There’s Always an Upside

One of our neighbours is waiting for the shepherd to show him the Christmas baby

It is all too easy, at the moment, to swear at the news. Why not, after all, here comes another upset for many, as Christmas plans dissolve into the destruction of more plans. You may be forced into staying here, at home, if you’re really lucky, you may be forced to sit in front of the fire and enjoy a friend’s Christmas with them! You won’t, as I did once, sit in a corridor, on a long distance train with all those merry, sticky beer cans travelling your way, as, yet again, there is no coffee available and if you are really lucky, a heavy breather will join you, of the male gender, and impose his drunken conversation on you until he alights the train. Of course, that assumes that there is a train. How stupid of me. If you are a mother, you can spend a delightful time in A&E at an unknown hospital with a child with a bit missing until it is restored. That might not be possible either!

Stay here. Never forget that this is probably one of the best communities that you can live in. It doesn’t matter if there is a postal strike, your friends and neighbours deliver cards by hand and if you are the one delivering cards, you are very likely to be invited in for a drink

A winter Friday night at The Globe

Talking of drink, The Globe is looking splendid. It looks even better than usual. Peter spent an excellent evening there last Friday celebrating his birthday with a hearty meal and a pint (or two). Dear Josie had decided that The Globe was easy to get to. It is so local and every year there literally are so many decorations in there that you can’t count all the Santas. The Globe is situated opposite our local church, which, incidentally, is worth a visit in its own right. The choral singing at Christmas is magnificent. It usually makes me cry! In the summer, however, the church wall is festooned with locals on a Friday night out. They are celebrating the weekend with singing and their own musical instruments. It’s a community thing. It is simply joyous and the singing and music are glorious!

The author, Noel, Blacks, Christmas decorations, Monday morning breakfast club, all in one picture

Down at Blacks, Chris and Catherine are doing their stuff. There is glorious food to take away and enjoy over Christmas. Chris is making his special sausage rolls again this Christmas. They are worth the year’s wait for the delight that they are. Peter and Wesley will have their eye on a pork pie or two, perhaps, a third one later? Sitting outside of Blacks, Peter, Jim, Noel and I will enjoy one last Monday before the great event. We’ll have a coffee or two and have the chance to wish friends a merry time as they pass by.

At home, we continue to burn John Hooper’s logs, which are dry and warm in the log burner. Peter has the kettle on top and there will be some soup later. This is how we used the fire last winter, when the electricity was off for four days. Of course, Peter and Duncan found the line down before anyone from the electricity people even got around to looking for it. It’s what we have to do out here. We still await that great broadband experience!

Peter and I reflect on the year and enjoy looking back. Of course, nothing is perfect. We will miss the local people, who we have passed on this year. Noel has buried some wonderful friends of the community, but we won’t forget them. There was so much to remember.

We have had unforgettable moments with friends. Our friend, the building site manager came around and had a well earned rest over a cup of tea and cake. His conversation is always interesting and knowledgable. In the summer, friends came and had tea and cake under the apple tree. What a lovely time we had when Kate and James unexpectedly arrived and we had cake and sparkling wine to celebrate the Queen’s last Jubilee. Most wonderful for us, was meeting my first cousin, who lives in America, for the first time in a while. Best of all, her son, his wife and and their new baby are living close enough for us to visit, or for them to visit us and Josie and Wesley. When my cousin left Britain, we were both small children. What a joy it was to meet her husband too. What a treat to end the year! We have been so fortunate.

A special light over Meldon

If we didn’t live here, all of us would miss Meldon Hill, how it overshadows the village with its stark beauty and moods. Last week, Peter and I walked Meldon with Josie’s dog (Millie). The sun was setting and the light was remarkable everywhere that we looked. A house had a fire in, which swept its smoke in a wondrous pattern. There was the odd bonfire in the distance. The horses were tall and strong, eating the grass, which was growing there. We took the dog home, and, already, there were decorations going up in New Street.

So to all our neighbours and our friends, some of whom live far away, we would like to wish you all A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS. THIS IS OUR CHRISTMAS CARD TO YOU. If you are forced to stay around at Christmas, we are all here for you and we will give you as good a time as we can manage, whatever is going on elsewhere.

Foot notes

Our hero works his magic on the Rhino

Wesley came and helped us finish erecting the Greenhouse just before the really cold weather. Wesley and Josie have been our great joy all year. They keep an eye, from a short distance on what the olds are up to and sometimes, quite rightly, we are reprimanded.

Summer is easier. They are usually, doing their bit at the swimming pool, so the “olds” can be up ladders, painting the house and all sorts while they are there!

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 (aka Peter). 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

I’ve never cooked Christmas Dinner

a Very Happy Christmas to all our readers

I’ve never cooked Christmas Dinner. This had never occurred to me until, in the course of normal conversation, our daughter, the very busy Josie announced that Christmas dinner would be roast lamb and it would be from Ben’s Farm Shop. Was that alright with the family? She gave me a warning look, which meant that there would be no arguing.

To explain why I am so useless at Christmas, we have to go back to a few years after the war. My mother and I were our only companions except for the rare occasions when my father was allowed to be away from nursing war victims. I had a happy little toddlerhood. I already had a voracious appetite for books and large quantities of simple toys. Books were great for writing on and toys were always taken apart on an experimental basis. I loved the vegetable plot, where the sprouts, which were taller than me, made a perfect jungle. I always accompanied my mother on ration hunting. She was very pretty and every male shop holder was enchanted. We had a wonderful diet. Her favourite thing that she enjoyed with her toddler was visiting the chickens at a pub on the shopping route. The two used to talk to the chickens through the fence and they both found them enchanting. Due to rationing or expense, a chicken was never served up at home. This is where a problem occurred one Christmas when an invitation was made by the maternal grandparents. This was a big event for my parents. It meant that my father’s divorce was going to be partially forgiven. Their beloved and extremely spoilt daughter, whose pilot boyfriend had been killed towards the end of the war, now had a first grandchild and that was surely a good thing. The grand parents led a high middle class life. No expense would be cut for Christmas. The little girl was given granddad’s dressing room for a small non frightening bedroom rather than a large opulent room. I cannot describe the strain on my father, who was supposed to be taking a well earned break. He supervised my bedtime with great care. I wasn’t to touch any of granddad’s bottles or hair brushes. I could tear up the odd Readers Digest. I hated the dark and kept thinking that there must be a dragon, at the very least, in the roof cupboard.

