Breakfast in the Woods

Peter is up with the lark and on his way towards the camping gear. He is going to check it all out for the new season, but he has also got breakfast on his mind. Susan is in the kitchen busily sort out the bacon and eggs. She is buttering one of Blacks rosemary rolls. The bacon smells wonderful. the eggs are large and they look amazing. Peter has arrived with his rucksack. He has a bottle of water and Columbian Coffee. Two enormous apples are being tucked away. A teaspoon and some banana cake follow. Now, the bacon and egg are being tucked into the rolls. The two pile out into the conservatory. Their walking shoes are old, but still good. Their walking coats are old RABs, but Peter reproofs them every winter. They may not be posh, but they do the job. Mugs and their Jetboil are already there. On the seat, where they have been for all of this rainy winter, are some flat soft plastic covered seat pads, so small that they are the last item to be packed.

The iconic bacon roll

The two have locked up and Peter has checked the greenhouse, which is not really needed as the weather is so bad. The propagator has replaced spring sunshine. This year’s vegetables will be hand reared and very precious. Peter hoists the rucksack onto his back and so, ready prepared, the two step off. They are not ambitious for a high Moorland walk today. They are just aiming for The Woodland Trust site, which is quite near. The potholes in the drive are so bad that they are hopping from one side to the other. Peter has maintained this private drive for some years, but he will not be able to do this again and he is worried about it, but there is nothing he can do. Like many roads, it will just have to deteriorate till the rain stops.

Out and onto this familiar highway. They pass a couple of houses and heading towards a huge magnificent view. The green hills dominate our view and for the farmers amongst us, they are their living. This terrific greenness is a super green. It will feed cattle and sheep alike. It will provide many of us with that feeling of being very small pins in the environment. Whatever is going on in life, be it strictly personal or the wars that are taking place, it will all be made very small beside this view of the world. Nature is totally dominant out here.

Past hedges, full of insects and birds, all chattering away. Past fences and ditches. Two or three sheep hide under a hedge and here, where nobody has walked for a while, Before our eyes and entirely unworried, is the tawny owl. Well settled, he just stares us out and eventually shuffles off into the distance. Our own private Springwatch!

Sadly, to our left, a field owned by someone from away. This field was once occupied by a horse, which would spend its days in idle content feeding on the rich grass, so loved that it occupied a well built stable. All empty now.

Now, we pass the back entrance to an up market hotel, where very few locals could afford afternoon tea, let alone a meal. There is a gate with non welcoming signs for those of us who walk by. There are so few of us, the signs seem silly and pointless.

Is it decay or recycling of nutrients?

Now, there is a broken down entrance to a patch of land where the river runs by. It is partly wild with broken down trees, a hut with a makeshift table outside and no person apparent for some long while now. How sad! Many, many years ago, and long before we arrived, this patch of land belonged to our house. We have reason to believe that it was used. Grain bags used to be kept under our stairs and old mice families sometimes try to inhabit the area, just as they used to.
Recently, opposite this area, in such bad weather, a tree fell across the road and it took some time to find out whose this tree was. Decay is a feature of this area. It is both worrying and interesting at the same time. Is this Dartmoor in decay, or Dartmoor, becoming the wild area it once was, full of nature’s own ideas of what it should become?

Too strong for a dog or man

Now, we reach the bridge that is our destination. The wild wild river flows beneath it. In winter, if you let your dog in the river here, you must be strong, have your dog on a sturdy rope and really know what you are both doing. Opposite, there it is. It is one of our favourite spots. It is a Woodland Trust area, Here, is a wooded area of wonderful interest. The trees behave naturally. They are many different shapes and inhabitants. The atmosphere is one of complete peace and harmony. Nature is being allowed to run itself. The shapes and forms are a gift to Peter’s camera. Many happy shots are taken. Peter loves the woods. He was brought up near some woods, where he could play every day. Here, in this wood, there are even some rough paths to help you through.Some kind people have left the odd commemorative seat, but not too many. Peter and I happily arrange ourselves and enjoy our breakfast, content with the sound of the river and the shelter of the trees. If you are here in their season, there are salmon here, but not as many as we used to see twenty years ago.

