The Door into Autumn

On Sunday 26th of September, we had the first real deluge that more than hinted at the coming of autumn. During the night, the rain streamed down in a continuous downpour and every window and door that could rattle in this old cottage set up its usual winter song. Peter emerged from bed to jam the old orange sock in the door, but the wind hammered away at the windows as loudly as ever. If anyone, out there, wants to make yet another film of Wuthering Heights, this is your ideal location. Fortunately, Josie had made one of her super roasts complete with piles of home grown vegetables, so everyone snored away until the morning house alarms went off. Out, into the wild went Wesley, battling against the forces of nature. At last, he climbed into the van and headed off for work. Yes, it was definitely autumn, but we had, all of us, on the Moors, made the most of the glorious weather. Now, the water butts are full after the brief drought.

Little Women. A favourite book

On the weekend, prior to autumn, Josie and Wes had, at last, managed to get a break. They went to visit dear Izzie (short for Isabel), who was one of Josie’s old school friends. They both attended Midhurst Grammar School, which is opposite Cowdray Park in West Sussex. It is well known for its polo matches. Now, Izzie is very involved in running a polo club in the Cotswolds and this was the last polo weekend. Josie and Wes had a great time. They had met some very fascinating people and loved seeing their friend again. Having known her for so long, it was wonderful to know how she was. She and Josie had worked their way through sixth form together, both with hard waitressing jobs. They used to meet up occasionally and have a Friday night outing, but that was on the rare occasion that they were free. They were both keen on polo and were such lovers of the game, that they were frequently let into matches for free. They knew most people involved and Sue, Josie’s mum would love to meet her at the polo cafe opposite the school. The coffee and ice cream there were amazing. Mum and Dad occasionally got into polo at Cowdray park and really enjoyed it. It had all been part of the decision to leave West Sussex. There would be no polo close by in Devon. Josie was, in any case, off to Loughborough University. Her ties would not be broken, but certainly, less frequent. She and Izzie had kept in touch for all these years, through all their moves and all their job changes. Now, in Cirencester, they were having a good catch up. Izzie showed Josie and Wes her first house purchase. It was an early 1930’s council house and It was very impressive. All the rooms were the right size and there was plenty of garden. Josie felt much encouraged for any purchase they made. If Wes got the time to do the work, they could have a go at purchasing a house like this. The twosome arrived back, at the end of their weekend, with some nice goodies. Wes had spotted a brand new coffee machine, going for a song, at the fete. Their little dog had won a prize at the dog show. A very nice bottle of wine was tucked under Josie’s arm. They were both aglow with sunshine and warmth. There was a lovely surprise for Sue. Josie produced a worn and elderly version of Little Women. This was discovered to be a 1932 edition, which had been sold through a newspaper. This was an absolute treasure and such a thoughtful present. Sue thumbed the book with great care. The illustrations and print were glorious. It would be added to her study collection and put next to her favourite treasures.She had another version of the book, which had belonged to Peter’s mother. Miss Alcott, who had written the book, had been a nurse, like Peter’s mother, and that is why she had it.Susan was now unsure whether Little Women was her favourite book or, of course, The Secret Garden. She loved this book, though, given her by her daughter, therefore, it was very precious indeed. Now that autumn was here, she would spend hours rearranging her book collection yet again. Peter thought that it was about time that she read some of them, but he didn’t quite get that this was a collection.

The bees are preparing for Autumn, look at those full pollen baskets (corbiculae)

We have all so enjoyed these days of preparation before autumn. The flowers have been beautiful and the insect population in the garden has greatly increased. The number of bees on the chrysanthemums has been amazing. The butterfly population has been the best ever.
John Hooper has brought logs to our new neighbours as well as to us. The wood is dry and smells beautiful. When oil is too expensive, we shall light the fire and enjoy its flame and patterns against the walls. At night, we will huddle up together and enjoy all that warmth.

Even the butterflies are feeding on the nectar

We have all cut our hedges as much as we can and we have plenty of garden refuse for the compost heaps. Wes has cut the stream side so that will make a glorious autumn walk beneath the trees. Below those trees, we have the Door into Autumn, which Peter has placed as a Tolkien tribute. It was once the door into our house, but it was very heavy and had begun to deteriorate. It had been painted a perfect green with heavy door knockers and ornaments. We couldn’t possibly have thrown it away. So there it is, the Door into Autumn ready for all its seasonal visitors. No doubt, that our friends, Mr Fox, Badger, and Mole will inspect it, but they won’t be able to open it. It will be a puzzle for them. It will do them good. They are all already far too confident in themselves! We hope that our visitors will enjoy it too. If we are really lucky, Jim might even make one of his drawings of it.

