Summertime…….

By the Photographer’s Assistant

 

Hot and bothered woodpecker

Summertime, here it is, even here, it is too hot. The thermometer reads 33C, it is not very accurate and it’s on the side of the tool shed, but that is good enough. Only mad pensioners, who are old and don’t care, and anyone who really has to earn a living out there is out and about. The woodpecker, who frequents the feeding station, has quite lost his head. He is attacking friends and enemies alike and is in a frenzy of heat. The donkey across the river is protesting loudly. Whatever happened to his lovely breeze. Finally, the free range chickens down by the swimming pool, have gone indoors for the sake of their sanity. Dogs drag themselves out of the river and look mournfully at their owners. They leave balls on the footpath and walk away. They simply don’t care any more. To cap it all, The Photographer, whose study has always been a restricted zone, has commandeered an old bookshelf and is sorting out books and paperwork.

The Photographer, the Assistant, and the Daughter have all managed to go on holiday together, to their favourite place in all the world; St. Davids in Pembrokeshire right bang on the Atlantic coast, where the sea is awesome and only stops when it gets to New York. What struck the trio on their trip was St. Davids’ similarity to The Little Town. The Little Town has the river, not the sea, but the ambiance is similar. This is another rural self help community. The life for St David’s farmers is hard as the wind whips off the sea and we all know how tricky fishing is. As time goes by, the people become more and more dependent on tourism for income, but there are still many examples of small businesses, which thrive despite the presence of a very unattractive supermarket built almost out of town.

 

A mobile Police station…….yes, really!

Our trip took place during the election period, when even this distance from a conurbation, (100 miles past Swansea) the mobile police station spent some time outside the polling booth, making its anti terrorist presence felt. Incidentally, when did you see a police presence in The Little Town, let alone a mobile police station? St Davids is a community, which has saved its senior school from closing. It has a rugby club, of course and a City Hall (aka the Village Hall, but they have a cathedral!) like The Little Town’s, which is constantly booked up. When we were there the craft society were reluctantly making way for the bowls club! Very similar too, was the organic presence in the town, in almost every food shop. Our favourite food outfit was Em and Nicks Bakery van; a shepherds hut with loads of good food and the best coffee. Their breakfast was a “must”. The van was staffed by keen young people, full of good ideas.

 

The very excellent and enterprising Bakehouse

What else did it have in common with the Little Town? It had trouble. Here, where there is a great need for social housing, retirement housing for the over fifties has just been built instead and it is empty. It was passed by the National Park Authority, who are supposed to promote local interests of all kinds. It is beginning to have been empty for a long time. In St Davids, there is a proposal to build a Premiere Inn there, rather than social housing. The National Park are allegedly supporting the hotel proposal, which apart from not providing housing, will take a great deal business away from individual holiday lets etc. Do we really need unelected National Park Authorities, which we actually pay for and don’t always act in our best interests? This is not usually a political blog, but there will be no blog about these wonderful places if they are allowed to die.

Back to St.Davids, where you can walk to Porthclais across the fields, watch the sea, and go to the tea shed. Brilliant! You can go a few miles outside and go to the Blue Lagoon, where the old slate works are slipping into the sea. There are houses here too that the sea will soon reclaim. It is a dramatic sight with nature at work in the most ferocious way.

 

Always a welcome at Porthclais and THE BEST sponge cake and proper good tea…….when can we get back?

 

Abereidy; Erosion threatens a house now perilously close to the edge

The Cathedral in this small town is an amazing place. It is buried right down in the middle of the town, so that you can’t see it from any distance. This was to protect it form the Vikings, who also managed to reach this remote corner! This is the simplest of Cathedrals. It does not have much stained glass, but it has huge windows, which let in the light. Even the pews are not permanently fixed. Every now and then, the pew gaps have to be measured with a wooden gauge because the floor slopes and the pews move, so they have to be readjusted. It is a very friendly place with many interesting bits and pieces about it. If you want a good sermon, this is the place to get one. You won’t sleep through it here. Your bones will rattle and your brain will revolve, especially if you had a good night at The Farmers Arms. Incidentally, The Assistant, who is not a good sleeper, found that simple chime on the hour from the church tower, the very best sleeping draught that you can have.

It was his place so we should end here with St Davids own words. Having led the simple life, and brought Christianity here, even if you are not religious, his dying words were good ones, “Be joyful, keep the faith and do the little things that you have heard and see me do.” The words of a brave and simple man, which suit both our remote and simple communities so well.

