Of Apples and the Season

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

It is a quiet Sunday. The kitchen range burbles happily in the background. The Assistant, for the moment abandoned by the Photographer, who is feeling seasonal pressure and exhaustion, is peeling large wind fall apples on a tray next to this morning heat source.

The Assistant is contemplating the season. To her the season is a joyous christian celebration, a BIG birthday, but she is thinking of all those other seasonal celebrations. She is thinking of friends who will be watching an Orkney website to see the change of darkness to light at Maeshowe, that wonderful historic burial site that no one forgets once they have seen it. The change from darkness to light happens on the Winter Solstice on December 21st. This means a great deal to some people in the little town and they will be celebrating. They should know that this also means a great deal to us vegetable growers. We will welcome the light. After Christmas and The New Year, our work will begin.

 

Autumn sunshine on stored apples

Now looking down at her peeled windfall apples, the Assistant thinks of how these are the last cooking apples of the year and she thinks sadly of the other dessert apples, which she has in her tiny shed and how they may have to be cooked because they are turning soft as the Photographer and the Assistant lose the battle to eat them all. Because the season has been so mild the Assistant has had to throw away a small number of stored potatoes, which were sprouting in their sack. We are approaching the Hungry Gap, when the garden will not be self sufficient despite the lettuce, which grows for Christmas in the greenhouse and the greens which are so healthy and beautiful in the magnificent winter light. The Assistant is saving for a proper propagator. She feels that the Photographer should have some aid in his new season planting. After Christmas, she will make a symbolic planting of broad beans in individual pots in the greenhouse, for anything grown out on the Moor through the winter is never guaranteed to see the spring.

On the Saturday, the Photographer and his Assistant have travelled to a little village close by. The newly restored hall looks magnificent and is full of produce. Friends meet and greet one another. The atmosphere is simple, full of warmth and comfort, love and laughter and we are all keen to buy from country folk rather than that large impersonal supermarket, which is a distance away and already over full. The Assistant is a very small person, and the Photographer has had enough of levering her out from large crowds, which he feels could really injure his little friend. Once in Waitrose, she got stuck next to ducks, of which she is not fond, and when she saw herself crammed against a large goose, all white and featherless, she felt strange! This year, kindly, the Daughter and the Boyfriend, who is tall, have offered to do the last minute shop, so thank goodness for that.
Christmas is special in the little town, with its simple trees, lights and decorations. It is so traditional, straight out of the 1950s. The shops have mostly what you need, the deli has cheeses and hams, Christmas puddings wrapped in clothes, the general store has everything you can think of, even crackers, and it has suitable country presents galore. It even has that essential pair of proper wellies and if you want a tweed cap, the variety is immense. There are children’s toys, there are clothes shops to help you look glamorous or town and country. Its all here. You just don’t have to go far!

 

Christmas wares at the Village Market

 

At the green coffee shop, we toast the town in wonderful coffee, Christmas cake and goodwill. There are fruits dipped in chocolate on the counter, just help yourself, its the shop’s Christmas gesture. The place is steamed up and full of friends and neighbours and seasonal goodwill.

So here we are on Christmas Eve evening and we will sit around at the Daughter’s telling tales of the past, but none will be so entertaining as those of midnight mass through the decades.

Midnight Mass requires your most experienced priest for his trials can be many. We will start with our memories of Aunty Gertie and Aunty Phyllis, both great sleepers and hard workers. Gertie would insist on attendance at mass, despite all desperate pleas to the contrary. A deeply religious woman, bound up in duty and care, she would have been in church so much over the previous week, singing in the choir etc. that she was utterly exhausted and at the very sight of the figure of the priest on Christmas Eve would immediately fall asleep, propped up by the rest of the family, mouth open, and with her hanky, which she always kept primly inside the elastic of her knickers, falling to her ankle, never embarrassed and always totally ignored by our vicar, who was not her own, and felt that heavy drinking at her age was not to be tolerated! Poor teetotal Gertie! Phyllis was a famous sleeper and would spend each Christmas propped against a pillar at the wall side of the church, gently snoring, and dreaming of giving her next nursing lecture. However, one year Phyllis was out done. In this church, a famous pub was near by and it is a probability that Gary Glitter, before his fall, was playing various ditties for his mates in his local. Some of the mates had felt it only right to attend church as well. All was peaceful, apart from Phyllis’ snores when a woman in a large fur coat slid down a pillar in the centre of the church, upon which, her friends stood up and carried her out, never to be seen again. Phyllis went back to sleep and missed all the hymns. In later years, the daughter, then a student, worked in the local pub and could only get away late. Our famous actress had just got back from London, and they would both arrive looking overly glamorous, but determined to come.Neither of them thought anything of being late, after all, they had come! Frequently they would arrive giggling and laughing down the aisle, while the vicar stopped to let them pass. After all they were both local celebrities! There were some years in which, a boyfriend would get religion and attend with the Daughter, much to her parents embarrassment as various villagers poked the parents backs whispering, “He is gorgeous “ and other such remarks.
One Christmas Eve the vicar arrived at our house and banged urgently on the door. Could our eldest daughter play the organ at mass? We were astonished. She played the clarinet rather well, what about that? No, that would not do. The poor girl liked to play privately, but felt she must help and agreed to bring her new key board. The girl and the congregation did their best. There was lots of leading with singing and everyone stood up and clapped at the end, when the vicar presented this rather delicate looking girl with a six pack of beer. She stepped down looking shaken and he was pleased with the gesture. He was forgiven. He had done his best, and he was young yet. Too young to take midnight mass.

