want to walk past them while they were hoovering up the bread so made a tactical withdrawl back up the coombe.

Back in the garden, today for the first time I have actually seen a bird using the fat ball feeder, which has been up there for six weeks or so. It was a young male sparrow, obviously a little more adventurous than the rest, as he is the only sparrow to use the peanut feeder, as well. The others will learn, though. The peanut feeder I put up on the silver birch is being used more and more by the little groups of mixed tits and finches that pass through. Very few of them come down to the feeders in the garden, especially when there are big groups of sparrows quarrelling over what's there.

Here we go again!

2009-01-01T23:08:00.003Z

Well, it's another year. 2009. I'm not sure what to make of it, really, I gave up long since making long term plans, new year resolutions, etc.

In fact, this was the first time we've been out to play at New Year for about seven years. Most of the last few years we've been apart anyway, so there wasn't much point. I'd got a New Year's Day Proper Walk booked in - the Two Valleys starting and ending at St Neot, so when Roger and Doreen invited us over to Downderry to see in the New Year it seemed like a good idea for them to bring Ron to join the walkers for the New Year Breakfast at the pub there.

I was under the obviously mistaken impression that public places such as public houses did the Big Ben or countdown thing at midnight at the very least, but where we were nothing happened - various people were checking their watches or mobile phones for an approximation of the right time, but nobody got it quite right. Still, we met a fair few people we haven't seen for a while, so it was quite pleasant, then a very short walk home to Roger's house. I actually got up a couple of minutes before the alarm went off, so that was OK. The weather wasn't quite as cold as it has been lately, but quite windy and a bit misty damp. We did the walk anti clockwise, which means it starts with a very steep climb up out of the village but the rest is easier. For the first five minutes I was giving serious thought to giving up because I couldn't breathe, but then I realised that the other three were all suffering from heavy colds and they weren't doing any better than me anyway! We only met one group of walkers going the other way in the whole six miles. There were actual primroses out on the hedges right up high. It was altogether a thoroughly enjoyable way to start the day.

When we got to the pub the Downderry party had grown to seven, outnumbering us four walkers, but they managed to find us two tables together so that we could all talk and eat. I'd naively expected that we'd go home after lunch, but Ron and Roger, egged on by various friends and relations, stuck it out until 7pm! I had one glass of wine with lunch, probably far too much fizzy water afterwards, and ended up only being able to talk to Doreen (who was also sober chauffering) because everyone else was on a different plane altogether. Ty worked the room with his usual understated charm and no fewer than three people tried to take him off me and keep him forever. He's a credit to me, which is more than can be said for Ron... How is it that I can turn a horrible unloved puppy into everybody's friend and I can't make a man do anything at all, even after thirty years?

I'm getting a cold now. I had two days backache and high temperature, then yesterday I woke up with a blocked nose (it's not blocked now - it's running like a tap!). Lemsip and whisky may or may not be good for me.

Happy New Year.

Flowering things continued...

2008-12-30T12:28:00.004Z

This morning's usual walk down the coombe to the shore and back revealed even more slightly unseasonal flowers and shrubs...

Forsythia - just a little bit early. Cherry pie flavoured winter heliotrope everywhere, of course, absolutely normal for the time of year. White periwinkle and (pink) red valerian. Hawkbit and cranesbill. Brambles both in the woods and up here by the steps, so we could theoretically be eating blackberries in March or thereabouts. Down on the shore there's an escallonia hedge in flower, and one of those bushes with flowers that look like prawns. In Joy's garden some bedraggled begonias and nicotanias are resolutely clinging to life.

Even in my house I find that an amaryllis which had been banished to the spare bedroom after flowering has suddenly developed a new flower spike, so it's been unbanished, and one of my cacti which normally flowers around Easter has a single Christmas flower. And I have just now remembered seeing field poppies in bloom at the top of the cliff (just outside the pub terrace) in Downderry a week last Sunday.

The Flowers and the Bees

2008-12-29T19:24:00.002Z

There was a white tailed bumble bee buzzing around the big purple hebe bush at the top of the steps to the woods today. The hebe is one of the many garden plants which have either never stopped flowering or are coming into season again, and there are so many I thought I'd try a list. Here in Cornwall there is always a certain amount of merging of the seasons, but there seems to be more than ever this year.

