I’m Dreaming of A Dartmoor Christmas

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

The Photographer contemplated Sunday morning breakfast. He had taken the Assistant all the way to Riverford farm shop only a couple of days ago. He was happy and secure in the knowledge that two plump free range chickens sat nestling together in the kitchen freezer. The Assistant had bought some beautiful looking chipolata sausages and some streaky bacon. He would make “pigs in blankets” and he smiled at the prospect. The bacon that was before him had a pleasing 1950s look and he would, according to tradition, cut off the rind, chop it up carefully and put it outside the front door for their visiting birds. Yes, Christmas was on its way. He had read in the paper given free by a middle class supermarket that you should be paying loads of money, £70 was mentioned, for Christmas meat. He thought this absurd in view of the local availability of good quality meat. His chickens had cost nothing like that and would be a pleasurable special treat.

The Photographer looked, with pleasure, at his wife’s effort at breakfast. Her bacon would be crisp and his not so. That was as it should be. She had been at “secrets” in the study, making use of her new oscillating electric fire. He knew that since she had bought some wrapping paper with a grid marked on the back, she could actually cut the paper out unassisted, without screaming in frustration at paper that wouldn’t go anywhere it was put. The coffee was now bubbling on the range. The Photographer breathed in the heavenly smell and continued to dream of Christmas. On Thursday he would go and see Andy, the butcher and ask him to kindly chop up some pheasants, which could be used for stock and poached in a wonderful smelling casserole. He would have a look at the gammon too. This would be the very best place to buy it.

 

There’s something fishy about this photo……..

This year, the twosome had decided not to go to town. Parking was a terrible price, they hated the quest in the shops, the smell of the chase for money. They both felt very tired of that sort of shopping. Some shopping had had to be done on the internet, but a surprising amount had been locally sourced. The Daughter and The Boyfriend had introduced them into a better way of shopping. If you want to pleasure shop, shop local, go on the internet for irksome stuff and if you have to have it from a supermarket, send the Boyfriend, who is tall enough to fight in any crowd for what you have forgotten. He is currently working on the purchase of an enormous television for his Granny, nothing less than 40” will do for the 98 year old, who still enjoys the comfort of her own home! So, don’t think you can stop enjoying yourself, you simply can’t. He is still worried about that turkey crown, which has yet to be purchased. Goodness knows what will happen if that doesn’t appear on Granny’s Christmas table!

The Photographer loves it. Its an old fashioned Christmas in every way. He and the Assistant walk to the little town, and really enjoy themselves. They have coffee, mince pies, or a slice of Christmas cake each time they go. The shops are beautifully done up. The organic cafe has a wonderful display of all types of Christmas vegetarian food and the Deli is just a delight. The clothes shop in the square is magnificently dressed. The trees glisten and shine. It is all, straight off a Victorian Christmas card.

 

Pies, pies, and more pies

The Photographer walks over to the fridge, full of contentment. He opens the door. In front of him beautifully wrapped from the deli, and bought some time ago by the Assistant, is something he had forgotten in his euphoria. Inoffensive, but quite deadly to his plans, to pick up a pint and walk to the Daughters, was a small parcel of locally made marzipan. He had forgotten to cover the Christmas cake. He would have to ring the Boyfriend to get him to pop into the supermarket to buy some ready made cake icing. It was quite possible, that when the Assistant found out that he had not done this one thing that was expected of him, his Christmas would be over before it had begun.

 

Phew…………..made it………now I can have Christmas!

A Major Challenge for the Photographer and the Bore Hole is Serviced

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

Autumn…..season of mists and major DIY projects

 

The Photographer spent the morning making his list. Things were serious. The Daughter had gone beyond Hoovering and moaning about the danger to her mother’s health from the awful bedroom carpet, which she claimed could give an athsmatic a really dreadful attack. The Photographer was under the cosh. The carpet was old and gruesome, but what about the bank balance! He had examined the room thoroughly and had to admit that it was freezing in any weather. He had decided upon a full renovation. Four inches of insulation would have to be added to the inside of the outside wall, where, incidentally, he had discovered a slate hearth, which had long ago belonged to a fireplace.

The Photographer made his list carefully. No interruptions were permitted. He had been up and down the stairs all morning with his tape measure and builder’s catalogues, and he felt that he had made enough progress to go to the builder’s yard in the next village. Surprisingly, the Moor was quite well suppled with working materials, probably due to the real need to keep the buildings standing upright against their will.

The Photographer arrived at the yard and the general alert went out. They were pleased to see that the Assistant, complete with bag, pen and list was also there. The Photographer sometimes needed a translation service for his more outlandish ideas. Richard,the poor man entrusted with the order, laid across the counter, calculator in hand, looking as if there was some possibility of understanding, but not completely. The Assistant poked about with interest. The builders never thought that she was a woman without a clue, understanding that she was the chief decorator. On her last trip in, Richard had shown her a new and interesting range of paint, which she had been giving some consideration. It certainly seemed to mix up well. Something had caught her eye. The Photographer tended to use saws in a haphazard way. Here was a real bargain, which he had to agree on. Saws were on offer at £10 for two. What a bargain!
It was nearly closing time and Richard was looking tired. It was too late to arrange delivery, and they would in any case, have to send their most patient delivery driver, at least this was what Richard was thinking quietly to himself. The truck would have to be unloaded in the most haphazard of circumstances, amidst mud and The Assistant’s vegetable patch. God alone knew where the Photographer would want the stuff put.