Now, the little town has all of this right. There will be a splendid midnight service and the drinkers and smokers will sit outside on the church wall celebrating in their own way, for the pub is just across the road and no one will mind. The little town has tolerance as its chief virtue.

I have said enough and this is a little long, but I hope that you will enjoy it. It remains to give you seasons greetings, and as the late, great, Dave Allen used to say, “ May your God Go With you.”

 

Four Candles for Four Prayes

PS  Maeshowe webcam link

http://www.maeshowe.co.uk/index.html

 

PPS

…….and a Merry Christmas from The Photographer

A Dartmoor Sunday

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

The kettle bounced and quivered on the kitchen range. The Assistant moved about the kitchen, while the Photographer tried to wake up. A breakfast of creamy local eggs was steaming on the table. It was consumed in companionable silence. Coffee followed accompanied by all the large sections of the Saturday paper. The companions were relishing the day to come.

There was a honk outside the front door and a person was unloaded out of the car. Hugs were given all around and some generous gifts were given. The photographer disappeared to escort his friend down the drive and the Assistant put the kettle back on. It was a long time since these friends had seen one another and there was much to catch up with. The Photographer and his friend lingered on the veg. plot while the friend smoked his pipe and details of two growing seasons were exchanged, the two deep in serious discussion.

The two women were left to sit by the already lit fire discussing their families and the friend’s recent retirement. The men appeared to warm cold bottoms by the fire and demolish quantities of tea, coffee and biscuits. After much catching up, deciding that everyone’s adult children and the friend’s grandchild were fine at the moment, it was decided to set off on the great adventure. Wellingtons were put on and coats were secured against the damp air outside. The two men disappeared into the distance while the females still in deep conversation followed on; the whole time The Photographer’s Assistant was admiring her friend’s long woolly coat, the Assistant was far too short to wear such a warm and glorious item. On the way up the hill, sheep were admired and judged, particularly the Herdwick sheep, native’s of the Lake district, whose meat is so tender, it is beyond description.

The foursome had, at last, reached their destination. The top of the hill of the next hamlet had arrived. A stroll up the road and the foursome had reached their destination. There before them was the little medieval church, standing in simple silence amidst its Moorland surroundings. The foursome drew breath and were pleased to have arrived. This was what the day was about. The visiting couple had come here to remember the day on which their marriage was blessed, a simple remembrance of one of the most important days in their married lives. They did this every year and it made the Photographer and his Assistant wonder why they didn’t do the same. They thought it a really good idea.

Our wonderful moorland church

The foursome paused outside the church gate while their friends brought forth from memory a picture of the day, who was there to support them, where beloved friends and relatives had stood as they entered the church. It was a deeply touching and poignant scene. The Photographer clutched his camera and the Assistant followed him as they left the other couple to enter the church to have their quiet time together. The Photographer concentrated on an carved angel which had been challenging him for some time. The light wasn’t right yet again and he was frustrated. He examined the area where recently he had helped remove a tree root, and was satisfied, then the companions returned to the church where their friends had lit two candles to mark the occasion and the group all joined in the hymn, “All Creatures Great and Small.” The friends being satisfied with their meditations, moved to the back of the church where a Thermos was produced and a warming cup of tea was drunk.

Still not “right” but at least no power cables

On departing the church, it was decided that there was time to visit the Hermitage, a local building, dating back many years to possibly the 13th century. Here a monk had lived alone to pray and reflect, when temptation appeared in the shape of the local miller’s daughter. She passed the monk’s dwelling every day and eventually temptation had become too much. The Monk had raped and murdered the girl and then ran away himself. This is the legend of the place. The four companions crossed some soggy ground and a river to get to it, and it was outstanding; having recently had some restoration work done on it. It had had five large trees, which had sprung up within it cut down. It had no roof and a window lintel was still in place. It reminded the band of pilgrims of how well populated this area would have been before the terrible Black Death, which devastated England’s population down to a level where such places were never inhabited again. The four friends stood and shivered. The atmosphere was terrible, strange and there was no comfort in it. You would have known that something dreadful had happened here even if you didn’t know the story. The Assistant produced two miniature bottles of peaty whisky and the foursome all had a swig before starting their way home through the twilight, down the hill to home. The Assistant was proud of the whisky which was sipped all the way. It had been needed. It was a very emotional day and the Photographer and the Assistant had been touched to be invited.

Home and Chapel for a solitary medieval monk

When the party arrived home, the Photographer and the Assistant turned their attention to the range and a simple and delicious supper was produced of pasta with home made pesto, focaccia, bread and apple crumble, all washed down with the friend’s delicious white wine. Everyone being very full, the friends drank coffee and tea in front of the fire and dreamed of more Dartmoor winter walks to come as a change from all that vegetable growing.

Walking and talking

Yesterday, the Photographer and his Assistant planted the daffodil bulbs, which the friends had brought for the purpose, on Marcus grave and were satisfied with a fitting tribute. Thank you to all of you who wrote and said such kind words about him. We were very touched.

A Brown Eyed Handsome Dog

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

Marcus: A very special spaniel

The sad eyed distressed and thoroughly unhappy spaniel looked as if his universe had imploded. He had just been rejected by a small boy. He had already been here a little while. It was not within his character to beg so he lay down with his head on his paws waiting for tea time. What he had not spotted was the bedraggled, undistinguished woman, who was praying that the little boy would not want what was clearly a very dispirited spaniel. The Photographers Assistant could not wait for the Photographer to arrive and have a proper look. Would he be enchanted by this animal? The Photographer was dubious. This was a very miserable looking creature. The Assistant was silent, after all this was his present for Fathers Day. His youngest daughter wanted him to have a dog, but she could only afford this one.