Garden flowers/shrubs: apart from the big leaved big flowered hebe mentioned above, there are several other varieties, including the small pink flowered one from which my bird feeders emerge. There are some scraggy roses left, and several different varieties of fuschias. Cyclamen and pansies (normal for the time of year). Campanula and those ubiquitous tall red lily like things I don't know the name of. Lots of heathers. Red Jasmine and lavender! Mexican wall daisies. Primulas, although no 'proper' primroses yet.

Continuing with this theme, I went to Churchtown this afternoon and kept my eyes open, for once. Apart from the usual lawn daisies and dandelions, I also saw red campion, herb robert, white dead nettles, self heal, a couple of types of speedwells and - this really was a surprise - honeysuckle in full flower!

My honeysuckle in the garden looks very wintry from a distance, but on close inspection I can see new leaves coming. Elder leaves are also emerging already in several places, and the hedges are full of new shoots of goosegrass.

The bumblebee this morning was a surprise, but there are still clouds of midges to be seen anywhere there is a shaft of sunlight. This in spite of the fact that the daytime temperature has been hovering around freezing for a week or so now. Of course, coastal Cornwall being as it is the temperature doesn't go down more than a degree or two at night, either, so there have been no really hard frosts since the couple we had at the beginning of December.

Latchbrook walk

2008-12-27T17:28:00.004Z

It's still sunny and cold - really nice weather for the time of year and not unpleasant for walking in, either. Bluebells, primroses and arum lilies are shooting up in the coombe. There was a solitary redshank down in the creek this morning hunting alongside the sandpiper and the egret.

I took Ty to Latchbrook in the early afternoon on the way to Waitrose. Although we were in brilliant sunshine, there were still quite a lot of white frosty patches on the grass there. More bluebells and arum lilies there, too, and one hazel with ripe catkins, the pollen blazing yellow in the low sun. Wanting to give him a slightly longer walk than usual, we went exploring up one of the paths which go up the side of the valley to the actual Latchbrook estate and discovered an abandoned looking building in a playing field surrounded by broken down fences. When we went for a peer through the cracked glass of the front door we discovered it to be the Latchbrook Community Centre, offically opened by the Mayor in 2002. There doesn't seem to be much of a community spirit in this modern estate of desirable suburban residences...

High Definition defined

2008-12-26T20:47:00.002Z

It's a least a couple of months since our somewhat aged TV changed colours, with green blood and red oceans, and we've been putting off replacing it until the January Sales. Which this year, apparently, started on Xmas Day.

So off we went to Argos with a pile of vouchers to cash in and got a 32" HD Sony Bravia LCD TV for only just a little more than we can really afford. Then came the fun bit - getting it to work connected to the V+ box was comparatively easy, getting it to perform in HD as advertised was a little more complicated.

Both the TV set and the box need to recognise the other, and as usual it's do a bit to one, do something to the other, follow the instructions on the screen, get nearly there and... well, start again, really. I must say that the most comprehensive instructions (which finally worked) were the ones on the Virgin help site, and it is now up and definitively running. All I could possibly desire is something worth watching to watch, now!

Salt Mill,Swans and Such

2008-12-24T17:46:00.002Z

For the first time in a very long time, Ron suggested a walk together this afternoon. Salt Mill Park, because it's flat, there are benches every 100 yards, and he can sit and look out over the river and admire the boats. I find it quite frustrating having to wait for him and sit/stand about instead of actually walking, but the dog was happy enough to have a toy thrown for him for a while, although he didn't count it as a 'walk' and kept trying to make me take him further rather than get in the car. By the time we got home his body language was so dejected that I gave in and took him on a quick run up and down the coombe anyway, just as it was getting dark.

At Salt Mill I saw a brown swan flying past towards Waterside. Navigating by shoreline, following every contour, keeping low and labouring mightily to keep in the air. By the time we got to Waterside, having also stopped off at Jubilee Green to look at more boats, the ugly duckling was outside the pub being fed, with a couple of older swans. It's not actually entirely brown - there is some evidence of white feathers coming through on its back - but it's still very unusual for a cygnet not to have changed colour by this time of year. I'm not sure whether it belongs to Waterside, either. I haven't actually seen any cygnets this year, which doesn't mean there aren't any, just that I haven't seen them, but it's strange to see a young bird on its own, without parents or siblings. Shortly after we arrived a whole gang of swans (and a goose) arrived, more than 20 of them, but the brown one seemed to be keeping himself somewhat apart from the rest. If he is a stranger, then it is to be hoped that he settles down as well as George the goose has. It's a year now since he first took over as gang leader of the Waterside flock.