The End.
A traditional design of Pembrokeshire gate, now disappearing

 

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

Silence Is Golden

By the Photographer’s Assistant

May is a wonderful month on the Moor. It is not a frenzied month. It is not a demanding month. It is a pause between seasons. On the second Saturday of the month, we restart our trips to Hittisleigh market. This is a small community which punches way above its weight. It is a meeting of good friends, who are easy with one another’s company. The kitchen dispenses cups of tea and bacon butties with the consummate ease of long experience. It is a restful and happy place. From the market you can travel out and have a picnic in the complete silence of the countryside. Our friends always pack a tea flask, so that they can just sit away from the hustle and bustle for as long as it takes to feel at complete peace. The area is deserted. It was hit hard by the foot and mouth outbreak and some fields are still completely empty and the roads are rough and unmaintained. It has become an area of no interest to the hustle and bustle of modern life. We enjoy the beautiful wilds, the flowers, the bright purple grasses. It is what is happening to rural England with increasing neglect and is not all bad. It is rather lovely, but eventually, you will need good boots or a 4X4 to get here!

 

Time for bed….and thank you for the eggs, ladies

It is now 7.30pm and the Photographer is keenly walking down the lane to a neighbours house, where he is looking after their ducks. For him, this is one of the best parts of the day, the quiet collecting and putting away of these lovely animals, who add to the pleasure with a gentle conversation and by giving beautiful eggs for breakfast.

The country lane leading to the little town is full of wonderful flowers. They are all sorts of delicate and beautiful colours and the early morning silence makes for a magic atmosphere. The Daughter discovers sheep on the bridge and makes some hasty phone calls on her way to work. How many town dwellers long for such a hold up. The lambs are becoming larger, but, just for now, they can still be enjoyed.

 

Do you like butter?

The Assistant cannot resist the call to the wild. She has been to the store and found the tent that has been dormant for two seasons. She feels the call of another home far away, which can be visited now, before the major tourist season. She wants to stand on the shore and watch the wide sea, the birds and no surfers! The Photographer joins in. He erects the tent and finds it is still water proof. It is a preparation for the silence of the sea. They will go Celtic camping with the other celts while nature is still in charge.

The little town is in a state of anticipation. Notices are being displayed. Something very big is about to happen. The Photographer will record the event, but first, he wants to record this sense this feeling.The two, who are on foot, make their way along the town roads, over the river bridge and past the most glorious of buttercup fields, which is being enjoyed by every inhabitant that has the excuse to get out there. He can’t resist that photograph, cliche or not. Further on they have reached their destination. The door is locked. Silence reigns, but not for much longer. The Swimming pool is beautiful. It is at the smartest it has ever been, but, just for now, it is unused and perfectly quiet. It is difficult to say how much this place means to this community. Every effort every sinew has been turned to the pools improvement during the winter. Long, long evenings have been spent on the project. This is one of England’s rare fresh water pools. The community has worked to gain funding, so that the pool can now enjoy a little environmentally generated heat, where it had none before. Solar panels have been used to heat the water in the modernised shower block. Friends have come to put in a day’s work. Silent efforts have been put in. The Boyfriend has spent weeks here getting it all right.

The Daughter has put all her marketing skills into getting it the publicity it needs. Andrew has painted the decking. A member of the committee spent days with bureaucracy getting the place a post code, so it could receive its funding. People have baked cakes, and spent hours of their lives until they are absolutely exhausted on this project. And next week it all comes to fruition.
THE REAL CHAGFORD COMMUNITY FRESH WATER POOL WILL HAVE AN OPENING ON SATURDAY 28thMAY AT 2.00 PM. Swimming is free on that day. It is free to children under 9 for the first week. Normal admittance will be £4 for adults and £2 for children. That is the Little Town’s summer sorted. If you can’t swim it doesn’t matter a bit. You can meet other mums with the children. You can read a book and enjoy. Refreshments are available and have a good reputation. Get in there. It’s brilliant. Non-swimmers pay £1.50. If you are on holiday, you are very welcome. Perhaps our friends from the remoter areas will come and enjoy.

 

Soon…..soon those covers will come off and the pool will be open!