The work continues. It will probably continue for months. The builder’s yard will be under siege and it is just possible that if it goes on too long, Richard will have some sort of nervous attack. Watch this space!

 

Everything must be measured

November is the month of the water supply. The bore hole and its mysterious workings are maintained by Martin. He has arrived with his son, who after a year or two, appears to have decided to go into the family business.

The Assistant is in a gruesome mood. The Photographer had not told her of this arrival, which meant that the water supply would be cut off for at least three hours. This was her housework and cooking day. Further, it was also the day when the Boyfriend and Daughter came to supper each week. The Daughter liked to pretend she was coming for a nice supper, but really she came to check up on her eccentric parents latest ideas. There was the time when she learnt that there was to be a poetry reading by the stream in the garden, and she was congratulated on the tea, which she was making, which she knew nothing about! The parents could be quite outlandish and she had to live in the little town amongst public comment. Occasionally, when she was in town she would pick up on some scheme that her parents had come up with and would have to make an urgent phone call to the house. Martin filled and emptied vessels while the Assistant ticked away in the background. When Martin, or rather his son had finished, there was a sigh of relief until the Assistant tried out the flow of water from the tap. What was this trickle? No respectable housewife could put up with this! Martin made a French style shrug of the shoulders. What about the bath upstairs! How long was that going to take to run? It already took ten minutes of The News At Five! Martin urged his son to turn things up a bit, which was a slight improvement, but there had been grit in the system indicating that the equipment was sucking, so that was that. Martin daren’t meet the Assistant’s eyes. He came up with an offer. If he attached a new filter below the kitchen tap, the Assistant wouldn’t have to buy drinking water. The water would be drinkable. The Assistant was in heaven. Martin was her hero again. The Photographer, unable to deny the Assistant anything on pain of death asked for a quote. Heaven!

So the winter will continue. Will Zany, the Daughter’s dog eat the Christmas cake, or the pudding so carefully made by the Photographer? Will the Assistant be able to keep the Photographer under control? Will the bedroom survive? Will the annual seed order arrive on time? Will the Assistant collapse under the weight of Christmas cards, presents and the terrible demands for a traditional time? Will the Boyfriend secure the turkey crown of his grandmother’s dreams in a rugby scrum in Tesco? Find out next month!

.
Editor’s Note:

The insulation is in place! The Assistant is warm in bed…..just the 72 metres of T&G to fit and the new lighting system…oh, and the floor to sand and paint…..no worries Christmas is months away yet isn’t it?

 

Sometimes you need a friend to help you change a light bulb

Remembrance

A November Monument

In November
The red flowers arrive
And after
He comes
The whitest hair
The blackest coat
He is so tall
An angular man
Hands are covered
In string gloves
A smart silk scarf
A slow walk
The approach awkward
This is his moment
The one that matters above all
He shuffles and is still

Erect
A soldier now
No gun in hand
No drill in this empty
Parade ground
He stands here so still
Long distant time
Echoes all around
A tear so cold
Slipping down
Soaking
The silk
The black coat

A betrayal
Worn inside
A stain
Deep within.

.
Copyright Sue Bennett 2007

A Number of Encounters and A Disturbing Killing

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

Things were getting a bit lively in the surgery. It was flu jab time. On the way in the Assistant had met one of her poetry critics. The critic had a crippling condition caused by a rare illness caught earlier in life. She was very bent over and would have been very tall and willowy, but life had decided otherwise. She leant over towards the Assistant, who was clearly meant to receive a confidence. Yesterday, this lady had had an offer of a lift to Exeter, a rarity that had to be taken up. She had had a great time in the big city, but had grown tired and wanted to catch the bus back. She had attempted a run, which didn’t work out. The fall had been awful. It had been down some steps onto her head. She thought as she fell that her daughter might consider murder if she had caused broken bones, but, by some miracle, she was alright. She stood up and all that hurt was her elbow. By now, the two and the Photographer were seated in the surgery. The Assistant inspected her critic’s arm and could find only a small graze. “ Don’t tell my daughter, “ the critic whispered. The Assistant sympathised.

Daughters can be very wonderful, but can take full charge. Only recently, the Daughter had announced that if her mother continued to work at gardening at this pace there would be a terrible outcome and the Assistant had had to change her medication, because the whole family was sick of the wheezing accompaniment to any social activity. You know they are right. Damn it!