The Photographer got a proper look at the animal and the animal got a proper look at him. Well, as you can guess, it was love at first sight. For a whole week, while formalities were being concluded and the daughter came home to see what she was buying, the Photographer visited the dog and took it for a walk. When the dog was finally collected, it raced towards the family and landed in the back of the car and that was that. The dog came home to the Moor, where it had a totally new life. Getting on anyones’ bed at all, it soon realised, was frowned upon, and he did want to please. Being allowed off the lead was novel and he would trot along to heel until he realised freedom was at hand. He could swim, but he never really liked it unless he felt hot. When the daughter came home, she bought some very expensive boots to persuade him into the river, but he only went in to please her.

Eventually, the dog forgot about pleasing his new family, and like the rest of them, he pleased himself. He sincerely believed that he had achieved human status and began to lead his own life. He complained that his basket arrangements were not adequate and demanded a basket that was big enough to take two spaniels. This was his private space and he objected most strongly to any other person attempting to share it. He had always wanted a basket like this and other people would have to get their own. He wanted at least two large drinking bowls and absolutely refused the type that had a dear doggie emblem or any other such nonsense printed on it. He was not keen on beef and made it quite clear that only chicken or duck would do. The Photographer was puzzled that such a stray creature should want such comforts until the Assistant pointed out that he was a more thoroughbred creature than either of them.

Transport was a wonder to the Dog. Cars were to be worshipped. Any car would do, you understand, but in reality, it was a swanky car that really appealed. The Assistants brand new Ka was destroyed within five minutes of a muddy walk on the Moor. Eventually, her car smelt horrid and she gave up trying to clean it. It was the kennel on wheels. The Dog gave due regard, however to swanky cars, and always waited to be lifted in. His exploits in cars were Moor famous. Any passing delivery van would be eyed for a ride. Delivery drivers always eyed the Dog up with dread. No incident was more spectacular than the day he tried for the visiting post mistresses car. While she was fond of dogs, she was not this fond. The dog was a serious wall walker. He would parade above the drive of his owners as if on an Everest assault. The family would be busy elsewhere, and they would forget the wall walker. On this particularly sunny day, the dog was “on one”. The post mistress was on her way out. The dog was poised. He landed in her lap. She was astonished. She always shut her window after that, and when he went to the post office, she left him to her assistant, giving him a sideways glance from some distance away.

The Dog was a keen gardener. He could dig a wide trench, usually just before the lawn was mowed, around any suspect. He enjoyed the screams of dispatched squirrels and when one had been humanely trapped in the strawberry patch, he had no hesitation in killing it in return for lost fruit.

He loved a trip to the beach, particularly with the daughter, where he would show off shamelessly and in excess. He had a most spectacular accident at Sandy Mouth Bay, where he really overdid it. The family realised, too late, together with a beach full of people, who looked up with terror on their faces, while the dog convinced of a lack of vulnerability, dived at least 60 feet off a sheer cliff face. There was silence. The dog, however, aware that he had committed a serious error in public, pretended that the dive was intentional. He picked himself up, shook himself, and ran around in circles, as if nothing had happened. A small trickle of blood came from his nose, but that was it!

 

Well..we’re here now..lets have a swim!

 

He was always happy to please the daughter with his deep interest in modern art. He really didn’t mind how many works of art he trailed around, as long as he could be seen out with an attractive blonde. However he did take exception to Damian Hurst’s creations and treated this exhibit with total distain, as illustrated here. He was always up for a visit to his friend, Virginia’s studio and thought her garden rather beautiful, however, even here, he overstepped the mark. Virginia had an exhibition on and quite independently of his owners, who were busy in the garden, he thought that he would visit. Unfortunately, on his way in the beautiful garden, he forgot what he was there for and quite thoughtlessly, eat a whole packet of Hob Nobb biscuits. The entire village was aghast, and he had deeply upset his owners. He lay low for at least half an hour after that incident!

I’m bored……why did we leave the pheasants at the top of the Cascade for this?

 

Marcus’ adventures are too numerous to  list here, there was climbing Snowdon, snow, Norfolk RSPB and many many more

He loved the vet’s receptionist with a passion beyond imagining. If he couldn’t have lived with the daughter and the much loved Boyfriend, he would have given all his velvety fur to live with her, but it was not to be.

Marcus ran out of luck and was put to sleep on October 17th after 15 vigorous years. His owners and his community were devastated. We have been spoken to by people with tears in their eyes and no one can have received so many lovely cards about a dog. Marcus has been buried in his beloved garden, where we imagine him in a doggy paradise, sipping champagne in a sports car beside a beautiful blonde, who looks remarkably like Marilyn. She would never be able to resist his charm!

 

If you would like to see pictures of the Further Adventures of Marcus, just go to:  http://petercbennett01.wordpress.com/2014/10/29/the-further-ad…e-the-captions/
or follow the link:  http://wp.me/p49oYW-1m

Splendid Isolation

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

The Lord of the Isles at Dawn on Colonsay

In the misty universe that is seven in the morning, the ferry slips out of Colonsay, one of the most isolated Hebredian islands. Passengers linger about, adjusting to being at sea and out of bed. Woolly hatted and bleary eyed they are thinking of breakfast. There is one passenger though, who is not thinking of anything, but the home and the mother that he is leaving. He stands right at the edge of the middle of the ferry deck and this cold means nothing to him. His eyes are only for the island that he is leaving. No one really notices him, but the mother inside the Photographers Assistant is stirred. If this young man let a tear blemish his face, it would be a mark against his masculinity, but his devastation is clear. His whole soul is telling him that this is wrong and he should be back on that island with his people.

