Windowgazing

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

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

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

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

Take the Train? It's a Strain!

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

Caravanning - A New Adventure

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drenched on Dartmoor

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

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

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