More and more sick elderly, and carers arrived for their jabs. It has to be said that they all looked very fit and healthy. This is a surgery where any extra pounds are not tolerated. We are all expected to keep fit whatever. Their lectures are not worth the naughtiness. Everybody had not seen everybody else since last winter. Grandchild sitting, extraordinary holidays, huge social obligations, voluntary work had all taken their toll on friendship activities. Indeed, the Photographer and the Assistant had only just begun to catch up with some dearly missed friends, who they hadn’t seen since Easter. The Surgery was full to busting with people catching up. All the seats were taken and people were standing up. The nurse, calling patients in, could not be heard above the gossip. The Assistant felt that the time had come to depart as Anne, the receptionist took charge. Her voice was raised with authority and the Assistant waved as she departed. Anne can really control a crowd. Recently, she had sorted out a hospital appointment for the Assistant, where she had taken no prisoners in the Assistant’s defence. Departure was definitely the best option.

The month continued with more meetings. Some took place at the ordination of our friend, Chris, who is going to be the most brilliant priest. He spends so much time attending to the flock that he can’t possibly sleep. The singing at the service was amazing. The little town had really risen to the occasion. The Assistant had not heard singing like this since she used, many years ago, to go to London. How glorious and cheery!

 

A village Group

Harvest supper, attended by Chris, of course, was a remake of a party from Cider With Rosie. The hall at the little village was packed. Everybody was exhausted with catching up. The food was good. The raffle was spectacular and to top it all, someone brought a banjo with them and they could really play. These events are certainly not dead out here!

A patchwork Group

 

The Photographer and Assistant are now looking forward to a painting exhibition, being mounted this weekend in the little town’s church. It’s all talk, talk, talk.

 

A running Group……..The 2 Hills Race

These are not the same group, each group is different people. Some groups overlap, some repel, but what binds all together is the vitality of a sense of community

Amongst other events in nature, stuff has happened. The most harrowing event has been the killing of a large animal somewhere near the garden. This was also heard by our neighbour, who lives alone and must have been very disturbed by it. The fox, who for as long as we can remember, has been a resident in our garden, murdered something out there in the dark. People said that it must have been a squirrel, or similar, but this was not. The screams were like something off a horror movie and they went on and on. We still have no idea what it was. It definitely sounded like an ambitious cat.
The Ravens are still sorting out territory and the noise is terrible and amazing.

Everybody was disturbed by yet another photographer in a small plane flying over and over the gardens for at least an hour. Nature stopped and there was no peace in this, the most peaceful of places. When the plane departed, the Assistant was pleased to see a returning buzzard in full flight, magnificently weaving its magic in the sky.
For some months now The Daughter has spent forty hours a month working as a volunteer for Oxfam on the Oxjam music festival. Many of you have supported her in this. The people from the little town both played at and attended the festival. BBC local radio and the local papers have been terrific and we would all like to say a big thank you to them. The Daughter was thrilled with this support. The Boyfriend filled in gaps and worked tremendously hard. You will all be pleased to know that the Daughter achieved her objective and raised enough money to bring a water supply to an African village. Thank you everybody. I expect the Daughter will now turn her attention to organising her mother and father. Oh dear! Where can we hide the whisky?

The Closing of the Door

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

The Photographer has, in his time, designed tractors, a little known item in his life history. The young man with a trailer full of logs for the winter looked uncomfortable with the small Devon gap in front of him. The Photographer looked totally unfazed, The Assistant hid in terror, but all she could hear was loud patient instructions. The young man emerged from the dump point impressed with his own performance. Objective achieved. Logs in for the winter, two large piles to be put in a shelter. The boyfriend came around and pounded away at his skill with construction and the Photographer was now the Assistant. Objective achieved. A small shelter erected for the logs. (editor’s note…..it’s a cathedral to sustainable fuel!)

 

 

That’s the way you do it……….the expert in his element

 

Only that week, The Photographer and his Assistant had struggled against the wind into the little town, which was now having summer blown out of its sails. Breakfast was taken at the Deli and winter plans discussed. Seeds had already disappeared from the ironmongers, where autumn supplies were arriving. This meant that they would have to pour over catalogues, cutting through some wonderfully colourful descriptions of very ordinary vegetables. A runner bean is a runner bean, it really doesn’t need to be named after an English princess, whatever it’s performance!

At the vegetable shop, there was a slight pause in the weather. There were the last of the English plums, and raspberries had been reduced. The Assistant joined a retired priest in choosing what to have. The priest had been a good priest and a popular one. He was very self effacing. In his company, the Assistant felt overly bumptious. The priest looked a little cold, despite his coat and could not decide between raspberries and plums. The Assistant had decided on both plus some spring onions. She felt outrageously extravagant as the priest departed with a small bag of plums. He had wanted just a small piece of autumn before it all disappeared.