Simple but effective bridge

Having finished our breakfast, we loop our way back through the lane at the end of the wood. Here, and opposite another bridge and in a large domestic garden stands the heron. This strange, prehistoric looking creature, is quite sure that we can’t see him, but, just in case, he stands on one leg trying to look invisible. There is a stand off, so we move on. We follow a small lane, and up onto the main road. Here, we are in Yarnapits, which is a road junction with a terrible reputation. In winter, it is just an ice rink in ice or snow. It has a mythical reputation, which you really don’t want to be part of. So, on through this area. Water can run down part of this road, but it is not too bad today. On, past fields, sheep, trees and past open common, where there is evidence of a deer run.
In front of us there is a huge communication aerial, which is next to yet another sheep field. So we crest the hill, on our way home. Peter pauses to speak to Mr. Davis and his wife. They have such beautiful sheep that Peter cannot resist getting his camera out. Boosted by this meeting, we are nearly home to a log fire and a hot cup of tea. A day off, well spent!

Well you didn’t think you were going to get away without some spring lambs and a working sheepdog did you?

Readers who travel through on the road to or from Whiddon Down should be aware that deer wonder across this road and they do this in gangs. Please be careful. We were quite shocked when it happened to us, but, fortunately , we were slowing down for a junction.

Words by Sue

Pictures by Peter.

Beware of the deer!

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).

When Thomas Hardy made a Brief Appearance on the Moor.

Jacob

It was tea time up here on the Moor. One neighbour had been to collect her children from school and the other had gone to collect a small child from play school. Ivy, our dear neighbours English Pointer, was stretching her legs ready for a walk, Peter had a crisis in his workshop, which sounded kind of terminal. Susan was lifting the kettle onto the hob and wondering whether there were any biscuits left for Peter. Susan’s eyes strayed to the bird feeder. The scruffy woodpecker was just taking too many peanuts. Things were getting out of hand. Birds were fighting over the bird seed. A patch of white caught her eye. She had another look. A small boy was standing outside her window and he was looking lost. He was very worried too. She opened the front door and he looked relieved. An extraordinary conversation followed. Susan asked him why he looked puzzled and he spoke. He told Susan “ I am the son of ———-and my father is the son of his father, who is ———. I live in the farm close to Murchington, not in Murchington but close to Murchington”. It was an extraordinary frame of speech. The young man was so neatly dressed in a wonderful white shirt and such a tidy outfit that Susan was quite taken aback. He explained that he had lost one of his sheep and had been sent to every turning in the hamlet to check it out. At this stage Peter, Susan’s patient Gabriel Oak appeared. She was relieved to see him appearing in the distance. Peter knew the boy and his father. The boy had his own sheep, but it was one of his father’s that was missing. Peter knew that the sheep had appeared in another neighbour’s front hall, actually inside her farmhouse! Peter went straight up the road to a farm barn, where the boy’s father was looking both mystified and cross. The farmer explained that the mother sheep had taken her daughter on a three day holiday. The mother had an unusual freedom loving background and was used to running her own life. The farmer had not realised that she was not a conventional mother and he regretted the purchase. It turned out that the sheeps’ tour had included much of the hamlet. It is not clear how long their weekend break was, but it was certainly unusual. They had, for instance, wondered into Susan’s neighbours house, where outside their front door, they had taken up quite an acquaintance with Ivy, the dog, always a friendly creature, and the neighbour’s cat, who was always interested in unusual happenings. The four animals were getting on really well, when our neighbours were disturbed by the “goings on’. Fortunately, the neighbours had some experience of farm animals and were immediately on the case. The animals were taken to the field next door, and left there with some other sheep. However, these were not sheep of their acquaintance, so they left the field and wondered off elsewhere, which is how our neighbour found them. The whole incident would have so appealed to Thomas Hardy and surely would have arisen in one of his books! To live on the Moor gives a different dimension to life. The every day here is becoming different from that of many other places.

A trouble maker if ever I saw one

It is July and John is bringing us our winter wood. This is the 23rd time that he has done this. When we arrived here, John came to help us. The far end of the garden was as wild as any garden gets and John and his team set to with a will. They chopped and tidied and John told us of the garden’s history. There had been some walnut trees here, but, over the years, they had deteriorated, died and fallen down. Now, we hoped to plant and tidy and make something of it. John has his roots in this place and he can tell you much about it. He tells of the little town, when even we can’t remember it. He tells of how you could park your tractor in the main street with no hindrance. Life was simpler. Even we remember how, at Christmas, men, who you may never have seen before, arrived in all sorts of farm vehicles. They would alight and every single one of them would be trying to buy gifts for their loved ones. It was a touching scene of sheer desperation! Now, you have to look out for the traffic warden!

In the distance, we can hear the rumble of the tractor and it’s long trailer. It appears, with its load safely stacked. John’s manoeuvre of this load is safe and skilled. He has diseased ash on board. It is all cut to size and the best wood that you could possibly wish for. We feel fortunate, able now to face winter with a warm supply and no incremental CO2 emissions. We have an approved wood burner and dry wood. Out here, where there is no gas supply, expensive oil and in last winter, an unreliable electricity supply, we feel beyond lucky! We haven’t seen John for a while, so we have a cup of tea together and catch up on the little town’s news.