Across the River and Into the Tree. Hemingway meets Tolkien and Kenneth Grahame

A HAPPY AUTUMN TO ALL OF OUR READERS. KEEP SAFE AND SWEET DREAMS TO EVERYONE

Words by Sue

Pictures by Peter

Visit our Facebook Page at Dartmoor Diary Facebook Page and contact The Photographer directly on Peter Bennett Photos email The Photographer’s snapshots for this blog can be seen on     Dartmoor Diary Flickr Album or all his snapshots on  Flickr (follow link)           The serious stuff is currently only available directly from The Photographer Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate,

Lara’s Theme meets Mrs Tittlemouse

By The Photographer’s Assistant
The early morning dawned wet and clammy. The kettle settled into its routine hum, which thankfully, drowned out the Today programme, which was, this morning, unremittingly gloomy. As usual, the whole of Britain was going to drown under its own verbiage. Radio off. Tea served. The question of what to do next was weighing heavily. Urgent seasonal cooking could be done. One look at the apple box was not encouraging. Mince for cottage pies was frozen and Nigel Slater’s cake recipe had been buried deep in the bowels of the upstairs study. The Assistant climbed the stairs, tripping on the fifth step as usual and dripping tea on the stairs as usual. The Photographer had spent quite a lot of the previous night involved in the Vassily Grossman’s account of the Battle of Stalingrad on his Kindle. This morning, he was barely awake having become deeply involved in the strategic plan for the battle. He slurped his tea over the quilt cover and begged the Assistant not to turn the radio on. Was it possible that the machinations around Brexit were even more complex than the moves of the Russian Army. Plans were put aside when he announced that he would be having one of Vincent’s breakfasts at the Forge. The Assistant was relieved. Nigel could be found later.

Just when you want cake and baking raw materials, all you have got is a vegetable glut!

The day passed pleasantly under the influence of a haze of coffee and the two sat in the garden silently admiring their newly planted trees, admiring their own wonderful environmental credentials, whilst polishing their haloes
Finally, it was decided that fire wood need to be taken by wheelbarrow up to the house. The Photographer loaded the barrow, still in Stalingrad, now on the supply side, bravely dodging the opposing troops’ bullets on the way. Halfway up the path, he distinctly heard a scream from the house. Hurrying along, he found his wife in great distress, a disembowelled mouse at her feet and a handkerchief in her hand. They were both now staring down at what had become a pet mouse, who lived in the outdoor borehole cupboard. She had become such a favourite. They had nurtured her with bird seed left in a special place and she would creep out in the evening, slowly, watching carefully, but this time, she had been met by death. This was all their fault. Actually it was all the Assistant’s fault. She had painted the cupboard for the winter. It did look the most lovely sage green. She had, however, had to clear the area of all sorts of objects and lots of weeds and basic ground cover, and this was the result. The Assistant went indoors and downed a large glass of red wine. As usual, the Photographer braved himself up, and removed the body and the accompanying parts. It was absolutely no good. The woman in his life had come from a town and never really adjusted to the violence of the countryside. She had even been brought up on The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Even though she had taught history, she couldn’t really face up to her main subject speciality, which she had actually taught, ie the Russian Revolution. She was alright on the politics, but his description of Stalingrad had her feeling quite low. She took these things far too seriously. He retired indoors to find her guzzling wine and unable to eat the delicious cake, which he had especially bought for her at Blacks, which was Tiffin cake, one of her favourites. He really thought that she should man up and stop sniffling over such triviality. At that moment, the wife produced a package, which had arrived that morning. Here were the parts for his motorcycle.
Excellent! Actually, they weren’t right. He had spent so long on taking the damned thing apart and now, really, what sort of idiot would send these parts. Totally incorrect. He lifted the phone and the wife hid in the garden. Picking flowers was so relaxing.

If I see another row or field of orange pumpkins signifying autumn, I’ll shoot myself (125th of a second at f8). For goodness sake photographers go and look at the wonderful things and use some imagination….please