The island is too small to have a school, so it has bought a boarding house for the children to stay in during the week while they are educated on the Mainland. The Assistant thought this rather harsh and enquired about education by computer with odd trips to the mainland. No, that good old chestnut was trotted out. A child must be socialised. The Assistants children were never sent to play school and led an isolated life in the countryside with only odd contact with others. Indeed, the passing of drugs, fags and other such stuff at the school gate was the opposite to our rural life. If taking drugs, drinking etc is part of a child’s life, you can keep it. Sorry, bit of a rant off the island there. The look on that young man’s face was not a happy or even likely to be a productive one.

We tourists are a fickle bunch. We leave the young man and are off to enjoy a really hearty Cal Mac breakfast. The Photographer is only allowed a cooked breakfast on a Sunday, so he is salivating at the thought of a good hot fatty breakfast. After breakfast, he indulges in a round of coffee buying and present hunting and is satisfied when he finds the boyfriend a rather unusual present. The Boyfriend is Scottish and has a kilt, but no sporran, and now The Photographer has been able to solve the problem. He has bought The Boyfriend a large towel with a kilt printed upon it and the kilt has a sporran. Indeed when wrapped around oneself, the kilt is all you see and it is rather dashing. Another top mark to Cal Mac for solving this long term problem.

While we were there the ferry that took us away from the island had arrived the previous evening. Ferry staff are obliged to remain on their ferry for two weeks at a time. The bar of the local hotel was full of reconciliation and drams as getting together was celebrated, farmers came down from the hills in their tractors and a good time was had by all. The Photographer and his Assistant hid behind menus and were forgotten as the arguments commenced over independence. A dissenting voice could be heard above the crowd, it was the Eastern European barman, who had been looking forward to receiving a wedge of cash to take home at the end of the season, the pound’s value was rocketing down as he spoke. The chef had got some produce off the ferry and was delightedly changing the menu as the happy chaos surrounded him.

Colonsay is host to 120 souls, who are there in the winter and in the summer. It is obliged to be a resourceful community, much like the little Dartmoor town’s community. In the winter if the weather is rough poor old Cal Mac won’t get there with its little deliveries of the odd bit of fresh mainland food.

The local store on Colonsay had loads of stuff such as the tin below, note the reference to bird flu, and this price for petrol. It makes the exorbitant price for petrol up on the Moor look really cheap!

Have no fear, Jeyes has got it covered!

The isolation on this island had led to a brewery being set up, various tourist facilities and the production of wonderful produce, fruit , vegetables, and glorious vats of honey. The local meat was delicious. The island even supported a wonderful book shop, selling books in gaelic and english, a fascinating treasure trove of rarely found and interesting wonders.

Island fuel prices

The cafe at the ferry terminal was a great meeting place, full of steam, warmth and hubbub. On this occasion, Brave Heart was being discussed as an explosive addition to the independence debate. The lady owner promised to make the Photographer some cheese scones for the morrow, much as a cafe owner in our own little town would do.

The island was one of the most beautiful places that we have ever visited. It would be possible to live there in splendid isolation and peace for as long as you liked, free of all those trappings that cost so much money, and cost so much in other ways. Isolation can be a splendidly freeing experience, and it is why so many of us live so close to it.

Reasons to be Cheerful

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

We are going abroad to the RHS garden at Rosemoor. The Photographer would like to attend a lecture on Grasses. The day had begun with rain, but now there was glorious sunshine across the Moor and the rural surroundings matched the mood of an afternoon out. The car sped its way through the delightful surroundings of rural Devon. The harvest was in and every sheep was neat and trim. The little villages were all pretty and sleepy, as they nestled into their Sunday snooze.

We arrive, and surprisingly, there is hardly anyone here. We are able to park near the main building, which is a great achievement in the summer. The air is clear of rain and we are looking forward to a small snack and a cup of tea. We are surprised. There is a enormous queue but we really want a cup of tea, so we join it. We are ushered forward. All is becoming apparent. This is all about Sunday lunch. It is clearly a prized activity.The lunch looks stunning. Plates are piled high with delicious and mountainous quantities of vegetables, and meat. All is topped off with a large Yorkshire pudding. Dessert is three profiteroles with a sticky toffee pudding type sauce. We are mere observers, having just enjoyed what now appears to be a sparse breakfast. The place is full and getting fuller. More people are arriving. There are all types and conditions of mankind. There are some very well behaved children with their own special carrier bags of food. It is just lovely to see families relaxing in this wonderful and seriously horticultural spot. There are the great retired, but we boomers are everywhere you go. There really is every age group, plus the disabled being trundled along with families. On his own, at a smaller table, there is an elderly man with a crutch or two, who has clearly been in the wars. As he eats, you can see quite prominently, on the third finger of his left hand, two wedding rings and we speculate that he has recently lost his wife, of whom he was clearly so very fond. We are sad for a minute or two. He is determined to join in this happy scrum. He has this wonderful two course lunch before him, and a nice half bottle of white wine. He is certainly not alone this Sunday as the children and the cutlery clatter around him.