Signs of Spring!?! (2)

2008-12-21T13:05:00.002Z

Today is the Winter Solstice, viewed by some as the start of winter, by me as the turning of the year, with longer days to look forward to. It is NOT normally the date on which blackheaded gulls show off their newly moulted black heads to the girlies, but there was one such on the roof opposite this morning. Through the eyeglass it still looked a bit sparse, actually, but definitely all over his head, not just the usual winter spots.

New (to my garden) birds on the red jasmine this morning - either marsh tits or willow tits, I can't tell the difference. Two of them and I watched them for half an hour or so, exploring everywhere. Of course, it doesn't lose its leaves very much, so it's one of the bushiest bushes around at the moment. There are lots of sparrows, of course, up to a dozen at a time again, and they seem to be roosting in the escallonia where they have their nesting colony; I do hope they aren't planning on nesting already! Also this morning at the feeders I have had a coal tit (on seeds, not peanuts) two collared doves who landed on the feeder, had a look round and went away again, and Christmas Dinner, the crumb addicted wood pigeon. Tomorrow I shall substitute sage and onion stuffing mix for the breadcrumbs, and on Wednesday glue, ready for the pot!

One of things I wonder about is the fat balls. I have never seen any bird, of any species, eating them, although they are gradually going down, and there are little beak marks in evidence. I only put them up about three weeks ago, in a proper fat ball feeder cage. I did see sparrows vainly trying to hover and peck (not having the sense or the ability, perhaps, to cling on to the wire of the cage), so I have fixed a piece of twig across the bottom to make perches. This was about four days ago, but I've yet to see any evidence that they are being used. One sparrow likes peanuts and often goes to the peanut feeder, but sits on the perch at the bottom. Another odd thing is that when I look at varieties of bird seed not one is intended for sparrows, but that's what I've got, pretty well, so that's what I shall cater for.

Signs of Spring!?!

2008-12-21T00:55:00.001Z

I saw my first celandine in flower today, down in the Coombe. There's euphorbia in flower down at the creek, as well, although in my garden it isn't quite ready yet.

Nature notes again

2008-12-13T19:08:00.004Z

On Thursday last I took the dog to Latchbrook, where I noticed lots of snowdrops (plants, not flowers). Yesterday I saw some daffodil shoots in the garden (both front and back), so at least some of the 50 bulbs I put in are still alive so far. I was a bit worried, though, because I thought it was way too soon. This morning, however, I observe that there are also daffodil shoots in the coombe, and a few bluebell shoots coming through.

On our way to Churchtown yesterday afternoon we passed a field with some young cattle in it, about thirty or so not quite calves but not yet bullocks or heifers sized. The farmer had put down some feed for them and they were walking all over it. In among their legs an egret was prowling, quite unconcerned for the nearness of muddy hooves and tails, rooting for insects in the hay.

Interesting Times...

2008-12-13T18:32:00.002Z

The last couple of days have been rather more full of incident than is usual for my quiet life.

On Thursday Ron, who has got into the habit of slobbing about in trackie bottoms, tried on every pair of trousers he possesses, even his suit, to find something to wear for his sister's 60th birthday dinner, and couldn't get in to any of them. So we decided that a trip into the Bill Tall shop in Plymouth was in order, and it was booked in for after yoga on Friday morning.

Before yoga on Friday morning I met the downstairs neighbours on the doorstep and was told about a problem with their gas fire. An engineer had been called for. Ty and I slithered our way through the woods for half an hour, then I went off to my class.