Oooh it’s a baby Susan…..mind my frock!

The great day came about. I had never seen anything like it. I was used to “simple”, not grandiose. The large dining room had been opened for the occasion. The dining table was huge and it was covered in wonderful food, some of which I had never seen before. I was being carried into the highly decorated room, when I spotted it. I was absolutely silent, then I screamed. I screamed for England. I screamed the house down. There, in the middle of the table, stripped of all its feathers and lay bare was a huge chicken. This was my favourite animal and the people I loved were going to eat it. I don’t remember what happened next. We used to visit the grand house. We even went for Easter. I used to romp in my grand parents bed, but we never again went for Christmas. We and eventually, my little brother, had Christmas alone. My Dad spent Christmas Day amongst his patients and would come home for a lovely dinner. I did the decorations, and, later when I worked as a student, I would love giving my brother his Action Men toys. We liked it quiet.

The frustrated surgeon made it to Theatre Sister in WW2 but when she started in 1927 the chances of becoming a surgeon were slim indeed

When I was at college I met Peter and he took me to his college ball and that was that! Peter’s mother had just been widowed when I met her. It seemed a good act to attend their Christmas. So it was for many years. Peter would go and fetch his Aunty Gertie off the bus on Christmas Eve and she would have a small glass of sherry on her arrival. She would always take this glass to bed with her. (“Saving a little for later”) Sherry was the treat of the year. She had never cooked a Christmas dinner and, I still hadn’t! For many years Peter’s mother’s favourite thing in all the world was to cook the Christmas dinner. I had, by now, learnt to subtly push the meat around the plate whilst studying any painting on the walls. This had once been a grand house too, but Peter’s father, poor man had spent a long time dying and had left very little for the family. Peter had begun to earn, but, as a teacher, currently being bribed by the government to stick at it, I was on an unbelievable ever escalating salary, plus, my maternal Grandfather had died and left me quite a lot of money. After our first Christmas together, Peter’s mother could choose whatever she wanted for the Christmas table and Peter now began to catch me up rapidly, so we were lucky. Mum could have what she wanted and she did. The soda siphon was filled together with the biscuit barrel. Why did Christmas count so much for Peter’s mother? During the war, as an experienced nursing sister, she had worked in the operating theatre of the Royal Surrey Hospital, where many soldiers were taken to be helped. The chicken, or turkey were always carved by Peter’s mother, and they were carved with an expert touch. This was her moment to shine. She would select a bird that was way too big and spend many happy hours making the best of her moment of glory. She would have made a splendid surgeon, which had been her ambition. I spent my time freezing the surplus!

A 1980s style Christmas (or possibly Boxing Day) dinner by Granny Bennett. Note the precision carved meat!

Peter’s mother lived with us for a very long time, and when our children were born, she continued with all her Christmas traditions until one fateful Sunday. At some stage, during the late eighties, we had a terrible flu epidemic. Josie and I couldn’t even comb our hair, we were so weak and Peter’s mother was kept busy us until she too became ill. It was Christmas and something quite unexpected occurred. In the kitchen whilst attending to the patients, in his own quiet way, Peter studied how to cook a turkey from his mechanical point of view. He made no fuss. He combed the womens’ hair, dispensed pain killers and each patient had a little wash before he disappeared. All the patients were happily asleep, when the call came from the kitchen. There, the best you will ever see, was a beautifully brown bird and all the trimmings making its way across the hall to the dining area. It looked wonderful. All of Peter’s women thought that it was the best bird that they had ever seen, but no one could eat it. It had to be carved and frozen after a few days had passed! How sad!

Peter took on Christmas for many years. He did it so well that it seemed pointless to interrupt him. In time, Josie, who was now paying her way through University, gained huge experience of both chef’s ways and silver service, so, unsurprisingly, she wanted to cook for Christmas, and took on the mantle. We have a treat. The establishments, which Josie worked in, were high class and she learnt as much as she could. She chooses the meat, the sauces, flavourings and all the vegetables. Wes, her husband, makes for an excellent sous chef. Their knowledge of wines is excellent. Susan and Peter have never enjoyed a meal quite so much. We are lucky. It’s that simple.

Susan and Peter have now been married for fifty years and Susan has never cooked a Christmas dinner. She would probably start with a tin opener and a frying pan. She has never been that interested in food. This year, she is spending November and December without chatting to the sheep on the hill in case they are going to be for Christmas dinner!

Well done ladies, you’ve made it past Christmas. It’s good to talk.

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

The Bells are Ringing out for Christmas on the Moor

The sky was that wonderful winter colour. It was a pure watery blue. Powdery white clouds floated across the sky. Arrows of strong birds flew by the buzzards hung in the atmosphere showing all those beautiful browns as they hovered above their prey. The Assistant was tidying the asparagus border and covering it in mulch. She thought of the miracle of asparagus and how, now, you would never know what grew here. It had fled so deeply underground. She ended the day with the clearance of unproductive strawberry plants, ready for the Head Gardener to plant fruit bushes in the spring. Yes, nearly every day brought rain, but not today and you should not trample damp soil, but she was doing her best. This must not be a spring when everything needed doing at once. That was just too hard.There was something wrong with this old body, but she wasn’t sure what.

You want an appointment when!!. At our Health Centre the answer is always “yes”

The next day was another rainy day. The Assistant had rung the surgery and got an almost instant appointment. She packed a pretty Christmas tin for the Health Centre team. It had this picture with Santa driving across a lovely little town in his sleigh with his reindeer. The surgery, which is usually packed, had just a steady trickle of the poorly. The Assistant was invited in by her doctor; no, not called on a tinny old loudspeaker. She was actually collected from the waiting area by her own doctor! Her doctor had a little tree in her room. She had been decorating it when she had a minute. A civilised conversation took place. The Assistant went away with various bits of advice for her skin condition and her poor old body, which had simply been complaining about the lack of a sit down here and there. She was relieved that the condition would eventually wear itself out. What a relief that it probably would not impinge on the planting season. Contrary to reports on the news, this surgery is a cheery comforting place to visit and the staff help fight hard for the patients to receive the treatment that is due to them.