Dartmoor was giving notice. The weather could and did do whatever it felt like. The wind blew and the rain came in torrents. Time and time again, the Photographer put a sock inside the bedroom door to stop it rattling. Now, only brave tourists were to be seen. The late September Monday saw visitors heading for the M5, as businesses prepared for the loss of income. The little town could have featured in a western with only the strong and experienced carrying on. Roadside signs swung in the breeze and the swimming pool shut at the end of the season. In the Photographer’s garden, the Assistant decided that enough was enough and up came the pumpkins to ripen in the conservatory. The Assistant had torn into the garden. While the Photographer divided plants that were too tough for her to handle, she pulled up dead vegetables and piles of weeds.

Inside the house, the Assistant began to think about what to do with the apples, which were now cascading off the trees. She looked in despair at the pantry, normally so well stocked and took time out to make lists. All would now have to be planned for. If she was careful, she could take time over restocking for the winter. The lists would be endless. This year, she would take account of being a little frailer and plan for not going to the little town if it snowed. Long, long lists would be made. There would be extra firelighters, tins, bottles, packets. If the electricity went down, there would be no water as their pump would stop, so larger containers would have to be bought. There would be no opening a freezer unless they could borrow a genny to run it. The kitchen range would begin to die, so camping gas stocks must be checked ———————

 

Time to hang up the watering cans

 

Amidst all of this though, the sky was suddenly, a wonderful blue and a buzzard mewed above. The sky was so clear that you could look at it forever and it would drink you up in its glory.

South South West at 33,000ft

 

The Daughter continues her gallant work for Oxfam with Oxjam to take place in Exeter. There are now over seventy music groups involved and you can find details and book on : Oxjam Exeter Takeover

Don’t forget to watch Exeter’s World Cup Matches at Northern Hay on the big screen, or just go to the little town and have a pint with it. It’s all happening out here in the west!!

An End of Summer Frenzy

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

“Is it on?”, came a weak voice from the attic. The Assistant looked at the TV screen. Everything on the Moor was tenuous, connected on the end of wet strings and this was no exception. The Assistant prayed that there would be something and there was. She was now reliving the experience of the past 48 hours. The Photographer had fallen fast asleep on the sofa with a Kindle clutched to his chest. He had shut the world out.

When the Assistant had first met the Photographer he was on his way to being an expert on agricultural spraying technology. He was going to save the African continent from starvation. He was a twenty year old on a mission. The Assistant was training to be a teacher and knew no one could save anything, let alone Africa! He spent hours on driving a tractor up and down fields in the most boring way possible. The Assistant was a charitable soul, who was hardly ever anywhere, but on her bike toiling to lectures. She let this poor demented soul sleep at her college away from the noisy and juvenile agricultural students with whom he was tempted to be drunk beyond reason. His work must be finished. His mother was a poor widow living on National Assistance and the thought of letting her down was not to be contemplated. He had used to sleep for hours then, getting up now and then to go and drive another tractor. Now the Assistant returned to these days as he cuddled his Kindle and lay flat out for several hours. This was not good.

It had all started on Friday. As you know, anything that goes wrong happens at the weekend. His Apple computer had been cranked up ready for the next set of photos. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was a clear white screen. The Photographer brewed a cup of coffee. Nothing. He had not bought the reconditioned lap top that he had promised himself. He was at a loss. A rare happening. Having reconnected everything except the kitchen sink, nothing. He admitted defeat and got out his bank card. He rang Apple and entered a long and surreal process. The Assistant made cups of tea and stayed silent. If ever there was to be a row, it was at a moment like this, when the engineer inside the Photographer actually didn’t know what to do. The phone call was very useful. The Photographer had a cup of coffee with the Assistant and explained that he had to admit that the machine was suffering from old age, however, there was a solution. It was going to be hard up on the Moor. If it had been a laptop, he could have visited a friend on the right side of the road in the little town. One side of the little town receives quite fast broadband. The other side doesn’t! It would be impossible to transport a 27’’ iMac to the little town. If he had had a portable, it could have helped him with his communications for the repair.

There would be a 36 hour process to repair the iMac, which fortunately, did not take place on line, however, the enabling process would take 5 hours on line, during which the wet string could simply not work, or drop out. With a deep breath, everything started up. During the night, they took it in turns to watch that the repair was progressing. It worked. It had been worth the effort. The Photographer is continuing to use a new operation to help reinstall 30,000 photographs. Some of them can now be seen again on line.

The Moor continued to take its toll for the rest of the week. The rough land knocked the side of the tractor mower off. The part has another week to go before it arrives. The Photographer put more insulation in the loft and knocked the tenuous television connection out. The Assistant painted the huge outside shed and it was all he could do to keep up as he was painting the difficult bits and refilling her paint can. Even though they were tired this had to be done now as the weather was already breaking down. Sometimes, it is impossible to get out for long spells when the weather has finally closed in! In the end though, large progress was made when the log man’s assistants were extremely brave delivering two trailers of wood, backing them down slots in the lane that looked impossible. Now, the log burner could be lit.