The wife had a deeper worry than the loss of a mouse. As she snipped the beautiful yellow rose, which adorned the kitchen table, she knew it would have to be faced up to. Of late, having sent his photos to his agent, mowed the lawn before the rain, trimmed everything in sight that looked remotely threatening, brought up the beautiful yellow pumpkins and generally admired his progressing greens, and brought the house reasonably up to snuff for the winter, the photographer had begun to get ideas. Yes, ideas! These were not usual ideas. They were unsually enormous ideas. This one was about snow in winter. Yes, it was the old Land Rover fantasy. When she had first met him, he had a Land Rover. It was old. (Editors Note: It was a 1954 86inch Mk 1A, with only 473 careless owners) She and his elderly mother were taken several miles to the nearest cinema one cold and frosty night, with the canvas roof removed, to see, you’ve guessed it, Dr. Zhivago. His mother, an inveterate smoker, lit up to keep warm and the Assistant immediately fell ill and could not return to college for a week. His mother had once been a nurse of the strict type and the regime did not include even a small glass of whisky, which the Assistants father, also a nurse had always insisted upon. She couldn’t even drag herself to her father’s house, where the extreme cold, under a fresh air regime was to be experienced! Now, here, in her lovely Moorland existence, and feeling old and fragile, she was being threatened with the arrival of a Land Rover beast. It was as bad as it could be. Over the years, she had managed her husband’s engineering skills down to a manageable level. The children had only had to learn rudimentary engineering. They were always dressed in their best high heels and the most beautiful frocks when lessons took place. They are able to slap down any novice mechanic however with a swift analysis of the problem whenever they have a breakdown. They are usually right and leave most garage men in shock. Wonderful!

The perfect vehicle for taking my two best ladies to town…….surely?

The Assistant faced with the snow of winter and the need to restore failing machines, which, of course, was the ultimate in recycling, was really stuck for a diversion until she looked at the motorcycle. It wouldn’t be right, she pointed out, to start on another repair until this was finished. It was a restoration.(Editors Note 2: No, it was a rebuild to incorporate essential modifications to overcome the original Italian designers failings!) . That project had been on the go for about eighteen years. It deserved to be finished and taxed and MOT’d. He could see her reasoning. What about the snow? They had lovely neighbours with 4 x 4s. They would help in an emergency. There was also the planned acquisition and restoration of the Norton. It was winter and it would not be wise to use an outside tree as an engine hoist in the winter. If the engine was in trouble, it would be up there for months. She thought of dear Jane and John, who would, as good neighbours, feel bound to help. What if they had an accident! What if Jane’s chicken got squashed. NO! NO! NO! To quote a famous phrase. It would not do.

This may look like just a cam belt tensioner to you (and trust me, that is what it is), but it’s life and death to every Ducati motor

In the meanwhile, the little town inhabitants have been returning, after much well earned holidays. There have been lovely teas and reunions with friends and there has been a much loved film festival. The Daughter took her mother to the cinema, not to see another returning of Dr. Zhivago, but Downton Abbey. Fancy having the King and Queen to supper. That really is something!

PS. The Best Dressed man in Chagford has acknowledged the arrival of cooler mornings and adopted a warm black jacket.

PPS. Why not try our neighbour’s blog too, all about the recent Apple harvest.

Here is the link below

https://www.edgeofthemoor.org/blog/2019/9/30/apple-harvest-on-michaelmas

Visit our Facebook Page at Dartmoor Diary Facebook Page and The photographer is gradually transferring his portfolio to Saatchi Art Shop, because the site offers so many more easy options for potential customers. Try it if you will.

Peter Bennett’s Saatchiart Shop

The Photographer’s snapshots can be seen on Flickr (follow link) or the serious stuff is on Artfinder (follow link) or on his new Saatchi Art shop

Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental

Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate, Click on this link to find out more. Visit Chagford

All the News I Need is the Weather Report

By the Photographer’s Assistant

A slowing down, a time for contemplation, the end of many jobs until spring. This is your one chance to just stand and look at the beauty that surrounds us. At a time when heads are full of worry for our country, our careers, Christmas and whether we can take Aunty Jane out of her home for the big “ holiday”, we will get this one opportunity to really enjoy where we are lucky enough to have our homes.

 

 

Deep rustly leaves……just ready for scuffling

 

Suddenly, somewhere during October, the Photographer and the Assistant found themselves walking through the woods, scuffing up leaves and giggling like children, on their way to have a cream tea with Jim the Artist. They had successfully navigated the footpath from home, through a gate, where they always remembered Roger, who had made the gateway, where it had once been so difficult to cross. He had died a few years ago, and, somehow this was his memorial. They had crossed the stream where someone had placed a wonderful sight for children, for here was Aslan, the lion from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. He was completely covered in gold and looked out graciously at walkers on their journey. The leaves from now on were deep and luxurious. Fantastic! They thought of John’s 22 year old cow, who lived in the field next to the footpath. At the end of the path there was a gateway onto the empty road and bridge. The river was not yet in full flood. Here, on the right hand side was Jenny’s horse, playing and larking about on a cheery afternoon.