I was having a quick cup of coffee before leaving (about 11.45) when we had a call from the Eye Infirmary to say that Ron's lens and glasses were ready. The dispenser would be there until 1pm, so we decided to do that before the shopping. We had our coats on when the doorbell rang: Fred and Josie had had their gas cut off because it was so dangerous, he had been sent to the Doctor's and had a note for them both to go to Derriford A&E asap to be checked for carbon monoxide poisoning. So we dropped them there, then dashed to the Eye Infirmary. The glasses are great but when he tried the new lens it made his eye sore, so we put the old one back in left it to try again later.

Shopping was interesting. In very rapid succession he picked out a pair of black trousers, an extra long black shirt, a pair of black slip on shoes and a cream silk extra long tie. I can't remember the last time I actually made him go shopping as opposed to me doing it for him or getting stuff from catalogues. It's a bit too expensive to let it happen too often!

We had lunch in town - OAPs special cod and chips etc - and came home. My intention was to take Ty for a very long tiring walk so that he would be happy to be left at home while we were out, but it got very bleak with a biting wind and hard, solid, horizontal rain, so we had as much as I could stand and came back. When I turned back half way round skylark field, which is very exposed, he came along with me quite happily till we got to the gate, but then tried to take me off down to the woods instead of up the lane towards home. He obviously knew I was trying to cheat him!

By the time John and Steph came to pick us up at six the rain was torrential, and it didn't stop all night. It was a long drive to the Fox and Hounds (just over an hour and a half) and very unpleasant, but we had a lovely evening with good food and good company. On the way back the roads were flooded in places but just about passable - I read on the news this morning that there had been some places where people had had to be rescued.

That was Friday. Saturday dawned dry but soggy underfoot, and even more 'interesting', if that's possible. I'd hoped for a bit of a lie in, but Fred was ringing the doorbell very early, fully recovered from his scare of yesterday, wanting to borrow the chariot, which Ron had offered to him while his own car is being re-engined. So I got up and showed him how it worked. While I was doing that John next door came over to say his battery was dead, and could be take up Ron's kind offer of the loan of a spare one until he could get a new one (last week it was only the battery charger he needed). That sorted, I had a coffee before taking Ty down to the creek.

When we got back a young man was trying to start a people carrier which had been parked in a rather interesting manner outside the garages. He had apparently dropped some stuff off in his garage on Friday night and the vehicle had died on him in the pouring rain. He had walked round with one of those emergency power pack thingies, which of course was having no effect whatsoever, so I brought the monster truck round and gave him a jump start. I'm having a sign for the front door - 'Hazel's Auto Solutions'!

Away Day in the Frozen North (Midlands)

2008-12-11T00:49:00.003Z

Today was the coldest dawn I can remember since we lived here, and it also happened to be the day we had to drive to Stafford and back to collect the new campervan 'im indoors has bought on eBay.

I walked out of the front door about 7.45am, took two steps and slid the rest of the way to the fence, in spite of wearing sensible walking boots. From there I held on very tight along the path and down the steps, from where I was in the woods and walking on non slippy stuff. A gentle rain was falling, which was freezing as it hit the ground, so by the time we got back half an hour later it was quite icy everywhere.

We spent ten minutes or so de-icing the monster truck before we could start off - and then, of course, we had extreme difficulty getting it to the top of the hill. Down the other side and over the bridge was easier, although I was glad I wasn't driving at that time. Once we got on to the main road it was quiet and peaceful, light traffic and easy driving, so we made pretty good time up the motorway, although Miss TomTom chose to take us the scenic route for the last bit, down the quiet country lanes which were still frozen and quite slidery.

The campervan was good, the deal was done, we came back in convoy (slowly) as far as Strensham, where Ron and I had sausages and mash and a cup of tea, then I took the monster truck and the dog home and left him to follow on at Transit van speed...

When I got home I expected the dog to want to go straight off for a walk, but he insisted on going into the house. Once there, he inspected all the rooms (looking for his Best Pal) then had a whimper and sat on the stairs, quite depressed. I had a cup of tea. Some three quarters of an hour later, he heard Ron arriving and jumped up and down until I let him out to meet him. THEN he wanted a walk, all excitement, so I took him past the Big Tree and up behind Cowdray until we heard a Transit manoeuvering, whereupon he stopped stock still, then turned round and ran home. I could have told him that the van we heard was up on St Stephens, but he wasn't risking losing his Best Pal again! Dogs is weird, is all I can say.