 

So, at the moment, we have quiet contemplation. From the start of June, we’ll all have visitors, which is as it should be. When they are impatient and don’t understand lane driving, slow lives and our general way of life, we should try to remember the way life is for them with all its fast and complicated ways. We are lucky and maybe, we should give a little, just a bit to the guys who bring their families up the M5 seeking what we already have. Silence is golden!

 

Footnote

 

Hey!….I’m getting good at these cliches!……”field of golden buttercups hails the onset of summer”…..or just for Paul “potential grassweed trial site”

 

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

Across the Great Divide…..and back again

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

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

 

Mad Magpie

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

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

 

Dewi Sant or Saint David

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

According to our records…………..

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

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

 

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

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

 

Demand for telephony on Dartmoor is not excessive

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

Part of the amazing rood screen at Gidleigh Church

A Brown Eyed Handsome Dog

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

Marcus: A very special spaniel

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

Of Treasured Arrivals and Signs of a Season To Come

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

Last year the Photographers Assistant wrote of this very special time of year. It is a time when many people arrive to breath the fresh air and take time out from techno driven lives. There are many new people in the little town now and they throng about getting their heads straight and recovering from long journeys. We forget amongst the business the arrival of the small ones, the little children, who have journeyed to see loved ones, the chance to see a grandparent, a treasured relative or a parent estranged from their home.

What visiting child could resist such delicious scones?

Many decades ago a small child was despatched in a similar manner literally to a different country. The long school holiday had begun, the child’s mother was ill and had taken herself and her new baby off on a coach to her own parents house. Arrivals and departures, the theme of the school holidays to this day. The older child had been sent to be looked after by her mother’s best friend, who happened to be her husband’s sister. The child had no idea about anything. She had been sent a very long distance on a coach stuffed with holiday makers and women, who knitted and eat sandwiches. They were the Grandmothers coming to help. If you look around the small town today, you will still see the modern version, toiling up vast hills with heavy push chairs. This child is wide eyed and is accompanied by her teddy in a companionable silence. On arrival in a strange land, her only uncle who owns a car toils towards the coach cursing at interrupting his work. He picks up the heavy suitcase and lifts it and the child into the car. The car ascends the most enormous hill, it just keeps going up and up. There is a strange conversation of some sort. The uncle is not used to the child and has none of his own, indeed of all this huge family of aunts and uncles, this child and her baby brother are the only children. The aunt has been pacing and her husband sits out side on his chair on the concrete in front of the house. The child and the bear descend from the car. She is completely occupied by the sight of her aunt, who in her home surroundings, not dressed to visit her mother, is the most amazing creature. She is very tall some of her aunts are, she has coal black eyes. Her skin is gypsy brown. Her clothes are long and are tied down by the most pretty apron. She has curly dark and grey hair that curls enchantingly around her face, a face that smiles a steady welcome.

Many children sent for the school holidays have wondrous experiences and the child was no different. She learnt about wild gardening for instance, which was far from a standard veg. plot. Her uncle was a clever collector of wild food and they would spend many a happy hour scavenging in a chapels wasted garden, returning with goodies to be cooked on the coal fired range. There would be wild berries bursting out of the most delicious pies. Her aunt was the mistress of this range on which all sorts of amazing concoctions were made.The child became an expert dominoes player almost to professional standard and her knowledge of card games terrified her aged grandmother. Her grandmother and aunt financed the stay with judicious visits to cousins and friends, where the child, who unknown to relatives could speak fluent welsh, would be totally silent listening to scandalous gossip with a sweet smile on her face and well behaved in order to produce a half crown piece in exchange for a small kiss upon the cheek. Of course, you know that the child became the Photographers Assistant.

 

Picking the little red jewels

Today is a very special day in a little boy’s weekend. This time the child is Welsh and has crossed the border in the opposite direction to the little girl. He is coming to the little town, which he has now grown to love. He is coming for a stay with his father and his girlfriend. The girlfriend is very pretty, and again, interesting in her strange clothes with her strange South Eastern English accent. Her skin is a rose pink. He gives her the biggest shy hug he can muster. He runs upstairs to make sure all his toys are still there while the girlfriend hovers over the cake she has been cooking for him. She is the Assistant’s daughter and the story begins all over again.

What has all of this to do with the Moor? It has everything to do with it. The Assistant and the Photographer live here, because it exactly reflects the place the Assistant loved most. There are hills to be climbed, wilderness to explore, room to grow food and a warmth that comes with the hill country. The Photographer enjoys the wilderness and could photograph it for ever. This is what can come of those visits from small children, so beware all you relatives and take care with those seemingly innocuous experiences you offer your own small relatives for they could last and influence a whole life time!