The river in calm and contemplative mood

Up the hill they went, silently admiring some of the architecture. Atop the hill, the wonderful sight of the town, lit by the autumn afternoon light, with its displays of colourful fruit and vegetables. The Photographer neatly side stepped the ladies clothes shop and the magnificent new arrival of a white and grey false fur coat. Onwards to the cafe busy with its afternoon teas. The cream and two types of jam flowed over the scones in the most tempting way possible. The conversation with The Artist bubbled along its easy way until darkness could be seen in the distance. The happy threesome said their farewells and were soon on their way. On arriving home, the fire was lit and glowed away. A small and pleasant supper of cheese and chutney was taken as the two put their feet up and snoozed pleasantly enough until the 10 o’clock news, which was so worrying that they went to a quiet read in bed instead. The Photographer was finishing a delightful collection of short stories by a local author and much to his critical gaze, his companion had started yet another book amongst the half dozen already started. He thought ruefully of the last Alan Bennett lengthy tome, which had lasted her an entire year, which he would never have bought if he had known how many would be interspersed amongst it. He considered himself to be the biggest reader in the house. He was particularly put out that she had managed the Chris Packham biography that he simply hadn’t.

Aslan guarding the falls

 

The next morning dawned with something they had not managed in the heat of summer; they managed to share the kitchen. He made the Christmas cake while she managed a to cook a Dundee cake. They had lots of cups of tea and didn’t listen to the radio, because the news was disturbing.

 

Oozy cake and cream….probably very bad for you, but oh so lovely

Friday; climax of the week in which there was absolutely no gardening, hurrah! Much as we love the garden and all that it provides, it had been a difficult year for keeping it all alive. They had both felt soooooo tired. They had a small shop up at Ben’s farm shop and the breakfast bacon butty had egg yolk oozing out of the corners. On to The House of Marbles to meet some dear friends from way back and catch up on absolutely everything. We eat the most divine fish luncheon.

On the Saturday, we went to Hittisleigh market. Yes, we still love going there. We met all those lovely people and we bought the most delicious pud for supper, a wonderful loaf of bread, and the Photographer, in romantic mood, bought the Assistant a wonderful basket of budding bulbs. A dear friend announced that she now found the news so depressing that she rationed it and felt so much better for it, and she looked really well, even though it was raining, so we’ve given it up too. This was followed by coffee and cake at Castle Drogo, where the staff spoil us beyond spoiling. We think that they think that we are dear old folk, but, alas, you know differently! On the way home, the postman was driving a little too quickly and the pot of bulbs had an accident, but they were soon replanted!

 

Cake and cars…the perfect combination

 

The weekend was spent in the shed and pantry reorganising before the Daughter comes and sees the state they are in and issues an edict to a pair of old people who are endangering themselves with tools and poisonous food.

Monday dawned and with it amazing amounts of rain. The Assistant and the Photographer would have to use the car, Damn! Two weeks ago the Photographer had put ten pounds worth of fuel in it! There were two pairs of perfectly good walking boots waiting for use, and he was about to reproof them! With an air of defeat, they drove to Blacks for their usual breakfast. Quite a club had begun to gather on Mondays, but it was just too damp to expect anyone. Chris served up what is considered to be the BEST bacon butty that there is by the Photographer and the Assistant. It was delivered with the best banter and goodwill while Catherine helped them fill their basket ready for another deliciously slow week.

………..and finally.  For those of you who commented and/or expressed concern over Rural Poverty you will be please to know that The Photographer sent “Wuthering Heights or Larkrise to Candleford” to a number of MPs, newspapers and magazines. One MP (Mel Stride) responded and requested we send the blog to a House of Lords Select Committee on the Rural Economy as evidence; so that is where it has gone. We hope it will have some effect.

Dartmoor Diary Facebook Page

The Photographer’s snapshots can be seen on Flickr (follow link) or the serious stuff is on Artfinder (follow link)

Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental

Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate, Click on this link to find out more. Visit Chagford

What Gardener’s do all Day

By the Photographer’s Assistant

At this time of year, working on their garden is all they do, especially after a cold winter followed by extreme heat. Of course, we wouldn’t do it unless we loved the garden! It just makes you feel your age!

Black Gold. The sweetest blackberries in the West.

Amidst all the apple picking, vegetable growing, mowing etc. we make time this year to pick wonderful blackberries as we go on our morning walk, up a steep hill, just up the road on the Moor. Before we start off, I take a small poly box from the cupboard. We only need enough for today’s pudding, which will be an apple crumble made from windfalls and this beautiful black fruit.