Other weird things today: Over the road there is a garden with a camellia in bloom (well it's got two flowers on). I saw a field full of sheep with lambs just this side of Exeter on the way up this morning. I saw a blackbird bathing in the stream when I took the dog down the creek this morning. And I saw a buzzard flying low across the motorway with a rat in its talons, also on the way up the motorway this morning.

Enough odd stuff. Time for bed!

Winter Wonderland...

2008-12-07T11:36:00.002Z

This is what I consider to be perfect winter weather - a heavy frost followed by a clear, calm blue sky. Down at the creek this morning the water was completely still, although it wasn't possible to see all the way across for the steam rising off it.

The sandpiper has been joined by a curlew. I wonder sometimes why we only ever seem to have one each of this occasional bird varieties - one egret, one sandpiper, one curlew, one kingfisher.

'Wintry' Weather

2008-12-03T11:44:00.003Z

After a couple of really cold days, yesterday morning appeared to be slightly warmer, wet underfoot instead of frosty as I set out to take the dog to the woods. So, of course, I was oblivious to the big patch of black ice halfway down the steps leading down to the coombe, and landed face down on the concrete. Luckily for me, my face was actually over the edge and I was wearing fleece lined waterproof trousers and jacket (and gloves) so I was mostly unhurt although a little shaken.

I should have known better, of course. The dog had actually slipped in exactly the same spot the day before, landing spreadeagled and looking very shocked. I wasn't holding on to the handrail because it was visibly wet. Ah, well, one lives and learns to be a bit more careful next time. And it gave me the opportunity to make use of the gritting sand the council kindly provided for the community about five years ago, and which has never been used because it hasn't been cold or icy enough since.

Today it was slightly warmer again, here, although the rest of the country is still, I understand, gripped with ice and snow. It was actually very bright, too bright for safety, when I was driving to the resource centre this morning, with the sun low down and the glare from the wet roads.

nature notes update

2008-11-26T20:58:00.002Z

Two firsts today: long tailed tits in my garden, testing the fat balls, and the first blackthorn blossoms of the year (due in January, really) up at Churchtown.

It hasn't been quite so cold today as recently, but damp and grey instead. Now that winter really seems to have set in more birds are coming to the garden. No sparrows at all - they are still on an elsewhere - but a small flock of mixed tits and chaffinches seems to pass through occasionally, mostly checking the birches for insects but also coming down to the feeders at the same time.

I took Ty up to Churchtown in the afternoon and spotted some blackthorn blossom on one of the hedges - at the same place as I have seen it in previous years, but even earlier, I think. Perhaps they will have a better year next year. There have been very few sloes on the trees this year, not to mention the missing acorns, hazelnuts, beech mast, blackberries, etc. There were a few berries on the holly, but almost all of them have been eaten already.

There are still a few flowers struggling on the brambles, and there are already catkins on the hazels.

Winter Visitors Arriving

2008-10-05T14:18:00.002+01:00

It's a little calmer and warmer today, grey but not actually raining. Down at the creek this morning (half tide again) there was a larger than usual variety of visitors, but almost all alone; one swan, one kingfisher, one jay, one robin, one crow, one sandpiper. The sandpiper is a regular winter visitor, seen for the first time today. This is the third winter I have seen it at the creek, but there only ever seems to be one. There were quite a lot of ducks, as well. A mallard with what seemed to be three half grown ducklings, and two gadwall. A grey mullet was floating idly with his back out of the water, then suddenly leapt a good foot clear of the surface, somersaulting before diving back in. I wonder what upset him?

The beginning of winter?

2008-10-04T18:15:00.003+01:00

It's very autumnal now, indeed it's equinoctial, with gales and rain and general misery all round. It wasn't too bad in the morning; when I went down the coombe with the dog it was grey but still and dry. There were eight swans and George the Goose milling about in the creek, which was at about half tide, plus the usual egret and a lone Gadwall drake. It was so still for a moment there that I could see the swans' reflections, but as I was watching them there came a clanking of halyards from the boats on the Tamar, the wind starting swirling under the viaduct and the rain came down! And came down, and came down... And the wind has got stronger and stronger all day, as well.