So to matters at hand. We are preparing for autumn for we do not know when it will come. Already, after the solstice, we have a freshening air in the evenings even on the hot summer days. All the fruit in the garden must be harvested and squirrelled away. To confirm that autumn is on its way, we have had the autumn phone call from our log supplier. Soon he will come when it is probably hot and you do not want to think of winter evenings. Some while ago, I wrote a poem about his summer arrival and this is it.

 

IT WAS JULY

It was July
And John brought the wood
The wood that smelt of winter

It was July
Drought stricken land
Burnishing heat
No water in the butts
Dead trees
A dwindling stream
No life in the air
Ground cracked wide open

It was July
But we all knew

It was July
We had all seen the signs
The birds on the wire
The moor’s cold night air

It was July
And John brought the wood
The wood that smelt of winter

Copyright Sue Bennett

 

It was July, and John brought the wood

 

Quiet Routines In A Dartmoor Home

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

It is 7.30 and the Assistant is rearing to go. The kettle is on and the noise mercifully drowns out John Humphrys, who is talking about a crisis that doesn’t matter to this remote part of the world, and about which we can do nothing. The view from the tiny bedroom window is simply beautiful. It is going to be the best of days. It is a little chilly, as it always is first thing on the Moor and there is a wonderful blue haze over the hills and the fields. It is spring. The Photographer is hanging onto his sanity, this being too early in the day for him. The Assistant is running down stairs to fetch the ready prepared camera. The dog is harnessed up and the Photographer makes haste. The scene must be captured.

 

 

The little town emerges from sleep into the morning mist

 

While the Photographer is away, the steady tick of the day begins. The radio is firmly turned off and the window opened. The dawn chorus is still on. For all the world, it is like the jungle out there. You can imagine yourself deep in the Amazon …fantastic!

Breakfast is simply toast or yoghurt. Anything else is a treat. Not allowed on weekdays.

Our neighbours have woken at 7.00 and have let their dogs out. Their door sticks and is another announcement of the day begun.

The gate swings gently open on another neighbour as she takes her morning walk, her prelude to the day, a look at the high moor.

Dogs are exercised on the road. There is not enough traffic to bother us.

As the day goes on, newspapers are collected. Those who have outside interests may need to contact offices to move investments about. Coffee and tea is served at the Photographers house,where the happiness, or otherwise of members of the family are discussed in case some support is required. The members, who work outside the Moor often need help of some sort or another. These days it seems to be a really hard life out there. Family members are never safe and heartless irrational stuff seems to happen.

The Photographer has surveyed the garden. More seeds must go in if we are to feed ourselves and one of our daughters. He will fetch the hoe and it will make that gentle trickling noise as it moves through the soil.

In the kitchen, the Assistant washes and prepares vegetables for lunch. The tap is just adequate to run the water and it is spring cool. The water is saved to go on the garden. Conservation is good and the electric water pump is quite costly to run.

The day runs away. Lunch is a pleasant hasty affair. The garden is always the main talking point. It is rigidly planned and thought provoking. The Moor always challenges the gardener. You have chilly drying winds, irrationally hot bursts, water butts of a significant number which must catch the rain. Wild animals are always waiting for their turn for an edible conquest, if one piece of protection is awry they are in in an instant.

The day is good. The gardening proceeds with a hum of quiet satisfaction. We can hear our neighbour over the fence struggling with his second year in a newly created vegetable plot. He has tall erect bamboo beanpoles, which we can see the top of. There will be a feeling of satisfaction when we see eager shoots climbing above the fence line. There is the clip of shears, the pleasant sound of the trowel as more weeds are removed.

 

That’ll do……….now time for tea

It is tea time and sometimes the neighbour comes over for a cup of tea. As a treat, the Assistant will arrive with fresh scones. There will be chatter and a pleasant buzz as we all talk of what surrounds us. We will feel tired but satisfied with what we have done. The dog sighs and stretches himself out in the last of the hot sun.

Fresh scone and cream and jam………….nectar of the gods

 

Our neighbour has returned to his supper preparations and we remain seated in the conservatory. The birds are putting on their evening display. This evening there are three buzzards and one crow just above the garden. The buzzards glide as the crow mobs them, upset over territorial rights. To see three buzzards together is wonderful as wings outstretched they show their patterns off to the world below.