Everybody loves a happy nurse!

Away from the surgery and into the Globe to book a full Christmas dinner and arrange their visit to the cinema club. The Globe had some amazing decorations, so cheery. The Father Christmas was their favourite. All that red and tinsel. You know where you are with a bit of tinsel. Pam’s vegetable shop was next. So much lovely fresh veg. Carrots , baking potatoes and a dozen local eggs. There really is no need to go to the super market when you live here. Next week, we shall visit Andy for Christmas meat. Some of the local turkeys are supplied to Riverford for their excellent organic meat. There are hardly any food miles added to a substantial amount of local produce. On to the Forge for some light refreshment and a Christmas cuddle with Vincent. It must be said that Vincent regarded the Assistant as a small English pet and the Photographer as an engineering wonder. From time to time t he two could still not forget that wonderful summer evening when Vincent and Sara entertained them on their allotment, which was just being shaped up. Such a splendid view over the Moor had been much enjoyed and the two had rolled home in bright light and clear sky’s accompanied by dear Isaac, the cat, who waited all night to be taken home to the Little Town.

We’re not really cold in Pam’s veg shop, we are just trying this hat and quilty coat for size

Vincent….chef extraordinaire at the Forge. Sara should be here too but The Photographer managed to outfox The Nikon and get her out of focus. (Sorry Sara)

The day before the visit to the surgery, the usual Monday Morning Breakfast Club had taken place at Blacks Deli. The subject, introduced by the men, had been a philosophical one about whether everybody was actually there or not. (Existentialism says The Photographer) The Assistant quite lost track as she was hungry and enjoying her excellent bacon roll. Noel, the retired priest, was still wearing his Lawn Ranger hat. Jim, the Artist had been a highwayman and Santa Claus since they had last met. There was a discussion as to whether he should have been Father Christmas rather than Santa Claus. The Assistant glazed over and talked to John about the possibility of supper in the New Year. Who knew? After all, they might not actually exist, so supper was an irrelevance. It was agreed, however, that Jason and Ruth had been outstanding Vikings at Christmas Late Night shopping. To be honest, Christmas shopping night was a bit hazy in the Assistants mind. Two glasses of wine and an excellent fish pie at the Forge, coupled with a divine helping of mulled wine at Blacks had made the Photographer sit her in a corner while he did the shopping. She did, however, notice that Phil Fowler made an excellent job of singing solos in the town square. By now the Daughter, Son in Law and several friends had arrived and it was time for the Assistant to have a couple of pints. She felt that this was an excellent way to start Christmas as the Photographer attempted to hide her from Father Paul as he passed by. The evening ended with a good discussion on what it was to have Celtic descent, especially, Welsh, for the Assistant, Irish, for the Photographer, and Scottish, for the Son in Law, and Jenny. There was a discussion on who would be entitled to which Passport should the odd one of them not score enough points to stay in England, if the national thing become dicey after the election. Time to go home arrived, which was probably just as well. On arrival home, the Photographer downed a bottle of Butty Bach and dreamed of a lovely Christmas at home, which is what will happen.

Chaplain to The Monday Morning Breakfast Club…..a.k.a. “Start The Week”

A man of many parts…..who do you know him as?

My practical friend…….everyone should have one.

We shall light a log fire, visit church, drink a toast. Son in Law will have talked his way to a wonderful turkey. The oven will be on full tilt and the Assistant will be at her happiest. She has never cooked a Christmas dinner in her entire life. Her not cooking of a bird in which she has always been disinterested has been allowed to continue, whilst a family of special cooks cook for her. She is lucky and she knows it.

Pictured below are some of the people, who make the Little Town’s Christmas.

Chris and Katherine from Blacks must have hardly shut up shop on The Shopping Night before they had to open again the next day, yet, they continued to serve as they always do on these occasions.

Katherine and Chris, our ever wonderful hosts to the MMBC

The Forge continues to serve despite having had such a very very busy time

It’s that Assistant again…….she gets everywhere

We are lucky out here on the Moor and we know it. We have a very special community in which we all share with one another. It’s what living here is all about. It really is. No one will be alone here, at Christmas unless they want to be. There is something very special about the little town.

Afterthoughts

“Well this is a very serious matter” “Who exactly are you?” “What are you doing with that camera?” “I’m top dog you know” “and I’m not”

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     

A Christmas Game

Bet you don’t see this very often where you live? The Christmas game is to find the two hounds in the other picture in this pack. To make it extra difficult The Photographer used too slow a shutter and the hounds are slightly blurred

 

Look at Granny Run Run

By the Photographer’s Assistant

The Photographer is standing amidst the smell of oranges, lemons and brandy. He is in control of this part of Christmas. He is making 4 puddings to a combination of recipes. There is a great deal of steam and the Assistant is being pretty useless. He is also going to make a Christmas cake to a recipe from the Guardian newspaper. He reads The Financial Times and does not approve of the Assistants love of The Guardian. Her father was a nursing sister and a shop steward. Her father’s father worked in the steel industry in the early 20th century and died of it, so the subject is not much discussed, but he will use the Guardian recipe while extolling the virtues of the FT music reviews.

The much loved Aga after the final “service” visit by Garton King

 

The Assistant is weighed down by the responsibility of clearing the house out. She is entering week two and has filled the conservatory with stuff. She is glazed over and introspective. He is very busy managing the new stove. The AGA blew up last Christmas. He is using basic engineering and a thermometer. She is impressed, but worried. Nine hours is such a long time and he seems unable to leave the stove. What if his back breaks down?

Susan! Go and fetch young Stewart and get this garden sorted before the guests arrive….