I was trying to stave off the inevitable afternoon walkies when I had a phone call from Tom, who had a job for me, so I went to pick it up on my way to Churchtown with Ty. Churchtown was a mistake today, it is far too open and exposed to the weather. I wore the yellow waterproof but had made the mistake of going out in jeans because I was calling in to see Tom, so by the time I had been once round the top five fields my legs were completely soaked. And my car keys were not in my pocket. Definitelynot there. I spent a good few minutes fumbling with cold wet hands in pockets full of plastic bags, but nothing. Nothing for it but to go round again, hoping I could find them...

Off we set again, although I still couldn't believe I'd dropped the keys, and continuing patting myself down, sort of, while keeping my eyes on the ground. And eventually found a lumpy bit of coat lining, which proved to be my keys. The hole in the pocket they had slipped through was so small as to be almost invisible, and took me a long time to find before I was able to retrieve them. As I eventually got into the car the rain stopped, which was adding insult to injury. The small god of walkies is a mischievous god, sometimes...

Catching Up

2008-10-01T20:23:00.005+01:00

Where does the time go? Apparently it's two weeks since I wrote anything here, although it seems much less. And it's not as if life has been completely free of incident...

Well, the good weather is partly to blame. We had over two weeks without any rain and (mostly) with sunshine. I was easily tempted into more dog walking than usual, gardening, etc. I have planted 50 daffodil bulbs, which is a lot of work in the stony shaley claybank that is my 'back garden' and the even stonier but flatter patch at the front. I also acquired a beautiful blue and gold glazed pot from a boot sale, which has been planted up with a blueberry (currently with glorious bright red leaves), daffodil bulbs and pansies. This has been parked next to the front door, and one of the pansies already has a flower. Other gardening has mostly involved the removal of montbretia to try to give some space to put other stuff in, and lots of overdue weeding.

Last weekend was the last of the good weather, it would appear. On Saturday we went to a 50th birthday party and it was still warm enough for it to be held in house, marquee and garden. The dress code - posh frocks and flipflops - was interpreted in some interesting ways, particularly by some gentlemen who had DJs with bermuda shorts. Long red velvet sleeves with ruffles are not ideal for barbecuing mackerel in the dark, I must say, but the results were delicious!

On Sunday Ty and I went through to Plym Bridge to meet the gang for a walk. There were ten walkers, three dogs, one cyclist and one neighbour who met us for lunch. We went along the cycle route which is mostly a disused country railway (including quite a long tunnel) five miles to Clearbrook on Dartmoor for a very pleasant lunch in the garden of the Skylark Inn and back in time for tea (well, icecream from the van before it closed for the afternoon). It was very easy walking as it was almost all flat, but we did have one or two problems with cyclists who seemed to feel walkers were not allowed (not true) or that it was acceptable to come up behind people at full speed and barge straight through. Don't bicycles have bells any more? We were walking responsibly, keeping to one side of the path, keeping the dogs under control, etc, but still had a couple of uncomfortable moments.

On Monday the weather changed. It's gone distinctly autumnal, very windy and quite cool with showers of rain. Not quite cold enough to put the heating on or get out the bit quilt, but I am sitting here wearing woolly socks and a fleecy jacket over the Tshirt and leggings I wore for pilates class tonight. Ron's brother came down on Monday for a couple of days - it's a pity he missed the Indian Summer.

George is Back!

2008-09-17T23:40:00.002+01:00

Ty and I walked down to the town this afternoon, starting at the top of Fore Street and buying a thermos flask and some vegetables, paying some money into the bank, buying a stamp for a letter to France, calling in the Co-op for milk and yoghurt, then carrying on down to the river to walk home along the shore to the creek then up the Coombe and home. A nice walk, one of Ty's favourites, but only possible at lowish tide.

On the way we pass the Union at Waterside, and I was very pleased to see that George the Goose is back with the swans. He first arrived just before Christmas and very quickly established himself as boss of the waterside gang, but he has been on the missing list for a couple of months. I'm not sure how long exactly because I haven't been down there very much while I was wounded, and when I enquired the bar staff hadn't noticed...

Anyway, this afternoon he's back. Looking a bit thin, but otherwise just as bossy as ever. One assumes he's been looking for love, but equally one assumes he hasn't found it, otherwise I don't think he'd have bothered coming back to swan city.