We make our weary way into the cottage. Baths are taken and the day’s photographs studied with both annoyance and satisfaction. Too tired to read, we watch whatever we have recorded or have on the iPlayer. We are like a pair of natives peeping through the trees. We are so fortunate and blessed to live in this remote place, how can we summon up any comprehension of what goes on out there. We must try. We must be connected to the world.

HAPPY EASTER and as the late Dave Allen used to say, ”May your God go with you.”

On a lighter note you may like to know that the dog has after thirteen years, started to watch television. He is very keen on sport, particularly golf, but he walks out of the room during sex scenes, his nose could not be held higher with disgust

On the Road

By the Photographers Assistant

Orkney: a land of water and sky and ice scoured land

There has been a silence, for which I apologise. The Photographer and his Assistant have travelled around 2000 miles within Britain since we last met.

The Photographer had acquired a new camera and had graciously allowed the Assistant a new pen and bought her several new notebooks (some of which usually go missing).

We are situated right at the top of Scotland. We have spent some time on Orkney, where the sky is beyond beautiful and the atmosphere has a dreamlike quality. It is quite unlike its image on television. It is an almost country, not a Highland one. It is far wealthier than you would think. Do not go there expecting any one image to be true. The Neolithic dominates in a peaceful and intriguing way.

Kirkwall Cathedral ceiling; a Viking wonder from 1167

There are many Norwegians in residence there. A great deal of Orkney is more Nordic than you would imagine. It is an island given by Norway to one of the king James as a dowry with a woman, who died before she married him. Being a James, he kept Orkney all the same!

We have, of course, had much to explore. Food has been sporadic, but I can tell you this, the Assistant has not gone without tasting Orkney ice cream and she can contest that it is incredible. The Assistant has eaten five bowls of the stuff (over five days), just to make sure.

If you have never seen Stromness at night, or read George MacKay Brown’s poetry about Orkney, you really need to, even if you do have to sell your granny to do it! This would take you somewhere quite new.

We have now moved to Highlands. The Photographer has filled all his photographic memory cards and the computer with his pictures, some of which will be on Flickr on his return. He has had to have two days off – he can’t take any more dramatic views, they get beyond your perception. Yesterday, at Applecross, the Assistant relieved the situation when she found a typical almost English view. There is a large flat beach there, where the sea goes on forever. The Photographer set up the boiler for tea, and both of us creatures enjoyed a long tea almost as if we were on a Devon beach.

What of the Dog? Ungrateful beast! He has been staying with our daughter, who is quite upset at his lack of loyalty. He has abandoned her in favour of the Boyfriend, and the two are inseparable. Par for the course.

The Photographer is still, when not glued to the camera, investigating wood burner supplies, something to do with “alternative geographic economic theory” based on the availability of alternative fuels. We have seen driftwood from Canada being collected in Orkney, peat in the North West Highlands, wet pine Forestry Commision discards in the Kyle of Localsh, “weed” oak in West Sussex and mixed hardwood on dear old Dartmoor.

It will be another while before our return to Dartmoor, but no matter how dramatic our surroundings, we will look forward to our return to the little town and our own people. The impression of this area of Scotland is that it is even more  remote than Dartmoor. Yesterday, we visited a coastal area where a community was able to live sustainably entirely to itself. There are pieces of land, where just a caravan and a washing line are set up, waiting for croft land to become available. If you have a croft, you can eventually gift some land to a relative (we attended a talk on the subject). We cannot do that so easily. This is frontier land with some civilised touches. This is where the Assistant’s whole Scottish family were forced to flee in the clearances to the U.S.A. and the industrial heartland of Wales. It is a hard country and it is quite beautiful, but it is quite different from ours.

Stromness at night: Feel that George Mackay Brown is just around the corner

The Atlantic Highway

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

The dream destination……feet in the cooling Atlantic seas

 

Flashes of steel, juddering and shivering, pointing west, are on the horizon. If you stand very still at a safe distance you will hear the roar and almost feel that juddering progress.  The heat will shimmer and engulf you. It is awesome, something terrifying and beyond control and it is passing through Dartmoor fringes, the modern touching and singeing the old ways.

For eight to ten weeks, the A30 and behind it, the M5 will become the magnificent and amazing Atlantic Highway delivering a large proportion of the British population to the Western Coast of England. It will totally transform the area. It will bring other ways, other culture to our countryside.