As we pick the fruit, like many others, I think of my childhood, when quite tiny, I helped with this same wild harvest. When my brother was born, my mother was very ill, so my father dispatched both the baby and his wife to stay with her mother. The other child was a bit of a handful, so she was dispatched to his own mother, in Wales, who was now eighty, and old but knowing. The child was his treasure really and his mother was held beyond adoration. Aunt Lizzie Hannah was despatched to collect the child by coach and the two had a long and wearisome journey, as yet there being no Severn Bridge.

On arrival, under Granny’s instructions, the child and its battered case were despatched to Lizzie’s house, which was much the largest in the family. Here, the childless Aunt had a beautiful big bedroom ready for the child and her husband welcomed the new tiny apprentice wild gardener. Uncle Gerwin was retired from the works and had dedicated himself to food production. Aunt Lizzie could barely keep up with the cooking. Gerwin’s breakfast was so large that Lizzie, unable to face such a large pile of food, started the day with only an apple, scrumped, of course. They had a lovely back garden, which had to cope with a sitting area, vegetables and Lizzie’s love of flowers, however, well before the wild gardening movement began, plenty of city gardeners found places to continue growing what had been war time provisions. Gerwin was happy to set the apprentice off to work. There was plenty to harvest in the Tabernacle garden opposite, which instead of a graveyard, was surrounded by a wonderful wilderness. There was virtually nothing in the garden that could not be used in Lizzie’s outhouse opposite, but blackberries were the child’s favourites. Aunt Lizzie never complained about the child’s stained clothing. Nothing missed out on the extreme application of what now would be considered dangerous chemicals. The whole house never stopped smelling of bleach!

Lizzie would turn these pippy and sour fruits into the most wonderful concoctions. Even Roald Dahl would have trouble describing such feasts. The Photographer had been unable to see the attractions of the fruit until his wife employed all of Lizzie’s techniques to produce her own crumbles.

The raw materials: Windfall apples hedgerow blackberries, indoor and amazing outdoor tomatoes

Come blackberry time, everybody you could think of turned up for brewing and stewing night. The Apprentice’s aunt did not have a kitchen. She had a back place with a huge stone sink and an enormous table and she had the very best fired range her husband could provide in the fire place in the next room. The family eat every day, summer and winter in front of this range, which produced food to be proud of. On this particular evening all sorts of containers and appliances were produced to process the harvest. The Apprentice was despatched to bed for safety’s sake, but years later, she suspected a huge home wine brewing session took place (possibly with much tasting).

Being of the age for enforced retirement, the uncle missed his work mates and would often sit outside his house when the men trudged back from work, their heavy boots drowning the atmosphere. He would speak to old friends and make arrangements to meet them for a pint. Now there was this child, he had begun to fill some gaps in his every day routine. Breakfast was followed by several lessons in gaming skills. The child became an expert at dominoes, cards, ( “ See now, you can make a fair old living at cards”.) Solitaire was difficult, but not impossible. There was the odd visit to the child’s grandmother, where the child would be expected to sit spell bound by a conversation exclusively in welsh. The child would be fed thin bread and butter with a boiled egg while this took place. Eventually, the Uncle could not keep the child from school and so took her faithfully every morning, pathetically visiting her at break time with a bag of gob stoppers to persuade the other children to play with the small English child. She was at school there so long that she was happily able to learn her father’s long forgotten native language.

To cut a long story short, I loved my aunt and uncle well beyond death The funerals then were numerous in this heavily polluted atmosphere and the uncle always had his black suit laid out with his black hat and tie ready for the next. There was much debate when the child’s father sent for her to return. He had a new council house for his wife and baby. The aunts and uncles had grown used to the child’s funny ways. There was a family meeting and it was debated hard, but there was no excuse really. She would have to be sent back to England. They clubbed together and bought her a whole new wardrobe which her mother threw the whole lot in the bin when she got home. No child of hers was going to be Welsh!!

Now, we make our way down the hill and off the Moor into the home, where we too have a range, a proper kitchen, and an outhouse for washing up and washing clothes. Our house has a Welsh and English set up. It has a mat, which says, “Croeso” on the door step, and sometimes, the grown child gets out the photos of where she used to live and goes back in time to enchantment. It’s another thing that you can do when you’re retired, but in the winter. All time not spent in the garden is wasted, especially as the garden’s production and the skill of her English mother in law saw that no money was wasted and so, the Assistant was always at home when her children came home from school no matter what else was going on. She was going to be a firm anchor!
In this, she had been fortunate to have so much help.