 

A summer of Ice Creams at Rosemoor

Our tea and snack consumed, the Photographer and Assistant make their way to the vegetable plots, where they are pleased to see that some of their own produce has done well against the standard. The Photographer is content and in jovial mood, attends his lecture with many new ideas to think about. The twosome have had a happy day and top it off with a choc chip ice cream, which is delicious. They resolve to attend Sunday lunch soon. Everybody likes to escape into such a jolly atmosphere.

Joy of joys, we attend the fete in the next village from our hamlet on the same weekend. One of our neighbours has persuaded us not to miss it. We give ourselves another day off. Only that morning, another neighbour had invited us to coffee in the little town and we had had a lovely time.
We felt really guilty at leaving the garden and the produce for so long, but we set off with the Dog, who was delighted to be having a walk through the local woods. At the earliest opportunity, he allowed himself a paddle in the river, which was now low enough for an elderly dog to enjoy himself. At last, we all arrived at the fete, which was very pretty just like Larkrise to Candleford with its gay bunting and bright, colourful stalls. There was some very cheery steam fair music being played in the background.

 

4 Fine Tea Ladies at Throwleigh Village Fete

The Photographer had no hesitation in making a bee line for the refreshment tent, where we met a few of our neighbours serving up a delicious tea with cake scones and sandwiches. Satiated, the Photographer sallied forth with his camera and took this picture of our lovely tea ladies.

We finished off with a look around a real cottage garden, full of produce and flowers, and headed home in cheerful mood.

In conclusion, even if you don’t go to the beach in Devon, and some people don’t make it that far because of all the distractions, you can have a really nice time just by parking up and enjoying its spirit and warmth at one of these events. If you are not too exhausted, don’t forget breakfast at Hittisleigh Village Hall on every 2nd Saturday of the month…. the best bacon rolls in the West!. In fact, there is almost no need to cater for yourself on the average Devon summer weekend!

There are certainly many reasons to be cheerful!

 

Dear Winnie….who never needs a reason to be cheerful!

Hello Autumn my old friend

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

It is the first day of August; always a significant time on the Moor. It is the first evening when there is relief from the heat, but you won’t eat supper outside tonight. The autumn breeze has picked up its skirt and rustles through the trees. Overhead, there is an ominous look to the sky and the power of nature has begun to turn its most powerful engines on.

In the fields and in the gardens much work is being done. It is time to think of lighting up your fireplace and getting those logs delivered and in place. During the first week, John has delivered his final load and the Photographer and his Assistant have spent many hours moving and stacking. Unwanted pallets have arrived from the local builder and the logs are stacked in the open up on the pallets out of the water that will soon flow from the sky. Youngest daughter and the Boyfriend arrive to help and the work goes on until dark. They too will share this wood. They will come often in the winter to have a cup of tea, a scone and a chat while they pile their logs into plastic baskets ready to burn in the little cottage in the small town. The logs stand proud in the open under an enormous tarpaulin to keep them dry. In our absences, the Photographer will place the Assistants car (now known as the Kennel), against the gate. The work has been so hard and John’s hard effort so appreciated that no passer by will be allowed to help himself to an armful for his fire.

 

2 loads of logs, stacked and ready for the winter.

Up on top of the hill, there is an unusual sight. There is a huge stack of hay, covered in the most enormous green sheet of polythene. Unusually, this farmer has protected his crop. Last years rain is on all farmers minds. By now , most fields have been stripped of anything nutritious for the animals and everything is safely stored away. The clock is ticking on uncollected crops for no one knows when the early Moorland autumn will lead to a dreaded winter of continuous rain or terrible frosts.

In the garden, as the rain increases, the stream becomes louder and its quantity increases to the level where some weed is at last, carried away. The hose pipes are returned to store ready for next summer. In the little shed,which the bore hole has all to itself, the mechanisms sigh with relief. The pump and its systems have all taken a hammering as the sun burnt the vegetables to the extent where the Photographer, being an environmentalist at heart, had to reluctantly take action. He couldn’t see the crops die. This would have been a disaster as regards his current self sufficiency. It was with great reluctance that he turned to his bore hole. All the water butts were empty and the stream was too low.

The Dog, of whom you are all so fond, has not had an outstanding August. It is true, that there has been some sun, but not enough for his old bones. He has put away his sunglasses and his cool dude look, and taken to his basket. He knows, as soon as he sees that pile of Kilner jars, that his life is going to be very boring indeed.

 

A fine set of tomatoes, ready to be processed.

 

In the kitchen both Photographer and Assistant process, process, and process. For the first time in many years, there are enough broad beans to make hummus and just enough to freeze for Sunday dinners. The enormous garlic, so large that no one can believe it, has been dried in the hot sun and is now having its roots and head trimmed ready for use and storage. The bumper tomato harvest continues. Huge tomato and basil suppers are being consumed. Sun dried tomatoes are currently passing slowly through the kitchen range in its bottom oven. These are easily forgotten as the day goes on. They are supposed to be slightly soft, not crisps when they are bottled in the olive oil, but on one day, they were forgotten and the Assistant and Photographer dragged themselves out of bed at 4 a.m. just in time before the crisp stage happened. The Photographer has taken great pains to make his signature preserve. Now looking a magnificent green in the fridge, his pesto sits with pride in its Kilner jars. He has been over the Moor to buy a huge plastic drum of olive oil for these activities and at last he is rewarded with a range of produce, that after all this hard work, will be on display amongst the family and friends as we enjoy our Christmas.

 

Garlic, trimmed top & bottom, drying for the winter pot!

 

At this moment, you can hear one of many mowers in the distance. Even though the rain has begun and is more frequent, mowers must be pushed on, for with no exaggeration, this could be the last cut of the year. As Autumn really takes off, the last cut is often very early here and you just pray that spring will be kind or it’s strimmers and occasionally hooks for your first cut!

