Apologies if this is the 2nd copy you receive, but it is being republished for “Techie” reasons. Thank You…….The Photographer
By the Photographer’s Assistant
It was a small problem. The chicken, which was ready to cook and had not been killed by a wild animal as described in the last blog, depending on your beliefs about humanity of course, was laid out on a defrosting plate, getting ready for Sunday.
The dog had just arrived in the red convertible mini. The roof of the car was down and it was sitting up making some very excited noises. Its assault on the house and the Photographer, who it loved beyond all reason, would be wholesale. The Assistant had the chicken in her hands and ascended the stairs to the spare room with only seconds to spare. The chicken was described as free range, organic and XX Large. It had been saved for a couple of months for the right occasion, which was a Sunday. The Assistant was feeling her age and the chicken wobbled, Acorn Antiques style in her hands. The back door opened and she and the chicken managed to attain the spare bedroom, closing the door loudly behind her. The window was open and a cool breeze was blowing. She put it down on the sill with a sigh of relief. Saved! The Photographer, who had saved himself with some strategic dog biscuits, came upstairs and enquired about the positioning of the chicken. Anything could take it from there. Bird, flying rat, who knew what with the amount of wild life that was moving about outside?
It was true. Summer had by-passed spring and was on the go. The Moorland dwellers were going from really cold to instant warmth. The mornings were lived from 4:30 am with more noise than anyone can imagine. Forget identifying bird noises. That would be useless. It was a total mix. The Assistant wondered that David Attenborough hadn’t just simply moved in, down by the river with full television regalia. The hounds thought that breakfast should be served at a very unreasonable hour, and were singing. Sheep were getting busy with their young. The cows were moving fields. To cap it all, the badgers were digging up their neighbour’s fine lawn again. In the distance, a farmer, who had probably lost his mind by now, was killing pigeons for all he was worth. A pigeon had moved into their own garden to escape the noise and imminent death. Anyone tuning into the early farming programme had to shut a window, which was not possible in the early morning heat. It wasn’t any wonder that the Photographer thought something could be taken off the window sill. Only the previous evening, the Assistant had been woken by a May bug in the bedroom and screamed the house down. They had both been working so hard in the garden, that their nerves were a shredded mess.
For months and months no one had been able to plant seeds for the garden. The house was a total pit of dust and empty plates as the two attempted to make up time. The propagation unit was full and the Daughter came over to plant seeds too. They planted hundreds of seeds and the nursing and praying over them took place several times a day. The Photographer raided his pocket money and filled cans with petrol for all the machinery. While he was at the filling station, he managed, at last, to clean both cars. There being no water pressure at the house and dreadful weather outside it, it had been four months since it had even been worth cleaning the cars. Now that the local petrol station had become so expensive, it was necessary to drive four miles to fill the car and all this stuff. It was a Sunday, and they never washed cars on a Sunday, but they did today. On their arrival home, the Assistant insisted that the Photographer did nothing for the rest of the day. He read his newspaper for the first time in ages.
Things were now improving. The Photographer got the car out and drove it across the Moor in the direction of Ashburton. The two were in ecstasy. They had quite forgotten how wonderfully wild the Moor was and how it absorbed people and cars. Today, though it could have been Cathy’s moor. It could have been Yorkshire with that wild expanse that could be so terrifying that the Bronte sisters wrote about it. It was possible today, here on Dartmoor, to think of Cathy’s excited terror when the branches of a tree so rattled her window in Wuthering Heights.
What a boost to moral it was, to think that the two could once more walk and picnic on the Moor.
In another day or two, the two donned their walking boots and made their way to Castle
Drogo, walking to the 600 year old heritage beech tree, wondering at its survival. The gardens were magnificent. The azaleas and rhododendrons were in flower and they talked with one of the gardeners about the garden, which was now so colourful and well cared for. The chapel was open and the WW1 memorial sculpture moved them greatly. They enjoyed a venison burger in the cafe and made their way home, much restored and excited for the prospects of possible good weather to come.
In the next few weeks, the pace will pick up in the Little Town with amongst many events, the Swimming pool opening, with its natural water and solar heating, and its friends will once more meet there. Planning for the film festival and fund raising events will continue.
I would like to continue with a word for our lovely visitors. Please remember that the pace of life is slower here and that reverse gear can often be found opposite first gear!
Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental
Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate, Click on this link to find out more. Visit Chagford
And if you are feeling a little jaded, even though the sap is rising in this beautiful Spring, this advertisement has just been erected (if that is the right choice of words) in the window of the Little Town’s pharmacy.