There have been some wonderful events, though, that make Moorland life, the life worth living. We are ending with a selection of shots of the month’s events. The Photographer and his Assistant attended a wonderful barbeque with lovely company at the log man’s house, where his wife had made some wonderful dishes. The Throwleigh fete, the Little town’s big Agricultural Show, the lovely teas at Gidleigh Church. The Daughter’s wonderful Sunday lunch. Just living in this community makes every inconvenience worth while.

The Photographer has been awake for days now. Who would miss a single day of those challenging Moorland views!

Next month, the Boyfriend finds a suitable supplier to enable the Photographer to build a log store and the Daughter’s work for Oxjam Exeter Takeover is near fruition. If you like loads of music, tickets for the Oxfam Oxjam event are now on sale. Local Moorland group The Fireblockers will be making a trip off the Moor to support the event. If you are near Exeter, give it a go or look for your local Oxjam. You can help Africa this way!

Here are the links:

via Facebook

https://www.facebook.com/oxjamexetertakeover

or via the simple internet

http://www.oxjamexetertakeover.org/

Some August Event images, just for flavour

 

A cornucopia of Champion Onions

 

Oh Bake Off, what have you inspired?

 

This is what a Ram used to look like before it became a RAM (Random Access Memory)

 

Cakes……..a Gidleigh and Throwleigh speciality

 

Driving Miss Daisy?

 

The Fridge Challenge

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

The Photographer lay in bed. It was six in the morning.There were a number of disturbances about which nothing could be done. The Magpie had been moved out of its residence, possibly having been murdered by two marauding ravens. There had been many battles, but eventually the magpie had been silenced. The Assistant had got her binoculars out and had been stunned at the sight of such large talkative residents croaking to each other like an old married couple. They talked from early dawn, sometimes all day. It was driving the Photographer mad. They were not the only disturbance. Next to him and it has to be said, well down to a descent snooze, the Assistant snuffled like a small child deeply contented.

Demonic raven

The Assistants noise was particularly alarming. He had slept beside this athsmatic for forty five years. There had been disturbance, but nothing quite like this. Her contentment was sweet, but the snuffle meant he couldn’t sleep. His experience was broad and a deep suspicion lay within. She had just had her drug changed to a really strong and expensive one and it appeared to be very effective, so why this symptom? Having got the Assistant a nice cup of tea, the photographer said he would get some toast. On arrival in the kitchen, his worst fears were confirmed. Why, every year, on return from her homeland, he always had to sort this out was beyond him. First call, the fridge. Yes, why hadn’t he spotted the Spanish sherry and, my God, that enormous bottle of Spanish Cava, all of which were impossible to buy in the little town. Look! Up here! A block of unpasteurised Welsh cheese! Clearly things had got out of hand. There were at least 8 bottles of Spanish red wine in the utility room, not to mention two boxes of Spanish almond tart. Usually, The Assistant ordered one bit of toast for breakfast with the Photographer’s own home made marmalade, but this morning she had wanted two with cheese. Clearly, something had to be done, especially, as the little town’s own food shops held so many Devon delights.

The Photographer was proud of sticking to enjoying his own vegetables by way of a diet, on his return from the great Welsh pantry. The Assistant was weighed and found wanting. She had put on 6 lbs. He had lost 3 lbs. This was a very serious matter. The Assistant was constantly being checked up and he had no intention of spending yet another week chasing an entirely disinterested Assistant, who was always in denial, around the house with a blood pressure monitor and an asthma meter. The thought of the tears after another check up at the surgery, possibly at Christmas, was not to be contemplated.

The Assistant was read several riot acts and all food intake was strictly examined. All sad looks at meals were being ignored as they both eat vegetables and she dreamed of the new skirt she had been promised provided the Photographers’s moving target was achieved. Saturday night was a particularly salutary meal. No wine was produced, no chocolate and the cake that she had just baked was frozen as soon as it was cool. She snoozed through “Waking the Dead’ on the Drama channel and went to bed utterly exhausted as all her stimulants and allergy causing agents were under lock and key or armed guard in the Photographer’s study.

The Photographer had been thoroughly distracted from his latest project and would have been angry if he hadn’t found it all so amusing. At least his daughter had found what would have made up an amusing part of his collection of unusual holiday sights in Devon in August. Here it is, the ultimate German camper van for 20. Imagine accommodating that on small Devon roads!

 

The ultimate camper van, with sleeping accomodation for 20!

For next year, the Photographer has a plan. He doesn’t usually plan this far ahead, but he is getting older and wiser. The Assistant is very excited at the thought of another trip to Colonsay. Fantastic! The Photographer plans a long visit, affording himself a well deserved rest from nursing. There is barely any food at all on Colonsay. Food involves a long expensive trip to the Mainland to Tesco, where purchases can be monitored. As for the whisky habit. She just loves expensive whisky, so that is only one bottle then! Cunning. No Spanish delis, no Italian ice cream parlours, no Welsh cheese and Welsh cakes. Excellent!