Of Events Snakes and Wasps

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

The Photographer and his small and even more demented Assistant have, together with the rest of Dartmoor had a busy time. First, tales of other people, who have had an even more eventful month than us. There have been so many happy and touching happenings its been difficult to keep up with it all.

Our neighbour had a big birthday and spent it amongst those of us in the small hamlet, who hold her dear as a member of our very small community. What touched us all was that she wanted to spend the day with us, and she spent her birthday waiting on us all with marvellous food and wine, sharing her garden and her house with us all.

Another neighbour gave up a great deal of time to an event in the little town’s church, which was quite lovely with beautiful flowers and displays.

Our neighbour opposite took mercy on the old dog and whilst The Photographer and The Assistant were at The Wiscombe Park round of the National Speed Hillclimb championship rescued him from his miserable crying, (normally he goes everywhere with us, but it was too hot). Our neighbour took him into his own home, and when we returned, quite worn out, he gave us a cup of tea.

Trying hard…………..Wiscombe 2014

 

Along the road another neighbour has spent some time now looking after and comforting her mother as her father has just died. Some people across the road have spent much of the year never complaining, but repairing their house, which was flooded on Christmas Eve.

Closer to home, in the little town, the Boyfriend has never moaned and always smiled, while he gave everything he had to help our daughter while she looked for a newer and better job. There are many tales of hardship and determination that this small community up on these hills faces with an admirable determination. No one need be alone here, unless they want to be and almost certainly no rotting corpses will be found behind closed doors. The most perverse characters are looked after, even if they don’t want to be.

From our friends, who live a distance from us, we have heard from a first time grandmother, who just loves having a grandchild. We have heard from a dear friend recovering from cancer, whose daughter is our god child, that her son, who we have known since he was a baby, has shown all that determination that he exhibited as a small toddler, and has climbed The Three Peaks in aid of a child’s cancer charity. We know that this was hard, because the Assistant, who is fond of walking, very nearly didn’t make it on a difficult route up Snowdon.

Finally, on the local events front, unusually, we are going to name a location on the Moor. This is the small, now beautifully restored medieval Gidleigh Church, which has one of the most beautiful Rood Screens that we have ever seen. Every Sunday afternoon, you can be a complete unbeliever if you like, just get up there if you are near. You can have the most delicious tea in the most wonderful surroundings. It is all very poetic as you sit among the gravestones and drink your tea. The event finishes at the end of August.

 

Our beautiful rood screen at Gidleigh

So to the great heat that those of us, who are used to the blasting winds and storms off the Moor, have been at first thrilled with and then just subsided under. Both the Photographer and his Assistant have been running around like frenetic insects just trying to keep the vegetables watered, harvested and processed. We really want to do everything ourselves for when our daughter and the Boyfriend help look after the house, it has nearly driven them mad too whilst working really hard for the pittance issued to the employed these days. Its hard to harvest tomatoes at ten pm! However, we really didn’t mean it all to happen over a couple of weeks! As the Assistant writes this, the Photographer is making broad bean hummus as fast as he can go before getting down to putting his Hillclimb photos up on his professional website!

As the heat peaked we held a BBQ for The Boyfriend’s little boy and this was the event where the nature of the Moor took over. Lately, Spring Watch would have trouble keeping up with the wild life here. Right now heat crazed black birds are trying to gain entry to the green houses to peck the tomatoes and other animals are digging big holes to gain access to water. On the day that the boy came, we were sitting in the hall, when a snake sneaked in. No one noticed it until the hissing started. It had become trapped under the front door. The little boy ran to get the Photographer while his father attempted a daring manoeuvre with a cake tin. This upset the snake further, the front door was gradually opened and the snake slithered away. On the same day, all the male members of the family were stung by wasps, who had been building an underground tunnel in the Assistant’s little garden. All in all the little chap, who comes from the city, had an eventful and exciting day.

Yes, I know it’s a bee, not a wasp, but it’s a good picture and I haven’t got a wasp!

You can come around any evening now and you will find both The Photographer and his Assistant fast asleep on the sofa pretending to watch one of Dan Cruikshank’s history programs. Dan is all alone out there, we’re not really seeing him!

An MOT and a Shopping List

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

It was that time of year. Why the whole family chooses to buy its cars in the month of June is strange and unaccountable, but one car was old enough to have to account for its existence. The Assistant’s old car stood bereft among the early summer flowers. The car had long lost its bloom, and most of its interior had been wrecked by the dog, who now stood patiently on the drive. He sensed that he might be in for an outing in what he considered to be his car, indeed a kennel on wheels, which he allowed the Assistant to drive him around in. The Assistant was frowning. Whilst she wasn’t the worlds greatest driver, she did like to have a car and she was aware that it would be tricky for the Photographer to find the dog and her a new mobile kennel. The Photographer had been disappearing into his study and she and the dog imagined that he had been counting up very small piles of money and sadly shaking his head.

The moment arrived and the sombre funeral band climbed in to the twelve year old car and sat mournfully in their usual much loved grubby seats. The Photographer cleared his throat and the dog slumped onto the floor of the boot.

On arrival at the garage in the little town, the garage man was examining an acquaintances car with some interest. Clearly, this car , a 1950s black Morris Minor, was always under examination having being hoisted up a very long way with its owner, who was in a cheery mood, pretending all was well and chatting nervously while the garage man adjusted his glasses several times and poked the car in an investigative manner with his screw driver. No one takes their car to this garage to just get a simple pass. The Garage Man is extremely thorough and very doctor like. He is likely to come up with a correct and safe diagnosis that nobody wants to hear.