Robbie

We will miss Robbie. She came to the little town and lived at Cranley Gardens. She has decided to move on. She is going to Northumberland, which is a place that she would like to explore. She always had a cheery smile. We hope that she has a wonderful adventure.
We have a lively interest in cricket in the town with cricketing facilities at the Recreation Club. We could not resist mentioning the joy that the English Cricket team have brought. As a child Susan and her father watched the likes of Fred Truman, with a huge tea pot to hand. Not a single over was missed. When Susan had children and they were at school, Brian Johnson and his team accompanied her everywhere. Her father had bought her a transistor radio so she didn’t miss anything. Good old Dad! He must have been up above enjoying all of the Test Match series. What a gutsy performance! That’s more like it! England and the people on the Moor, many about their work with their phone attached, have had some cheer. Well! It’s 6 o’clock. It’s time for The Hundred!

We’re off to watch the cricket. This is not cricket to go to sleep to.

When we are recovered from the rigours of much of life, we will be seen moving wood and watching the sheep over the fence. We are well acquainted with them. Their antics are forever amusing, especially the near boxing matches. A man dared to enter their field on a walk the other day and the most territorial of the sheep actually went to get his boxing gloves out! They are bemused but very rarely amused!

Rampant Ram

Words by Sue

Pictures by Peter

Recommended this month ; Chris Packham’s new series, which is not at all the same as the Watches. It is called, Earth. We are still hoping that some of you will read The Sheep’s Tale by John Lewis-Stempel. The story of our most misunderstood farmyard animal.

Peter’s recommendations are Bearskins by Annie Proulx to understand why Americans don’t understand the European concept of the managed mixed forest, and if you watched “Oppenheimer” then Cormac McCarthy’s last novels (The Passenger and Stella Maris) which deal with the effect on his imagined family.

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

More pictures of sheep that emerged in the search for this blog

Man and sheep in perfect harmony??

“We three sheep from Hereford are” Christmas carol sheep

Explanation: This is a flock of sheep on the Brecon Beacons, being driven back to the mountain grazing. The ewes have been shorn and marked by the farmer, while the yearling lambs still unshorn, accompany their mothers.

Of Herons, Helicopters and Speeding on the Moor

It was, alas, almost the end of Easter. The Photographer and his Assistant stood at the entrance to the back field, where the hamlet’s inhabitants had created a well worn path along the uneven field and down its steep hill to the stream below. They were watching in silence as the blonde head with the woolly hat and the bobbing tail disappeared from view. It had been a lovely day with good food and wine, but it was over. The daughter and her dog had disappeared from view leaving the two alone on the hillside, thinking of what to watch on the telly as they gently snoozed the evening away. All around the hamlet guests had left or were leaving, some to go back abroad, and some to big cities. The whole place had the feeling of desertion and solitude. Never mind, it was only two weeks to the next Bank Holiday. Who knows who would arrive then?

Back to normal and no more food, probably forever, from the look of the weighing scales.

The next morning, the Photographer was surveying the sky for much needed rain when over it flew in the most casual of manners. It was that wonderful throw back to an imagined dinosaur age. We had a heron in the hamlet, flying straight over the houses. What a magnificent sight, not so for anyone with a pond, of course, but just glorious all the same. He was the shape of a modern plane, with those giant legs drifting majestically behind. He appeared every morning for two or three days, flying from the river and on to an unknown destination. He was followed a few days later by a hovering helicopter. It flew around and around. It was out of sight at first and all sorts of thoughts came to mind. Did someone need the Air Ambulance, a frequent sight heading for the little town’s school playing fields, but it wasn’t that. It had gone on for too long. Possibly, someone was missing or injured higher up on the Moor. The Photographer got his long lens out and, there was much relief when the helicopter turned out to be surveying the electricity cables for any faults. An amazing display of flying took place. You just couldn’t take your eyes off it. What skill!