Basil pesto and roasted tomatoes from the greenhouse, beetroot from the garden and crumble from the kitchen…..yummy

The Photographer and I have been around and about, as you can see. We have had a wonderful start to Autumn. Some fields are as dry as a bone, but some are an emerald green. Despite the weather, there is plenty of silage due to clever management. There has been a pop up camp site, which brought the sound of children’s voices back into our lives. We have turned fruit into breakfast, tea and dinner. The Photographer has made jars full of wonderful tomatoes in oil. We are exhausted, but unbowed. What a wonderful place to work among the buzzards and bees. Of course, we have a badger in the garden, but we have yet to see him and from the look of the evidence , he has his family here! The fox keeps slyly to the side lines. You would be very lucky to see him!

Summer’s history written in the grass. Autumn flowers and burnt dry seed stems

To finish it all off, we had a rainbow up the hill for the first time in ages only yesterday.

 

Living life at the end of the rainbow

 

Dartmoor Diary Facebook Page

The Photographer’s snapshots can be seen on Flickr (follow link) or the serious stuff is on Artfinder (follow link)

Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental

Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate, Click on this link to find out more. Visit Chagford

The Little Things

 

It is Saturday morning and the little town is quite still. There is very little traffic about. The Photographer has collected the papers. The Assistant has been helped to a simple breakfast by Chris, who, as always, has arrived early, has his apron on and is getting down to making delicious smells emanate from Blacks’s Deli kitchen. Fresh coffee is on and Catherine arrives ready for the Saturday rush. The Photographer and the Assistant sit quietly contemplating the birds which hang out on the chimney opposite. They are always there, definitely rebels without a cause, but they wish they had one. Until now, all has been quiet, but a little queue is building up. Dogs are hooked up to the outside of the deli, and are complaining . Various customers have been in and out, but they have not been able to collect their favourite Saturday treat. Some customers have sat down to quietly wait. Endacott’s are late. This is unknown. This is not meant to happen. The Photographer and the Assistant are enjoying a second cup of coffee when THE VAN arrives. Out jumps the delivery driver and, avoiding the customers, manages to bounce into the deli without being confronted. The delicious bread and treats are unloaded and he is on his way. Disaster is diverted and there really is no need for Catherine to arrange the goods, they are simply disappearing.

Fresh baked bread from Endacott’s…..treats for all

 

As the two finish their coffee, a magnificent mobility scooter appears up the hill. This is the little town, so the scooter enters with an air of triumph. It is driven by a war veteran and sports wonderfully coloured British maritime flags. What a hint of cheer! The sight is most definitely going to wake you up.

This is all the start to a typical day in the little town. As the two leave the town, they are distressed to see a fire service van, two police cars and a doctor’s call out car, all parked up in various positions all over the centre of the town. There had obviously been some sort of incident, and living away from the town, the two thought that they would never hear what had happened. Four days later the Daughter appeared for supper and reported on how stressed she had been on the Friday night.

She had arrived early on a scene in the road. An early responder had just arrived on the scene and was trying to control everything. Someone was lying unconscious in the road, and she had found the sight upsetting, but had started controlling the traffic. This was in the real spirit of the little town and we were proud of her. She does not know what had happened to the person, but she and the first responder had done all they could until more help arrived. In these circumstances, the fire brigade will often be the first to arrive, having been trained in emergency care. Otherwise, the little town is too far away from the emergency ambulance. The little town likes to think that it takes care of its own people and it must be said that it does this splendidly. There are many people living here, who have everyday kindnesses from the community.

On a less serious note Autumn/Winter life goes on. We have enjoyed a wonderful autumn. The Assistant picked her last raspberries at the start of November. She picked and served her last courgettes on the 7th November. The work in the garden has never been so advanced at this time of year. Shrubs have been cut down and moved. The Photographer continually cut the grass and the Assistant was able to prevent the leaves from blocking the stream. Her shed had really benefited from new tool hangers erected by a very busy Photographer.

After a long break from keeping the house up to scratch ( everyone who visits has been enjoying the sunshine in the garden) the Assistant had turned to work with a will. The house was stuffed with out of date magazines, newspapers, and total disorder. How did that huge saucepan get stowed away there? The Assistant had reached the stage where only the very closest of friends could possibly come through the door! Fortunately, as long as he was fed, for his work was exhausting, the Photographer was too busy having a doze to notice. After she had actually uncovered the kitchen range, which was covered in drying washing, the Assistant unearthed the necessary cleaners and spent a fruitful three hours cleaning it. She was full of pride when her neighbour popped in and complimented her on how shiny the kitchen was! The work continued apace. You can now see through most of the windows, though not all.

The Photographer organised the logs, have started using them late in the year. John’s logs were as good as they had ever been. The two were often to be found fast asleep in front of the telly, the Yorkshire vet solving animal illness as they slept through the evening.