 

It was Alexa’s fault that she was now turning every cupboard in the house out. In the absence of a digital radio signal, Alexa supplied access to “ Sounds BBC 4 “. Whilst drying herself down after a chilly experience in the under heated bathroom, The Assistant hears dear old Evan Davis voicing a subject that she really hadn’t considered. It was, “What if you die?” The Assistant had spent a great deal of last winter fighting off chest infections and had triumphed. She was not into dying. “What about your family. They could be left with an incredible amount to clear up.” One could not deny that that was the case. She herself had been left with some remarkable things to clear up. As a child in Wales, she had had some training in this very matter. The Welsh family was huge. Each summer there was always a funeral. Sometimes, the funerals were so large that she and her Aunt Lisa had slept on the floor. The house was full to busting. Her Grandmother, now in her eighties was an excellent unqualified nurse. She would fetch her granddaughter when things got a bit difficult with Aunty Gertie and her chest. Various instructions about the positioning of pillows would be given out, and Aunty Gertie would be sorted and back to bed they would go. There was a great deal to do. The house and garden would have to look as grand as could be. The garden would look a total wreck and the Assistant and Stewart from next door would have to set to with huge sets of scythes and all sorts of trimming tools and they would work for days on getting to the air raid shelter at the bottom of the garden. The place would look wonderful for the funeral and this was the place for a proper celebration. She once had to dispose of a grand piano with a hammer supplied by Granny. Family pride was at stake and, like the Queen, it was vital that Granny maintained her position at the head of the family.

Aunt Liza in her WW2 role as a welder

 

The Welsh way of death was very different from the English. In England the tears were suppressed and stiff upper lips were maintained. In Wales the tears were tempered by laughter and much feasting. Being at college was a good way of avoiding these sticky proceedings. When her own children were small, the Assistant did not have anyone very much to help when her mother in law’s sister passed on. With the Photographer away with work, and her mother in law crippled with arthritis, the Assistant would pack little Josie, complete with rag doll, and mother in law, in pain, but wanting to help, into the car and set off for the flat, which,of course, only had so much rent to run. The one roomed flat with bathroom and kitchen was stuffed. There were bits of antique furniture full with reams of paper, some of which were valuable, some which weren’t. Deep in pain, mother in law waded through travelling documents and diaries. She found several music manuscripts signed by Sir Malcom Sargent, used in choral concerts. This aunt was a stalwart of the Petersfield Choir, performing in the Church and the Music Festival. Hence the music. The tiny flat contained 22 chairs, considered as the minimum needed. One for each member of the Choir. There was a load of unwanted table clothes and mats. This poor woman had become blind and the kitchen cupboards were full of piles of spilt food. The Assistant thought that a new bathroom suite would be needed too. The three workers, including poor Josie and her doll, clutching an iced bun, spent literally weeks of spare time in the flat. When a young woman, Auntie Gertie had a boyfriend. He went to WW1 and never returned.

Gertie Caplen 1918. Did some young man die with this photo in his pocket?

Now, back in the warm bedroom, the Assistant knew that she could not put Josie through that again. She and the Photographer set to with a will and the question was, “ Would Josie like to have that? The answer would be, in the end, that there would be a conservatory full of discards for recycling, re-use or disposal, and the work went on. The Photographer on his knees in the roof for two days and the Assistant sorting boxes and boxes of paper. Josie will not have a garden to clear or a grand piano to break up, or someone’s shirts to give away or, alas, anything as valuable as a manuscript signed by a famous composer. She won’t have to, in the end, put everything in black bags to go. She will just be left what is valuable to her. Among those things that are precious to her will be the blind great aunt’s exotic travel diaries from an age when travel was rare and unusual. Among the Assistant’s small collection of items kept are a picture of her Aunt Liza, who had no children of her own, and loved this little half English ragamuffin and a picture of granny, who buried 6 of her 10 children before she died aged 96. She was, though, a happy and stoic soul, who maintained her simple faith until the end.

About the Little Town. We were sad to hear of the sad death of John of the Chagford Inn. As a family, we shall never forget him, because he and Vanessa gave every ounce of energy and care that they had to give Josie and Wes a wonderful wedding reception, which after three years, has never faded in our memory. It was an occasion, which was not expensive, but was full of love and care in this, our community. Great party still talked of.

Dear John……He really knew how to lay on a party. Exactly 3 years ago

Jim, the Artist, has forsaken his shorts for heavy winter clothing with a sophisticated air. Keep up guys. We were sad to hear of the damage that was so nearly inflicted on Jenny Dooley’s horses. She is generally known as a lovely lady. This was mean. Steve Dooley has completed a large work of art, which he has now dispatched. We send greetings to Chris and Catherine at Blacks, who will be busy with Christmas. We were glad to see Colin at Bowdens wearing his long sleeve black jumper. It meant that we could officially feel cold. Castle Drogo has been busy, dressing up for a 1920s Christmas. How lovely.

A final thought. We know it’s cold, because we saw a man buying 6 boxes of fire lighters at Bowdens. Now that is worrying.

 

 

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

The Title “Look at Granny Run Run” belongs to Ry Cooder

Reasons to be Cheerful…..Part 100

With apologies to the late lamented Ian Drury

By the Photographer’s Assistant

Things are not going well in the small Moorland home in which we live. On Christmas Eve our AGA took a turn for the worse after 18 years of sterling service and never being turned off, it complained and hasn’t been right since. Quite rightly, you would think how privileged we had been to own such a machine and you would be right. As I write this, John’s wood is burning away in the log burner, warming us and drying the washing, so things are really not that bad. In another week we should be roasting and baking again. There have been other breakdowns along the way. Could it possibly be that, after such a long time in one place, quite reasonably, stuff simply wears out?

A fire is not just for warmth and comfort. Ask the blacksmith.

 

In our small hilly community, you simply can’t be gloomy for long. You only have to look at the bulging box meant for the food bank, to know how kind people can be. Indeed, only a week ago one of our number, who had developed dementia, went missing. Everyone who was able turned out to find her, The worry was at quite a high level when she was found gracing Bovey Castle, an upmarket hotel three miles away. She was found by the police. Having enjoyed her walk, she was enjoying a nice cup of tea. Locals settled her back into her nest.

A year ago, when the Daughter and Son in Law were really busy, the Assistant found a slow cooker at a really low price and gave it to the Daughter. The Assistant thought that this was a real cheek as the Daughter was very independent. To the Assistant’s surprise, the cooker had really been of some use. Now, the Daughter taught her mother how to use the slow cooker. In the absence of the AGA, meals continued to be made.