Ignoring what was going on with the other car, the dog sat pensively on the forecourt. His mistress was clutching his lead, his master was silent, and he felt an atmosphere. He observed everyone present and gave the garageman, who is also a field dog expert, a deep meaningful look, before he was forced to accompany his master and mistress for a silent cup of coffee, followed by the long walk home.

 

Old dogs and old cars……..go together like…….

The day was spent in the usual busy manner. The Assistant had actually forgotten her car when the phone rang. She picked the phone up nervously and the dog climbed out of his basket. The car needed a minor adjustment, but it was alright for another year. They all walked in to fetch it and had a celebratory cup of tea. What a relief!

Talking of the shops in the little town, the Photographer and the Assistant realised what a lot it provided for them, when they had a delicious supper at home that Saturday night and they worked out the following, all of which was packed into their rucksack, after a delightful walk amongst lush spring scenery into town:

A serious pink paper for the Photographer, a somewhat frivolous small newspaper for the Assistant, who has a slow reading rate

A steak, which had been hung for so long that it looked and was wonderfully tasty

Wonderful English tomatoes, green, green broccoli, huge mushrooms, small red cherries

A wonderful piece of Brie

A wonderful piece of Stilton

A loaf of olive bread so beautiful you wanted to eat it there and then

A spring balance, for the Photographer to tension the cam belts on his Ducati 900 SS

An enormous box of dried worms for the birds, which a fellow shopper said the Assistant could use to catch fish as well

A fantastic cup of coffee with an enormous cream eclair that the cream oozed out of and two tea cakes for Sunday tea, all home made.

One bottle of milk

A lovely bottle of wine

A bottle of wheat beer

A tin of Monarch Red gloss paint to cheer up the front door

 

Luscious tomatoes

All of which were delightedly carried up the big hill to the home on the Moor to be consumed over a lovely weekend spent with the dog and the car, which only knew the little town and would now know it for a little while longer.

 

A chilly night for the “little car”

A Pair of Socks on the Kitchen Range

By the Photographer’s Assistant

The pair of socks had been washed and laid neatly across the kitchen range to dry ready for the next day. Somehow, the socks made a pleasing picture. Our friend walks into the little town each morning when he has the time. He picks up his newspaper and has a simple and quiet cup of coffee before doing his morning shopping. His walk is arduous and fairly long, and he has no idea how admired he is for doing it; especially since he is no longer in his first youth. When the Photographer and the Assistant don’t feel like their morning walk, they have an example to follow.

 

Sock it to me…(sorry I couldn’t resist)

The simple morning or evening walk is undertaken by most of the hamlet. It becomes a kind of prayer to nature and the beauty of the Moor. It allows anyone who has had a disturbing day the chance for a tranquil and calming period to sort out thoughts and be at peace with what, to most of us is a disturbing modern way of life. We feel that the simplicity of our childhood has been replaced by an exciting, but troubling machine driven age, where that tranquility is rarely seen.

During our visit to our friend with the socks, whilst enjoying tea and a naughty but delicious cake, we could hear a rustling in the bushes next-door, and carried on chomping away. We were discussing with some pleasure the prospect of a local arts and crafts event. Eventually, we realised that it wasn’t our neighbour making noise in his garden, but a group of very large cows! Next, we saw our neighbour, who fortunately knew how to handle cows, gently persuading them towards the field from whence they came. The Photographer and his friend had no hesitation in venturing forth like two wondrous knights on a mission to save a very beautiful garden. Soon, the farmer arrived and took charge.The knights returned to their tea and amusingly speculated on what type of pallet the farmer would find to fill the hole. You may find this hard to believe, but the right sized pallet is quite often the solution to the problem. At this stage of the proceedings, the Photographer’s dog joined the tea, which had now become calming evening drinks. Having been at home when the incident occurred and barked himself hoarse in the meantime, the dog made it perfectly clear that he had warned of this invasion of cows sometime ago and had been branded a nuisance rather than the smart dog that he is and he felt that a Bonio was in order at the very least! (see previous blog “Spring is Sprung…” for his justification (Dartmoor Diary No 31 ))To be honest, his air of self righteousness is now getting on the whole community’s nerves and his arrival outside for his walk is greeted by all with some trepidation. All we can say is that you should try living with him!

Talking of good friends, we have some friends who live just across from the Moor, who are always embarking on new and unexpected missions. They are the sort, who like the man with the socks and his wife can surprise you in the most pleasant of ways.
Recently the Photographer and the Assistant packed all the photographic equipment, lenses, tripods and various odds and ends into the car and headed off for a pleasant evening with them. The Photographer was enormously pleased at the prospect of a new challenge. On arrival at the destination, we found a wonderful welcome. There was an ornamental bucket containing a large quantity of “bubbly” and snacks too, all set out neatly on an outdoor table. We felt humbled and unworthy, but this didn’t stop us tucking in! Arrayed before us, neatly and exquisitely laid out was a wonderful model railway, daringly built on a raised bed in front of a wall in the garden. The Assistant was swept away. What a sight! She has always loved trains. The explanation being that as a small and growing child she had lived beside the old Great Western Railway and crossed the tracks each day on her way to school. What a huge privilege that was. How lucky can you get! The giant and awesome steam trains and later diesels could be admired as they chugged past just a few metres from the family veg plot. Now here before us was a wonderful and successful layout of great quality involving much work and effort.
The Photographer set to work and took a large number of pictures of the trains until he was satisfied that he had a quantity at angles he could work with. A lovely evening.