 

The Assistant’s whisky stock

Of course, there are those big blue eyes and the possibility, that she has found out the e-mail address of the Spanish deli. She has been saying that the new stair carpet should come from that wonderful Welsh mill, near the deli, where he just loves the pattern and the colours. Thinking of him, of course. The trip needn’t be long and the spring in Pembrokeshire was so mild………………………. ,

Across the Great Divide…..and back again

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

The Photographer smiled all night while he was asleep and then, he smiled all day! He awoke to the sound of the Magpie walking across the roof and was happy beyond happiness. The Magpie was as mad as mad could be. He walked and stomped everywhere and argued with all the other magpies. He was a raging furnace of injustice, but neither the Photographer or his Assistant had any idea why. He was like a mad artist on speed.

 

Mad Magpie

The Photographer and the Assistant had been away on and off for a whole month and the Photographer had new insights into the Assistant’s character that he had been entirely unaware of. At last, he would gain some control over the Assistant, well, possibly?

It is a Saturday morning in Narbeth, Pembrokeshire. This is a stop off point on the way to the Pembrokeshire beaches. The Photographer has parked the car and is slowly making his way to their favourite Spanish deli, Ultracomida. He expects a peaceful cup of coffee and maybe, some tapas as well. He opens the door to an entirely unexpected scene. There is the Assistant happily speaking in a cross between Italian, Welsh and English. She is sitting with a huge gang of people. The whole place is stuffed and noisy. Further, the Assistant, his wife, is enjoying a glass of bubbly, clearly not purchased by her. She is talking away and it is all very Italian. For one moment, he wonders if he is in the wrong country! He is summing up the situation, and sits next to his wife, hoping to show possession. The talk is of “Welsh Italian Ice Cream Parlours we have known”, then the talk was of Eynons pies, undeniably, the best pies ever, ever. This was a group from Swansea, the scene of the Assistants six week summer holidays as a child. The Photographer was familiar with this situation. He could not compete. He ordered coffee and a large slice of frittata. The Assistant was happily devouring a slice of Tartas Ancano with thick cream, and her glass was being topped up. The Photographer was praying that this would not be the usual Welsh Italian drinking session, which could end who knew when. He waited it out but, all was well. Eventually, there were near tears over how much everyone missed the buzz of Swansea, so the gang from Swansea decided to return there for the evening. Saturday night in Swansea could not be missed. The Photographer had no idea that the Assistant really enjoyed her Welsh half so much. It was a surprise.

 

Dewi Sant or Saint David

Tuesday is wet so the annual trip to St. Davids Cathedral is taken. The Photographer gets himself a Photographer’s pass. Literally, only God knows how long the Assistant will be in here. The Assistant had only just visited her friend Maria, who is an Irish Roman Catholic. She and The Assistant share a Celtic passion for religion, which doesn’t really seem the same as the English one. The Assistant looks at sad plaques about sailors lost at sea. She lingers over every sad notice. She lights candles everywhere. She kneels at the altar and prays for her children. She visits the exquisite St David’s shrine, all decorated in gold and portraying the saint in bare feet to show his humble approach to life. She loves St. David. He is her favourite saint. The historian in her visits the tomb of Edmund Tudor, a founder of the Tudor dynasty. She ponders thoughtfully on the Tudors. The Photographer now thinks he has been here so long that he might as well assume that he will never again see the light of day, but he never complains. It’s only once a year.

 

Edmund Tudor’s tomb and St David’s altar.

The Photographer manages to extract the Assistant from the Cathedral and has avoided the meadow alongside. He couldn’t take that today and he is so hungry. This is the point where she remembers the children in the meadow as toddlers and has a little cry. He has avoided that one. He is off for an ice cream and a coffee, but he is not allowed to go just anywhere. He is dragged along the main street past loads of ice cream until they reach an outdoor parlour. It is raining. The assistant insists on buying the ice cream from her pension. This, in his experience, was a very special treat as the moths flew out of her purse. He chose triple choc and strawberry with cookies. He had never had such a large ice cream, but he really enjoyed it under an umbrella as others queued. The ice cream was Italian, of course!

The Photographer was certainly pleased to be home, as his now English wife, poured him a nice cup of breakfast tea. West Wales would disappear for another year and he would have to save up for it. Oh dear! He could never live in Wales. He would never get to grips with it, but, strangely, the Assistant had never suggested it.

 

Footnote:
Newgale: Probably one of the three worst beaches in the world: No hotels to retire to for a G&T, No pre set sun loungers and parasols, No airport nearby. No fish and chips, Not even any friendly crowds of fellow Brits and all their children, and it is barely 2 miles long. Truly awful. Don’t even think of visiting it.

According to our records…………..

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”
“According to our records you have had an accident within the last two years———-“

The Photographer and the Assistant lay the “Pay as you go” mobile on the bed while they eat their breakfast with it rambling on in the background. It is a lovely morning outside and they were just thinking of turning the Today programme off in order to listen to the birds. The Assistant, as you know has a new little car, which goes out about twice a week and never very far. She has not had an accident for years.

 

Have these boots had an accident in the past 2 years?