Last Monday, whilst the Photographer was looking for building supplies in Bowdens, the famous Moorland Ironmongery that can hold a man’s attention for hours, the Assistant, no longer under surveillance, was ferreting about in the electrical goods department. She had only recently received this month’s pension, and just for once, it wasn’t booked to pay for anything big, like wood for a project, or a trip to the shops. The Photographer was really well occupied. He had just met John, who would be supplying him with some local Douglas pine to clad a new cupboard, so time was of the essence. The Assistant was fully engaged on buying a toaster. She was missing that early morning slice of toast, which the Photographer regards as inessential, especially as they were on the after Christmas low carb. diet, Her eyes alighted on a beautiful RED toaster, This colour could never be resisted. Furthermore, it toasted really fast. None of that waiting to see whether the AGA would actually toast home made bread in time to catch the scrambled egg. Heaven! She popped the toaster on the counter. Meanwhile, the Photographer was still down the corridor. Outside, an Assistant was cleaning one of Bowdens windows with the latest hand window cleaning tech kit. The Assistant and another local were transfixed. It involved a bowl of water and a battery driven rubber cleaner. The two had never seen anything like it. The Assistant cleaned all the household windows herself. She found the large conservatory windows very difficult, but this equipment would save her arthritic hand and miles of time. Wow ! In her head, there was no question. It had to be purchased. The fellow local was of the same opinion, but how much was it?

 

Colin’s magnificent emporium. Bowdens where all you could desire can be found…..eventually

Colin, who runs his store very efficiently and knows every item in his huge store, tried to put the two off. He knew them well and felt that the window cleaning machine would be too expensive for them. He is like that. Only recently he had assured the Photographer that his old vacuum would continue for a while longer. The two insisted on knowing how much it would be. It would be an affordable sum and the two were keen. Colin reluctantly consented to order two after they had assured him that they would not need any extras. The Photographer appeared and found the situation of his nightmares. The Assistant had gone independent and not only ignored him, but had ignored Colin too. The sooner he came up with better ideas for her pension, the better!

He did like the toast when he tried the toaster. It was light and melted in the mouth, but as for cleaning windows that had always been the Assistant’s job. Surely it was easy? He had begun to have his doubts now. Her hands weren’t so good really.

A number of treats had taken the Assistant’s attention away from the crises in the house. Chris and Katherine at Blacks had saved the AGA situation on a number of days. Their shop provided cold mackerel, bread, cheese, cake etc. and the two had some excellent breakfasts there, which friends had joined in as the passed by. John from Hittisleigh, had come in for some shopping on a couple of occasions. They had met his friend from London. Jim The Artist was a regular coffee drinker together with the wonderful priest who officiated at the Daughter’s wedding and recently sadly at some local funerals. Winter will sweep away some of the most vulnerable on the Moor. We are always sad when we lose someone. Noel, the priest was wearing a favourite woolly hat, which proclaimed his lawn mowing ability. He is, apparently, a mean mower of lawns. Just one of his abilities. He also plays bowls and then, there is so much more. You just can’t keep up with it all. We are very lucky to have him. Leave it there.

We had tea and home made Christmas cake at John and Tillie’s. This is an annual treat. As you tackle gardening towards the end of autumn, it is one of the delights that you remember about Christmas. Tea with friends by roaring log burners and fires when the weather closes in is very special. We talk about seeds for the coming season with John and Tillie. We talk of the snow drops that are now just very short, but that will come. The Assistant thinks of Marcus, the spaniels grave, where she planted daffodils given them by a sad friend. Marcus has been dead for four years now, but the daffodils, as if by a miracle, for they are in damp soil and never get sun, multiply year by year and they always flower. Happy memories, but alas, with vet’s bills now beyond us, there will not be another rescue dog here.

Even though they are so busy with preparations for a Burns night celebration and a concert to rehearse for, some friends in Hittisleigh, who are fellow AGA owners, have insisted on feeding us on the day that the AGA is rebuilt. Jim had taken us out for lunch, so we are ruined with kindness. Thank you all. What a place to live if you really want to be cared about. We are all so lucky.

Rudolph looks so sad at the prospect of another 9 months in the pantry. He will have Father Christmas to keep him company though.

So, now the Photographer and The Assistant have a cup of tea with the last remaining slices of Christmas cake and the Christmas Dundee cake. Father Christmas and Rudolph will go back into the pantry till next November

Truly Christmas is over and so it must be Spring!

The promise of Summer…Tomato seeds peek out of the box eager to get on with growing and feeding us.

 

 

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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 RUSSIANS ARE HERE FOR CHRISTMAS

 

Whatever happens in this wonderful country of ours, the mayhem, the stress etc.; in our current situation there is one thing that we Dartmoor residents can depend on and that is the loyalty of the black beaked Russian blackbird.

 

The Russians are here

It is one of the first days of December and the Assistant is going to her garden shed to sort out the stored apples and potatoes. As she nears the ancient Bramley apple tree, she can smell alcohol. The smell is not very distinct, but it’s definitely there. Here, amidst hundreds of rotting apples, the Russians are doing their annual clean up job. They are efficient and rather beautiful and it is good to see their return. Our old friend, Badger. seemed to have given up on the job. As you will all know, he is a somewhat unreliable employee on the plot. He seems particularly reluctant since the fox appeared. Indeed, Badger hasn’t even, to our knowledge, scared the Daughter’s husband by standing silently behind him as he unloads the van recently. No murders have been committed in New Street. No doubt, he will return to his scene of criminal intent later in the year.

The little house high up on the Moor has been bursting with enterprise. Large parcels have been dispatched and successfully received by a beloved niece and dear goddaughter. Sighs of relief all around as this sort of organisation is described by the Photographer as being above his pay grade and neither of us are any good at doing up parcels.