 

Railway perfect

The bluebell season has been upon us, so off we went to join a walk amongst friends from a local village. Another lovely day spent amongst the bluebells with conversation, and a generous cream tea in a beautiful garden amongst some lovely people. Topped off by an unexpected invitation to see some delightful pictures by an artist in his own home.

 

Bluebells are very photogenic

In all, the past three weeks in the Devon Spring could not have been a more joyful experience spent amongst the people, some of whom have like us, migrated here to a wonderful welcome amidst the most beautiful countryside.

The Photographer and his Assistant feel very blessed and altogether humbled by this experience. Recording our times here in words and pictures is a real privilege that we are allowed to share with you.

 

P.S.  The Photographer’s bit

Sorry, I just had to put this in. It’s the speedo of a 1948 Vincent 1000cc……..isn’t it just wonderful!

The iconic Vincent-HRD 150mph speedometer….don’t you just love it!

 

Spring is Sprung and Strange Activities arrive

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

 

…….and where’s my cake? A curious Guernsey

The Photographer and the Assistant are having a well deserved rest in the lower garden, where all the hard work is taking place. The dog is keeping a weary look out for any wild or human interlopers. The tea has been raised to the lips. The scones are to hand. Peace reigns supreme. In the distance there is a chatter of a tractor engine. Actually, the tractor is quite close and the roar of the engine is very loud. Over the fence, there is a field, which is being used for grazing amongst the farmer’s young girls (heifers). The cows are very excited. The two of us and the cows are expecting the farmer to arrive with cake, but he doesn’t have any cattle cake. He just has fertiliser to spread. The cows go mad. They gang up on the tractor and chase it around the field, mooing and creating a sort of mayhem. At one point the tractor can’t be seen for cows! We are stupid with observation, even the dog is up watching. These cows could take part in the Olympics. They are such good runners. The tractor disappears over the hill, and with it the cows. All is still. Everyone has gone out of sight. The tea is cold and the drama has gone. One or two of the cows are very disgruntled and we can here them moaning on and off for a few hours after.

Of course, it is enormously entertaining having cows over the fence. These young cows are frisky and great characters, and really if he cared to admit, the farmer is very fond of them and we sense that they are a little spoilt! The dog, being used to tranquillity and dignity in his old age, always considers their arrival as a watch dog chore that he could do without. By the end of their stay in the field his geriatric nerves are stretched to breaking point. It is generally believed by the local population that the dog had a bit of a run in with a very large cow some years ago and has never forgotten in indignity of it. He would not go near anything in a field to save his life. However, here we have a large protective fence and as the cows appear over the hill, the dog starts shouting, “COWS COWS. LOOK COWS! YOUR’E ALL BLOODY DEAF! YOU TWO ARE EVEN MORE GERIATRIC THAN ME. WHAT HAVE I GOT TO DO TO MAKE YOU LISTEN,” and so on. Even the neighbours have lost interest in this hysteria, but the cows haven’t. If you think about it, cows lead pretty boring life, so observing a geriatric dog over the fence is pretty entertaining. All the cows now assemble and look down on the dog benignly and curiously. They are all within a metre or so of the dog’s nose and seem concerned at his distress. One of them moos soothingly in a motherly sort of way. Eventually, all the parties get bored and move on. The dog has a soak and a drink from the stream to sooth his troubled nerves and that’s the end of it. We have spoken to the dog about it, but quite frankly , he is now so deaf, he just doesn’t get it.

In the top garden, where the bird feeders are, the birds are indulging in a sort of madness of their own. All the food is out for the nesting season. There are fat balls, dried worms, seed and peanuts, a lot of it provided by our eldest daughter, who is convinced that they will eat us out of house and home, and they would have by now, if she hadn’t delivered a huge bag of seed early in the season. We must have every type of bird that you can expect in a small garden and they are all competing even though there is a large supply of food. The woodpecker is wonderfully colourful, but completely mad. The peanut feeder is attached to a rose arch. The woodpecker uses the arch for two purposes, one to feed in the most precarious manner possible, and one to slide in a very careful way, up the structure in order to see if there is anyone he can have a row with or who is going to attack him, the later being very unlikely. The nuthatch must have a large family, because he has spent all day eating and flying off with seed. We used to be quite fond of him, but as he shoves another small bird to one side, we recognise a great bully. That might be what naturalists should call him. I’d love to hear Chris Packham on Spring Watch say how lucky we all were to be admiring a picture of THE GREAT BULLY rather than giving it its current over dignified title.

 

One mad woodpecker

Out and about, whilst taking breakfast at the little town’s deli last week, we were approached by a well known town dweller. She had been packing up, ready to attend a family wedding and the thought of a wedding had put her in mind of one of The Assistant’s poems, which the Assistant had quite forgotten, as it was written some years ago. This lady had an old copy of the poem called Newspaper Wrapped and had been enjoying reading it again. The Assistant was quite thrilled that anyone should be so touched by something she had written and looking at the poem again thought that it represented everything that was so typical of the people who live, and sometimes, struggle in the little town. The poem is about a man returning from his allotment at the end of a hard days work, bringing a tribute to his much loved partner. The poem goes like this :

 

 

Newspaper wrapped

I have brought you
Newspaper wrapped flowers
Flowers for
My love
Flowers from
My garden
Unaware
Of cellophane and bows
For I have
Long known your face
And hands
Which have
Endeared themselves
To me

 

Newspaper wrapped flowers