 

A tit after enjoying the new feeder

The Assistant filled the empty bird feeders and indeed went to the extravagance of buying a new nut feeder. The birds returned in their droves and were such an enjoyable sight over breakfast. As the weather has grown colder, cooperative feeding is taking place. There are goldfinches, robins, chaffinches and all varieties of tits, all feeding together.

The apple crop has been an average one in the garden this year, but there are still enough to go around. The Assistant has eating apples of all sizes stored in her shed. They nestle in kitchen paper in old recycled veg and fruit boxes. There were enough potatoes to store in sacks, nestling in the corner against the wooden walls. These crops will last until Christmas. Spinach, kale, carrots and leeks are all available in the garden. Best of all, the Christmas sprouts are coming on a treat, even if the birds are enjoying their tops! Being able to feed the family and friends at Christmas is always a really lucky bonus and we enjoy it.

The “Granny Apple” factory. Nothing goes to waste

 

The apples are the big bonus. The Assistant uses the cookers to make granny apple, named after the Photographer’s mother, who spent all of the autumn preserving and cooking the apples in whatever way that she could. The apples are peeled, and lay in a little water with mixed spices. Often it isn’t necessary to add sugar. This simple mix is put in the oven at a low temperature to cook away to its heart’s content. If you over cook it, it can still be used, just don’t burn it. You can use it in pies, crumbles and as it is. It is an excellent winter warmer. The apple mixture can also be frozen. It may sound a boring thing to do, but it is a good excuse to have another Yorkshire vet program on in the background. The apples that you don’t use, plus peel and cores can simply be left on the ground, where, even now, the blackbirds are enjoying the feast. When you have eaten an apple simply throw it out into the garden, the core will be eaten.

When you’ve eaten all the apples, mealworms will have to do

Last of all, what a delightful time of the year to get together with friends. You can feed them and they can feed you. We had a lovely meal with some new neighbours where the first course consisted of all the samples of food that they could find in their new garden. A delightful piece of pork was enjoyed with another neighbour. Just as the two could not be bothered to get a Sunday lunch, another friend invited them for a most delicious chicken and fruit hot pot. After a twelve hour day at work and in the gym, the Daughter managed to muster enough energy to cook a delicious venison casserole. Shortly friends and acquaintances will disappear on urgent Christmas missions so this is always a wonderful time for a catch up with one another.

As we all disperse, and we say this not we hope in a self righteous way, lets enjoy all the preparations, because nobody really cares if you get it wrong, they just want to enjoy your company. In the next blog, we will tell you how all the preparations are going.

Footnote

The full quotation from St David’s final sermon to his monks

“do the little things, the small things you’ve seen me doing”.

Dewi Sant (St David) from his shrine in St David’s cathedral

 

And finally, we have added a link to the Facebook page

Dartmoor Diary Facebook Page

The Photographer’s snapshots can be seen on Flickr (follow link) or the serious stuff is on Artfinder (follow link)

Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental

Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate, Click on this link to find out more. Visit Chagford

 

Chill Out (Things Gonna Change)

By the Photographer’s Assistant

 

The daughter and the Assistant were dressed in everything you can think of to keep warm and dry. The forecast for the Moor was dreadful. The dog attempted to walk beside them, but it was trying too hard to be good so that however hard it tried, it went around in circles. It was funny, but not helpful. Eventually, she was let off the lead. It wasn’t quite autumn, but it felt close. It began to rain and the rain became so hard that they knew they would be soaked. Cars passed. They were so pleased as here came the Photographer, ready to pick them up.

 

They were just around the corner from the church and they all quickly entered out of the rain. They stood and surveyed the scene. In four weeks time, the Daughter’s wedding would take place here. Observations were made. Where to place greenery, particularly the ivy from the garden? How many were coming? Where would everyone sit? The discussion went on and Zaney, the dog, attempted to join in by sitting knowledgeably on the floor, sighing, shifting and attempting to direct proceedings. Eventually, the church door was shut and the foursome drove home to a cup of tea and a “warm up” by the kitchen range. The whole event had brought home something other than wedding arrangements. It had brought home the arrival of autumn. There was no denying it.

 

The wonderful rood screen at Gidleigh Church where The Daughter will be married soon

Here was a reminder to put the coats through the washing machine and apply some waterproofer.
The Photographer thought of the boots and the need to work on them, so that they were warm and waterproof. Laces would be checked and the thickness of soles would be reviewed. The lawn would need cutting at every opportunity. However, this was the last day of real rain. The local reservoir was dry and old buildings stuck out above what water there was left. The Assistant spent hours clearing the garden stream out, as weed unexpectedly took over. The pump inlet for the Victorian water system had stopped filling. Their own bore hole, which was shallow, could dry up, for there would be no warning, just a sudden cessation of the water supply.