The kitchen had been on the go for some time, actually since the last holiday in Wales. The Photographer had taken over in a big way. When he had seen how much Christmas goods cost, he had a stiff drink and thought of his savings. The Assistant has been an eccentric helpmate. You have to feel sorry for the Photographer as he deals with just that one item missing from the pantry and the total absence of the Assistant. He has given up on her presence as, yet again, he is stacking the dishwasher. Early on, under his direction, he had her picking sloes at a top secret location generously revealed to them by John, their supplier of logs and delicious slices of cake. She kept on about when she was going to have refreshment. Her assistance had been poor and it always cost him a fortune in coffee and snacks. If you will marry someone who existed on dehydrated curries, this is what happens. Anyway, the sloes were underway somewhere in the utility room, stacked next to the other Christmas booze, which, of course, the Assistant had had to taste regularly in case it had “gone off”! He had managed to make his special Italian bread while the Assistant was engrossed in the Guardian. She had been so fascinated with the political situation that he had managed to shut the kitchen door on her. She had been the Chair of the College Debating Society and this was an advantage for the Photographer as when there was a troubling political situation, you could never find her. Much as he loved her, at times like this, it was best to just get on with stuff.

It was Sunday morning and the Assistant descended to make a mug of tea. What a wonderful sight greeted her. Here, on the cold stone floor, under the Christmas tree were two stainless steel bowls, which smelt of yeast. Under the white tea towel there were two rising, swaying hills of dough. The Italian bread was ready. You can speak of Christmas cakes, puddings and turkey, but this was what she had been looking forward to. The pretty Italian bread was so lovely when it was cooked, it seemed a shame to cut into it. The home made puddings and cakes smelt wonderful too. How lucky she was to have, as a young woman, made a beeline for a Cranfield engineer before her strange looks had completely disappeared. She could never have managed without him. All this stuff would have been in a terrible mess. When the Engineer was away once, she had had a melt down while a friend came over to help her pay the bills. She must be of some use. She pondered on this while the Photographer finished making the abandoned tea. They had been given some wonderful china pudding bowls by some friends, which they always used for the puddings and the they were waiting for Christmas together with the Christmas cakes in the pantry ready for icing. Soon the Daughter would arrive with the turkey and all would be ready for the feast.

 

The Photographer’s latest bread recipe

In the garden, whatever happened now, it would be wet for Christmas. This would not not be that hoped for frosty, fire pit weather, but that would come. Meanwhile, there were decisions to be made about the seed order. As promised, oak trees would be planted and other trees ordered. Right now the Assistant was busy in the vegetable patch. This was where she would make her contribution. She had on her best woolly hat and waxed jacket. There was a large cooks knife in her hand and at her feet there were numerous ex mushroom boxes. First, she chose and cut down two stems of sprouts. They were wonderfully green, but slightly affected by the weather. The leeks were a brilliant green. There must be lots of those. They were so useful. There were carrots, swedes and turnips. There was spinach, which she would pick on a daily basis. Great good fortune brought some beetroot. In the shed, she loaded up with potatoes for they would not last much longer. It was the end of a crisp apple supply, and any duds would be put out for the wildlife.

When she reached the kitchen, the Assistant thought of soup and warming vegetables to fill the gap before Christmas. In the fridge there was a large ham from Andy, the butcher. They had done their best and there were mince pies, sausage rolls, chocolates, and all sorts of lovely additions from Blacks Deli. In store, there were even toilet rolls, breaded fish and tea and coffee from the new Moorland Grocery Store. Bowdens, the general store, had supplied some wonderful presents. She stood in the middle of the kitchen and realised that they hadn’t been near a big supermarket for anything and she was happy and content. This was what living remotely was about and she didn’t miss that crush one little bit.

Our new Grocery Store….a very welcome addition

The Assistant put on some of her best clothes and the Photographer brought their muddy car up the drive. They were going to celebrate “ being nearly ready’, because you’re never really ready for the biggest birthday of the year. The lights in the little town gave them a splendid welcome. It is always nice to be home for Christmas. If you can’t be at home. the little town will be waiting with a real welcome on your return, so have a safe journey

A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OUR READERS

 

The Factory Bridge can be a tight squeeze even for locals

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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

FROM PONTRILAS TO THE LTTLE TOWN AT CHRISTMAS

By the Photographer’s Assistant

The little town at Christmas is a dazzling sight. We will all be enchanted by the decorations and its mince pies and cakes. There will be one fly in the ointment. It comes every week and is a cause of some upset and consternation. We have never got used to the large Pontrilas trucks, which now seem to travel in a convoy through the little town, the operative word being “ little “. The trucks will dominate the roads and cause queues etc. They will always just about miss the Chagford Inn sign on their way to collect their logs. The trucks bring us jobs and everyone admires the skills of the drivers as they thread their way delicately through the Italian style parking system, which is characteristic of the area. You will, therefore, be struck by the coincidence of this blog being written only 6 miles away from Pontrilas.

The World’s most Ineffective Snowplough

With its apparent attraction to beautiful places, Pontrilas Sawmill’s major site is on the main road close to a beautiful village called Longtown. The area is situated on the Welsh and English border, right under Offas Dyke and the wonderful, threatening beauty of the Black Mountains.

Currently, the Photographer and the Assistant are on, as it turns out, an extended holiday in Lower Maes-coed, close to the Black Mountains, which dominate the area. Usually, the mountains are a really threatening jet black. In the evening, you can walk to the end of the road and say a goodnight to the mountains and they will glower back at you in the most dominating way. You really know that it is them that are in charge. Forget your own ideas about what you will do. The mountains will tell you, and all the local farmers, exactly what you are going to do, according to the weather that they send you.

Today, we are indoors all day for the first time since we arrived. We are snowed in. We are not going anywhere. This is our third day of being snowed in. Yesterday, we took a walk below the fields, which are dominated by the mountains. There was much activity on the farms. The forecast was for more never ending snow today, so the farmers were not taking any chances with their precious stock. Stock which looked weak were put in any spare farm building that came to hand. Huge tractors rumbled their way along the neat hedge lined fields. The tractors carried the carefully cossited haylage saved for this event. Some of the farmers hammered along the lanes in a panic to get to their next batch of stock. The Photographer and the Assistant were amused to watch a set of cows, which they had been observing for three or four days. They seemed to be a great deal more aggressive than our Dartmoor farmers’ cows. They would line up and call other cows in their large field to see these two cheeky beings, who were daring to actually speak to them. One of the cows, black with a white face, looked for all the world like some sort of Japanese warrior. It was definitely tooling up, its sword glinting in the twilight. We headed for home. We weren’t used to this in Devon. The farmer seemed to be held in complete contempt by the herd, who bullied him, as if he was a waiter in a high class hotel. He could not undo his black bags fast enough.