Recently the Assistant was engaged on a domestic chore when her mobile phone rang again. It was her poor mobile provider, who yet again, wanted her to take a contract out. The chaps who ring have no idea at all as to what a mobile phone means to many, but not all pensioners. It is an emergency phone for when one is out and a phone for much loved people, in the Assistants case, she only communicates with the Daughter, the Boyfriend and it is used as a means to ring the Photographer, when he is gardening in the remote garden, usually to let him know that a friend has rung the house or that his dinner is ready. That is it. It may be a large mistake that she is not attached to the phone for any other purpose, but she and her phone get along just fine. Her average monthly bill is about £2.50. The man from the big phone company can never get his head around that. She always tells him quite truthfully that most of her friends live in the hamlet or in the little town. Otherwise she uses e-mail, on which you can ramble on for ever. I don’t go to many meetings. Nothing much urgent happens. Other people have more complex lives and need to continually adjust stuff with one another and they need a mobile internet facility, but this is just how it is for the Photographer and his Assistant. Living in a rural community, where you see everyone is great.

 

Demand for telephony on Dartmoor is not excessive

It is a bright sunny day. The Daughter pulls up outside. She has determined on taking her mother out. Mother is excited. It is a while since she has been to the big city of Exeter. Further more, the daughter now has a fun vehicle. Since the terrible incident, when her BMW was written off while she was asleep, she has taken cars less seriously, and on a trip to see the Boyfriends son, she has acquired a car that is simply terrific. It is a bright red mini soft top. The top goes up and down in seconds. It is definitely a fun vehicle. The two are determined on a good day out. They buzz along the A30 with the wind in their hair, putting on a glamorous dash to the city.

The Daughter has a small bit of business to complete in a bank. The Assistant, who internet banks with a building society, has not been inside a city bank for years. She is feeling beyond her comfort zone. Everyone is queuing, of course and everyone is being processed like an entity of no importance. There are simply too many people. It is half term. Children race around having fun in a big building. Did nobody think? Increase your staff at half term. Aren’t people fed up enough with banks without them simply not bothering. Clearly there is a marketing element to the bank, which is trying to counter all of this, but it simply adds to the bizarre element of the situation. Straight out of Orwell’s 1984, screens are up behind the tellers, announcing what the weather will be like in Exeter today. It is obviously a lovely day. The screens give out all sorts of irrelevant information, and what about that bizarre and new addition to your shopping experience, the phrase, “Have a nice day”. It is clearly a corporate addition which can’t possibly be meant! It is usually addressed to your forehead or the floor. It really doesn’t fit!

The two have determined for a long time that the little town shopping experience is a delight beside this corporate jungle. The Daughter helps her mother to chose some new sun glasses. Mother does not want posh, just a set of shades. The corporate buy. They quickly purchase a pair and depart without looking at anything else. The Daughter uses internet or little town shops for nearly everything in her life. Shops have ceased to charm her. There is, however, one very large department store that does grab their attention. It is cool and airy. It has a pleasant atmosphere. They have a look among the kitchen and household departments. The Daughter is enchanted by an expresso machine, in fact, there are so many, it is difficult to chose which to save up for. Equally, vacuum cleaners, which move about on their own, are examined in detail.Televisions with semi circular screens are utterly fascinating. The two are like two primitives. They have never seen any of this stuff in the flesh and are amazed!

Lunch is taken in the sunshine, and they chose a meal that is not available in the little town. With only one large store visited, leisure becomes the theme of the day. Sitting about the Cathedral piazza is a favourite. Coffee is taken in the large department store. Its food is very sugary or very fatty and it really is different from the little towns wholemeal approach to food at the organic cafe. The Courtyard cafe in the little town has received a very high gold award for its food. It punches way above its weight and they are proud to be customers. The two decide upon a large cappuccino, which is taken on the roof terrace in the sunshine. The view is to die for. You can see right out to the estuary, the cathedral and the whole picture of a city fitting into its skin.

 

Not a photo of the Cathedral, but from the Cathedral. Not Exeter, either, so who can identify which city it is? email or answer in the comments box below.

The two have had a good day out together. They have been to two shops and possibly decided to buy a couple of modern waste bins for their kitchens, which will be done on the internet. They are full of wonder at what is out there, but they don’t really need any of it. They are just too used to small town living, where make do and mend is simply fine. On their way home they pass through a temperature barrier. The Moor is 10 C below the city temperature. What a contrast! In every way.

The next day, the Daughter, who is working from home, runs out of a lunch. She opens her gate, walks through the church yard, and enters the Deli. She is welcomed by Catherine and they have a nice local conversation before the daughter returns home and continues her work, eating a piece of delicious quiche freshly made and so nourishing to tummy, heart and soul. She loves living and shopping in the little town. We all do. We feel blessed and fortunate.

God bless you wherever you are. May your God go with you.