 

What is it?……Answer at the bottom of the blog

On the following Monday, the Photographer and his Assistant went for their usual breakfast at Blacks in the little town. It was slightly chilly, but dry. They sat outside enjoying the fresh air, when a man in shorts walked past. He always wore shorts and the two admired his bravery. They met a friend who had arrived in a full winter coat, large jumper, thick socks and full winter regalia. He nodded towards the man in shorts and exclaimed, “Nutcase!” as he left for the high moor in his giant 4×4. Opinion on the arrival of Autumn was obviously divided.

 

The man from Endacotts brings the pasties……all will be well

Returning from their walk, the two decided to carry on gardening and washing windows, whatever the state the house was in, it would have to wait until the weather finally broke. Frequently, when this happened on the Moor, the weather shut down completely and only the brave gardened until the spring. Your fingers could freeze in just a few seconds. The Photographer decided to mow rather than strim for now. He spent the day mowing neat paths and clearing debris. The Assistant, being of a lazy frame of mind, picked up a small box and started to collect apples. Both the Assistant and the Photographer remarked on a pear possibly missing from the pear tree. Surely not? They decided they must be wrong. The next day, one of the three remaining pears in the garden was missing. There was no sign of it anywhere, not even a core! They sat in the garden and thought about this for a while, over a cup tea of course, there is no point in making a martyr of yourself in the garden. Alan Titchmarsh always said spend time looking at your garden. Now that the two were getting older, they certainly did a lot of this. Having carefully watched Springwatch over a couple of years, and seen a badger climb a tree, they decided one must have taken the pear. There was a back entrance to their home in the garden, and only a few years before the whole family of badgers had driven through the sweetcorn like a bulldozer! The two remaining pears were picked by the humans and the badgers were left some apples on the ground together with the evidence that Mr. Fox had also paid a visit. Some wonderfully coloured jays continued to occupy the same stretch of lawn. The humans began to wonder whether they should sit on their seat at all, considering the number of animals who considered this to be their domain. Zany the dog, meanwhile paid a late visit to the garden and made her presence felt. The two remembered dear Marcus, who died around this time of year. That dear spaniel had taken no prisoners, even tangling with the badgers when really enraged. The two sighed and visited his grave. Life was just not the same without Marcus, then they remembered how very depressed he got in the winter, sighing when it was raining and grumbling during the evening as he lay damply by the fire. You have to be incredibly tolerant to actually live with a proper springer. Their moods are those of a prima donna, no matter how many badgers they have a punch up with!

It does, however, go without saying, that the little town is well up to the arrival of autumn and winter. The aforementioned Blacks was filling up with Chris’s fresh home made soup only this morning. The man from Endacott’s arrived with a fresh load of pasties, they’ll keep the cold out. Casa Magnolia has clothes to keep the ladies of the town looking ravishing, while actually not exposing too much skin to the elements. Bowdens has a large number of individual heaters all ready to go with the frosts that are now arriving. The town’s inhabitants try out various winter garb while surveying the hills for clouds and storms. Spar has had a wonderful offer on various soups. The town is paused, coats are on and The Courtyard Cafe is stuffed full of regulars, some of whom have just arrived from foreign summer adventures and some of whom will now go abroad for the whole of the winter, returning only when friends have told them that spring is here. They will miss the lovely log fires, the smell of the wood wafting out of the wood store as they fill their baskets. Poor John, the wood supplier, will, as usual, together with his team members, pray for a rest on Christmas, as his phone continues to ring in the corner. We will all have a moan, but we’ll really enjoy the chance to catch up with friends, sitting by the pub fires reminiscing about the summer of ’16, when the streams dried up and you had to strip off to keep cool, how the gin and tonic flowed and the beer cooled the working breast. What a summer we had as we await the winter to come.

 

The end of summer…..a wet empty cafe table. But the sun will be back!

 

Answer to the quiz:

It is the dry spillway from Vennford Reservoir, waiting for the rain to come and fill it up again

and the blog title is by John Lee Hooker from the album Best of Friends

 

 

The Photographer’s snapshots can be seen on Flickr (follow link) or the serious stuff is on Artfinder (follow link)

Any similarity between characters in this blog and real people, products or events is entirely co-incidental

Any similarity between “The Little Town” and Chagford is entirely deliberate, Click on this link to find out more. Visit Chagford

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!!

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!