Somewhere near, there must have been a livestock sale. There was a loud peep, and a massive cattle van appeared around the corner. The snow was increasing and the van was proving to be an empty handful, having just made its delivery, driven by a young woman, whose face bore both consternation and concentration, as she endeavoured to make a safe journey out of the snow.

We have now accepted that we are here for at least two unbooked days, but what a lovely thought. We cannot go anywhere and anywhere cannot come to us. We now have in excess of one foot of snow. (Editor’s note: that’s 30cm for our young reader) Because this is not a built up area, the snow is unspoilt. It is truly a beautiful Christmas experience in every sense of the word. Here we are, perched inches away from nature. The birds fly around the barn, almost tapping on the window as they look for shelter and food. The family, who rent us the barn, are feeding the birds and the birds are cooperatively feeding. The blackbird stands among the smaller birds and they all allow one another to feed. The blackbird knows its craft well. It clambers under the outdoor picnic table and digs for all its worth, eventually getting to the ground, where it may find worms. The ground has been protected by the snow. The buildings are giving off some heat in the freezing atmosphere and the birds stick close to windows and outside doors. They tunnel under the snow to keep warm.

What of the humans? Our hostess valiantly took her 4 x 4 to Hopes, the community village stores and Post Office at Longtown for two days, where she collected milk and newspapers, but today, the road is not passable and the drive not diggable because of the still falling snow. We shall all have to have patience and wait the weather and the mountains out. Today, we had a conference around a cup of coffee. We allowed ourselves a shortbread biscuit to keep our spirits up. We have no shortage of biscuits. There are now two children here, who must be fed and we are eyeing up the options. The Photographer has a piece of gammon, which he had bought for Christmas. The Assistant feels that they should get through the large packet of smoked salmon first. Our dear landlady had a turkey crown in her freezer and thought that it would be nice for the children to have this to eat. She thought that she would defrost it. It had sort of been for Christmas, but it hadn’t been completely booked. We had been drinking our way through some beer, which the Daughter had brought the previous weekend and a bottle of whisky had been pressed into service at bed time, the Assistant being a thoroughgoing Celtic whisky enthusiast on this occasion had paid off. The food would not run out until Wednesday by which time a farmer might have cleared the road. The Photographer and our lady would make a joint raid on Hopes if things improved. We didn’t like to think about things not improving! We still have the internet, electricity and water, so that is such good fortune. At this moment the Photographer is frying up a storm with left over carrots, onion and green olives, which will have cheese grated over it. Watch out Jamie Oliver!!

What of these two wonderfully artistic girls? They are busy praying for more snow of course and you should have some sympathy with this. School is meant to go on until Friday. Shouldn’t the authorities, whoever they are, just give in and declare it the end of term? Of course they should. This is a lifetime opportunity to train for the ski slopes of Switzerland where they might, one day, meet the man of their dreams and find a typical British education of no use at all. This actually happened to one of the Daughter’s friends, who went to a state school and currently lives a very privileged life in a very expensive mansion. We cannot tell you where. She occasionally meets up with the Daughter, who has arrived in London on her economy ticket and has artfully learnt to make herself look fashionably dressed with the aid of Zara! At the moment, having made a wonderful polar bear, the girls are off to do some serious sledging on one of the fields.

Trust me, and look carefully, it is a wonderful bear. (Ipad camera stretched to it’s limit I’m afraid)

Well, this may not be Dartmoor, but isn’t it like 2010, when we all got snowed in for some considerable time?

Just feel for us refugees as we settle down to an evening of smoked salmon and Prosecco and , come on, it is close to Christmas!

A. final thought. We have a friend whose daughter lives in the fire zone in San Francisco. She was due to fly out at the weekend. Please have a thought for those affected by wind and fire, so much more serious than a bit of snow here.

As the Queen would say at Christmas, “God Bless You All!” Oh dear, I think we’ve been watching The Crown too much!

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

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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

A Dartmoor Christmas Card

By the Photographer’s Assistant

It is a Sunday and Colin Smith of Bowdens, the popular ironmongers, is doing his bit for Christmas. He is perched at the top of one of his own ladders, outside the shop, decorating the Christmas tree. He should be having his Sunday lunch, but this is more important! The problem is that in this traditional community nearly everyone else is on their way to Sunday lunch, even if it is a liquid one! Colin is up and down that ladder like an Olympic athlete, everyone wants a chat.

Chris of Blacks, the deli at which we have our now famous Monday breakfast, has been putting in the most tremendous efforts . Anyone who wants to see us about anything now comes and sees us when we are having breakfast, which is lovely and very cheering. Not only do we recommend Blacks for the mouth watering food, but the display is quite simply tremendous. Usually known as a cricket fan, Chris has transferred his skills to climbing, not a skill for which he was previously known, but something at which he has now shown his hand (note to the Dartmoor Rescue team) Chris has put on a huge display of lights, at his home of which any town could be proud. His display looks amazing and the Photographer couldn’t resist taking loads of pictures.

 

Chris does subtle………

At the Birdcage cafe, there is a wonderful window display, It is very traditional, with beautiful white birds, ginger bread houses and some very special Christmas trees. The boys, who run the cafe have had some beautiful white trees made to especially fit their window. If you want to see something pretty, this is the place for a lovely display.

 

A Birdcage stuffed with fine fare. As Christmassy a window as you can possibly imagine

At our social retreat, The Courtyard Cafe, there is the homey atmosphere of a family lounge, and in many ways this is what this place means to so many of us. Here are red bells, beautiful table decoration and the most amazing display of organic food. The Assistant simply doesn’t know which of the display to buy for the family. In the the background, Vicky administers hot drinks, cakes and comfort to her customers. Not for nothing has the cafe got a Taste of the West Award this year. During Christmas and the New Year anyone who has had a rough time or has sadness in their heart can find a sociable and cosy hole here.

 

All good things for the Organic palete, served by the lovely Vicky and all her lovely colleagues

Meanwhile, in the Square, Adam, that well known wizard with clothes, and Vicky, the loveliest saleswoman, have been at work, making the fashion boutique look like something from Oxford Street, while the shop uniquely sells glamorous clothes that will also keep you warm, when those cold Moorland blasts arrive.