The photographer became totally involved in this great flow when making a casual visit to a relative. Normally, we admit, we avoid it all and wait for it to pass. We sit out the great flow self righteously in our garden. The photographer decided he was right to avoid it all after an Australian threatened to “ punch his lights out“ on a narrow lane.

We were very taken with the highway experience though. We were like a native people who suddenly come upon chocolate or whisky. We loved it. There were hatched sports cars, a sort of Top Gear chocolate selection, Ferraris, Porsches, Aston Martins and some we had only seen on TV.

There were huge gleaming trucks of the American sort, all steel and chrome and metal piping, just glinting in the sun, shining at speed. There were small vans, vulnerable and about to breath their last, with just one last camping trip left in them.

There were pasty vans returning to the factory, where demand is booming.

There were cars, past their prime, with students on board, cars overwhelmed with pillows and folding seats stuffed right up to the ceiling.Who wants to go home to mum and dad when you can travel the Great Highway and use a dangerously old surf board and be a dude who sleeps on the beach.

There were frail elderly people, who would be enlivened by a walk along the edge of the sea. There were people who could stay at posh Atlantic hotels and dream of California, and people who really couldn’t afford to go but were going anyway.

Sometimes, they have to stop on the way. They have travelled from Liverpool, or Scotland, or some other vast distance away. They need the loo, a bar of sweet chocolate, the F.T. or; heaven forbid, they ring the office.

If you’ve got to do coffee……then do it in style

We natives are overwhelmed. We never knew such shorts and clothing existed, or that people could drape themselves around a mate at such a strange angle or that a child could have such fun rolling down the hill at the service station. For a moment all of human life is here, but then it all vanishes. The purpose is to get to the sea, whatever else is going on, its the main and only purpose.

All sorts of transport, all sorts of people ride the Great Highway. I have been to California, an extravagant trip with the photographer. I can absolutely tell you that the great Western Coast will be very much like it. There will be beautiful cliffs and wonderful never ending beaches.The beauty of the blue sea will really take your breath away and you will have had the most amazing experience amongst your fellow citizens on the way.

Keep looking out to infinity for there on the other side of this vast and magnificent sea will be the great United States of America, where some of our ancestors intrepidly set off to, all that time ago. They too were seeking something awesome. We all have to give in. We are drawn to the West whenever we get the chance, so a great big vote of thanks to the Great Atlantic Highway, which will take you there.

This is what you struggled through the traffic jams for………now enjoy!!

The Battle for Spring

Spring Sun fighting Winter

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

Apologies dear reader. We have not disappeared, but been ill. I wish I could say that the photographer and his assistant have had the sort of illness that never gets you, but that would not be true, we have both been terribly ill.

Do you remember being a toddler in the fifties, when the doctor was the only one with a car and  would go on his rounds? He would arrive at your house, be given a cup of tea and a fresh towel and asked to look at you, the toddler. You would have a fever involving scarlet fever, mumps, measles, German measles and all sorts of unpleasant illness. If you were really lucky, the fever would be so high, you would have multi coloured dreams, and be allowed ice cream, which someone would run to the corner shop for. If you were really unlucky, you would have polio like my cousin, who lost the use of her arm. We have been in that sort of state; where your energy deserts you and the strongest person gets an invalid lunch, and resorts to the wine stocks for just one more glass, medicinal, of course.

Enough. While we have been inside for days, we have noticed the start of the big spring battle. We have allowed ourselves woolly hatted and scarved in our conservatory, where the rare sun has been a little more obvious and the wind has driven clouds across the sky before there is chance of rain. The birds are hovering over likely nesting spots and arguing over special places. There are shoots, snowdrops and seed planting has begun. We are daring to plan a holiday. Winter punches hard at the brightening sun. Today, there is a weak attempt at snow, which doesn’t quite come off. Soon, it will be spring, all day and every day. Hoorah!

Living on Dartmoor is like living in a religious order. You have the right to be silent all day if you wish, or you can sit in a cafe and rant a bit. Your neighbours will sit and listen with concern knowing that you will listen when they are concerned. The great material for the rant will often come from journalistic programmes at the BBC. Does David Cameron think we should all wear a string vest instead of receiving our heating allowance? This being an example of the basis for a randomised rant. I cannot tell you what effect the lack of the Today programme had on Monday. You can only imagine.

Dear reader, I shall return next week, The gods allowing, of course.

Daffodil fights to make Spring happen