DON’T FORGET,  IF YOU ARE NEAR “THE LITTLE TOWN” ON ANY SUNDAY AFTERNOON UNTIL END OF SEPTEMBER THAT DELICIOUS HOME MADE CAKE AND TEA IS SERVED AT THE WONDERFUL GIDLEIGH CHURCH

 

Part of the amazing rood screen at Gidleigh Church

Torbay or not Torbay

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

The Photographer was enjoying one of last summer’s treats. In a pretty green box on the plain wooden table in the conservatory stood his honey comb. The bread was home made and his knife spread the honey in a thick swath across the middle of the piece. The Assistant, her craft well known, mentioned in measured tones, that the car was due another trip to Torbay. The Photographer
was totally distracted by this announcement. On Dartmoor these kind of trips can bring a kind of death knell to the day. He shuffled his feet, abandoned the toast and consulted a twenty year old box file in the study. It was true, the car would need a repair to damage caused by an attempted break in, which had occurred on a pleasure trip some months ago.

Unspoken, the two finished their coffee and stared dismally into the distance. Both their cars had had business in Torbay this year, a huge amount of it. It was not as if everyone there, at the garage, was not pleasant. The Photographer always enjoyed copious amounts of free coffee and the scenery around Berry Pomeroy was beautiful as in a story book. The Assistant would collect up her sacking bags and visit The really well known organic farm shop, the original and the best. There would be bacon rolls and fine coffee. Once more she could obtain food that offered no threat of allergic reactions and the meat was so so good! Oh my! The problem was that all these trips were such a long way from home.

 

The little car…..at home again…..in the garden……just where it should be

The thing was that they didn’t really want to leave the Moor, and certainly not in summer. Bees were buzzing, new calves were appearing, and, at last, the veg garden was coming into its own. The runner beans had just been planted out. What if rabbits came while they were out? It all felt very disturbing. The Daughter had appeared and announced to her parents that they, the retired, had no idea what modern life was like. It would do them good she declared, to live like the rest of the world now and then. The Assistant concentrated fully on Spring Watch while all these announcements were being made. She was fascinated by the bright and rather strange shade of orange that Chris Packham was wearing. She could swear that another member of the team had swapped brands of activity wear. The Daughter could not get through. Her mother, who was about to take a trip to the Black Mountains, was wondering whether her walk wear was out dated. Of course the parents knew how jolly well off they were, spending every day in a sort of paradise.

The thing was it was all getting very intrusive. It wasn’t just the car that needed maintenance. It was them as well. Only a couple of years ago, they had felt that they were living in the main hospital in Exeter. Of course, their visits were handled well and you could spend time in Waitrose sipping coffee, but it simply wasn’t like being at home and visiting the little town. They had had no idea how much maintenance the state felt that you needed when you were over a certain age. This year, so far, the Assistant had been threatened with a non existent breast cancer, and The Photographer, who had actually had cancer, had got terribly worried. The Photographer was subject to the sort of health checks that always required a large whisky on return home and a restful sit for the rest of the day. The Assistant had been called into the surgery about her long standing illnesses at least twice and had received reassuring praise for her fitness level, but she was happy in the first place and hadn’t felt ill. All of these checks had been well meant, but very worrying and distracting. The weeds in the garden were climbing over the fence! Now, the car was paying a lot of visits. Next week it would have its MOT in the little town and a trip to Torbay and it was a lovely car with not much wrong with it. That would be two days gone. Oh dear! When to break in the walking boots?

Recently, the Assistant took to rebellion. Their bacon butty due to previous commitments on the road yet again, had been eaten on a Wednesday rather than their usual Monday and she had followed this up with a trip to the best clothes shop in the little town. She could not remember when she had last had a new frock. It was going to happen. The Photographer thought this a jolly good idea, having put up with faded and broken skirts for some while, he wanted his wife to look like somebody. The frock was ravishing and she bought a matching scarf and bracelet. The shop assistant was unflappable. For the past years, he had seen this woman only in walking boots, jeans and fleeces. He did not turn a hair as the moths flew out of her purse and the purchase was made. Jolly good. Now, the Assistant can go upstairs and look at the frock on the back of the door and know there is someone else within beside the mass traveller on maintenance contracts. Of course all these checks are well meant, and it doesn’t mean that you aren’t grateful for them, but, just sometimes, you need to feel like the person, who used to be you, We all feel, no matter what our age, that we would like to spend some time on that desert island the relaxation tapes tell you to imagine. Well, the Assistant’s advice is that islands of great beauty exist in this country, and they are real, so don’t think twice, raid your piggy bank, or your credit card and get out there before the next summons!!

 

By the babbling brook, in the bluebell wood, the new frock pauses, on its way home

As the late, great island hopper Dave Alan himself used to say, “May your God Go With you. “in the month to come.

 

Come on……get out there…….and you don’t even need a passport ……yet!

 

 

Note from the Editor

This is the 49th in this blog series, so if there are any issues you would like tackled or re-visited in the 50th please let us know by comment or e-mail. We promise to read, mark and inwardly digest.