 

These boots are made for putting under the Christmas tree…….even a Magnolia

If you want a drink whilst walking around, take your pick. We have four hostelries, all of which will welcome you.

All in all, if you live near, your needs will be met with loving care from a member of our community, and there are not many places where this can happen in that fast paced, largely commercially minded world out there, and, yes, we do know how lucky we are.

Finally, we cannot end this blog without acknowledging the especially terrible plight of our refugee neighbours around the world. Please take time out, even though you are so very busy, to read this poem, which I wrote 11 years ago, since when the plight and numbers of refugees has only increased..

After reading it you may want to donate to the Disaster Emergency Committee and BBC Children of Yemen Appeal

.
A Child Stands

A child stands
Its hands are ivory
Its feet are shrouded
In white white fur
In its hands
A blanched candle

The only noise
None at all

Complete darkness
Envelopes the scene
No star so bright
No small wrapped present

The child is still.
Upright.

Inside the child burns
Orange
The eyes speak of a vast
Betrayal

Not a word uttered
No tears call
But the child knows
It is alone

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

Excitement Over The Holidays

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

It was a Wednesday. The Boyfriend stood outside his front door and was immediately dripped on by the cold flow from the thatch above. He and the dog shivered together. The dog, looked very serious. She stared up at the boyfriend in a concerned manner. Shouldn’t they have taken the van? Shouldn’t they be working on the oak kitchen, which they both had in hand.

She and the boyfriend were walking now. They were going to walk through the woods and this was not as simple as it usual. A giant tree lay across their path and it was so muddy. There were streams of water everywhere. Eventually they struggled out onto the road. The dog became excited, they were going to one of her favourite houses. There might be a ball game.

The Assistant stood at the sink in her pyjamas. She had a virus, which had laid her low. She looked out of the window, wondering why it wasn’t raining yet, instead, the Boyfriend appeared around the corner. This was good, but was there something wrong at work? The Boyfriend looked cheerful enough. He and the dog came in for a cup of coffee. They all had a big chat. The boyfriend wanted to speak to the Photographer and they disappeared off together while the Assistant made a late attempt at getting dressed. By the time she had come downstairs the conversation was over and the Boyfriend had started for home before the next shower. The Photographer was looking slightly shellshocked. He wanted a cup of tea and sat down on his arm chair quite flummoxed. The Boyfriend had asked for the Daughter’s hand in marriage, and the Photographer had naturally acceded. There was a ring and the Boyfriend clearly had a plan. It took the Assistant and the Photographer all day to absorb this news. The Daughter had been cunning and a bit of an escape artist up to now. The parents were a little worried. There would be no excuse for the Daughter as she and the Boyfriend had been together for a long time, but she was very independent and they were worried for the Boyfriend.

A couple of days went past and there was no announcement. They had no idea what was going on. The couple were due to appear on Christmas Day, but they were late. The Photographer and the Assistant sat nervously over a cup of coffee, having returned from church. The Photographer managing to stifle the Assistant’s cough sufficiently for the service to go forward at its normal pace.

There was complete silence. The two were lost in a world of thought. Suddenly, the phone rang, literally off the hook. There was an announcement over the phone. The Daughter was in tears of joy. Of course, she would marry her Builder. The dog had proudly delivered the ring all on her own. She was very proud and felt very important. There were phone calls and internet contacts, and finally, the really happy couple arrived for more coffee and food. The ring was displayed from every angle and it was agreed that it was very suitable.

Twinkle twinkle little star………

 

The Assistant was out in Exeter the following week and casually passed a jeweller’s window. She was never normally interested in jewellery, but, today, she looked in the window. She had not had an official ring herself for reasons of youth and complete poverty and she wondered what it was like to look at them and chose one. She looked at the rings and almost had a seizure. She had done this alone and the Photographer had to rescue her and take her to the Boston for a large black coffee and smelling salts. She now had a full understanding of the Boyfriend’s hard work and was impressed by the ring. The Photographer sighed and wondered about that day 47 years ago when he was so young that a ring was out of the question. The Assistant, however, soon revived, and, casting a crafty eye over the Photographer’s face, wondered if it would be alright to have that new sofa now rather than later on in the year. The Photographer winced and bought them both a veggie breakfast. He had had a secret look at his bank balance. A wedding and a sofa!! That motorcycle restoration would have to wait for another year! The wedding plans meanwhile, progress.

 

Cafe Tables

Of course, over the holiday, the weather was appalling. If there were any gaps in the weather, it was strange to be able to get out. The little town’s river was at its maximum, but it was adequately supplied with run off fields and areas, which absorb water, but there was one night which proved spectacular. The following morning, the Assistant awoke to get the Photographer a cup of tea. The rain was in torrents. She was totally distracted. The outside cobblestone patio was inches deep in water and the porch was inundated. Fortunately, the rain eased up enough to be absorbed into the soak-away and land drains, but it was a frightening reminder of what was going on up North. On the same day, the Daughter rang late into the evening to tell us of the spectacular sight in the little town. She and the Boyfriend (now a.k.a The Chosen One) had attempted to walk the dog, who to it’s credit, was not keen. They had found that the water had broken through the leat in the middle of town. The water was out of control and was running in a torrent down the main street. It was travelling past the local hotel and one of the pubs and was just the most amazing sight. It didn’t flood any building, because it wasn’t lingering on its way out of town. The most extraordinary aspect of the whole display was a medieval sight around the drains, which were full and dispensing large rats out into the town. The very next morning, a local farmer brought his machinery into town and quickly sorted out the situation. If it wasn’t for the local farmers, there are some situations, which would build into a real crisis in our little town.

 

……and the wall came tumbling down

In the village’s main street, a wall collapsed, which had only just been constructed and it was sad to see it’s owner labouring for many days to put it right.

 

We hope that you will forgive a longer blog, but there was so much to tell.

WE WISH YOU GOOD HEALTH AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

 

STOP PRESS: The first lambs of 2016 seen at Blackaton

Spring Lamb 3

Spring lamb 4

Spring lamb 2

Spring lamb 1

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!