Delicate flying……and all to check our electricity cables are up to scratch

 

Having surveyed the water butts, and giving regard to the bore hole, the household embarked on what was usually a summer occupation; water conservation. The blue bucket was lowered into the kitchen sink and stayed there. Washed hands, washed vegetables, coffee grouts and old tea and anything that wasn’t toxic was now carried into the garden on a rota basis. This water kept most of the plants alive, including the lovely pots of tulips, which had bloomed for some weeks now. Next the Photographer kept a daily eye on the oil tank read out. They had turned the oil off, except for heating the water, some weeks ago, the oil price had begun to be prohibitive. The mark had been on three for weeks, but now, it was down to two. The oil supplier arrived in a day and filled the tank. This tankful had just lasted 14 months, which was pretty economic. The installation by Vince, the plumber, had worked. He was determined to help the Photographer install a condensing boiler system, no matter what problems arose, granite walls etc. He had succeeded and they had gained an extra three months oil usage out of this system. All of this meant nothing to the Assistant, who just loved the steam, which came out of the outlet and reminded her of her obsession with the steam train. She thought that the disturbance was worth it just for that!

Tulip Black Parrot..in the rain

 

There may have been a shortage of rain, but, here was the perfect excuse for all types of work out of doors. Compost, which had been left for a year in its bin was now released and the Photographer turned to with a will. He sieved and sieved, until a cup of tea was really necessary. The two looked down on the compost in awe. Usually, the compost was mainly straw and the clearings from the garden stream Piled up and left for a year. It had never been sifted. They could not believe that the new bin used for kitchen waste, egg shells, waste veg, etc, could produce such a fine product. They decided to bag it up and keep it for very special plantings.

A fine product…….compost to die for!

 

There were some spare tomatoes in the greenhouse and the Photographer could not waste them, so he put them up on the little town’s Facebook page and they were gone almost instantly. He particularly liked seeing a small child and her mother carrying a couple away. This page is the life blood of the town. Everything that you can think of goes on this site.

Next, the Photographer turned his attention to dismantling and rebuilding a new smaller fruit cage on the veg plot. They both agreed that this would be sensible considering their age! They did, however remember various incidents in the cage. The cage, which was supposed to keep out deer, rabbits and birds, did no such thing. The local squirrel and his family would be regular destroyers of the netting, particularly, around the vulnerable edge of the frame. Naturally, any bird could now enter at will. The Assistant, being the most illogical creature on earth, would stand and just scream at the cage. Marcus, one of the most famous local spaniels, was then in his youth, and was severely distressed at the site of his mistress screaming at animals that he could not get in and catch. What was to be done? A friend offered what appeared to be the only possible solution with strawberries now disappearing almost before they were ripe. He offered a squirrel trap. It would be humane and the squirrel would be caught and could be released onto some other part of the Moor. Yes, that was naive, but we were just starting out! The trap was laced and baited with strawberries. Marcus danced about so much that it was felt he could destroy the cage. He was put indoors. A squirrel was soon captured, but it became obvious that anyone picking up the cage would be severely wounded. A fully licensed shot gun was produced by a helpful local, as per DEFRA guidelines, but do not worry, the squirrel bounced about so much that it wasn’t worth letting a shot off. Anyway, we south easterners weren’t used to that sort of practical solution and weren’t keen. It was decided to let the squirrel out in order to have a rethink. The spaniel appeared, having worked his way out to see where his mistress had got to. He gave his mistress a brave look and barked, Leave it to me, and disappeared over the horizon after the squirrel. Death was swift and the squirrel was swiftly disposed of without ceremony. What can we say?! Marcus was always keen to help in these matters. His love of squirrel chasing never subsided. In his old age, he would cry when he missed one. He is buried very close to where the squirrels now roam free. Poor Marcus! Incidentally, he came close to being the Best Dog in the West, but never quite made it. The best dog, when he was alive, was a resident of Wiltshire called Bilbo, a gentle man amongst dogs, not given to chasing vermin and always an adoring and not a deserting animal to his mistress. Currently, the Best Dog in the West is Finn, another fine and loyal dog. You might think that the Daughters dog, the ever glamorous Marilyn Monroe of the dog world, would qualify, but her appetite for anything, particularly whole lemon drizzle cakes, has ruled her out.

Dear Marcus…..squirrel wouldn’t melt in his mouth!

 

We are all hoping that this weekend does not produce the madness of the last Bank Holiday where the speed limit on the Moor was continually broken. The top speed on the monitor was 117 miles an hour. This is not a holier than thou attitude, as you know the Photographer is a devout petrolhead, but hit one of the many animals frequently sleeping in the middle of the road, hit it fast and you are dead. That means the Air Ambulance has an unnecessary call out and lots of people are sad. Please be careful! That said, have a happy holiday, out there in the wild, perhaps take a walk with Dartmoor’s Daughter, not to be confused with our very own “The Daughter” whose main preoccupation is now raising funds to help the Chagford Swimming Pool open on time this season.

Watch this space for more news on The Pool

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 Princess and the Peas

By The Photographer’s Assistant

We are having a special day. The Assistant is getting the Photographer a cup of tea. He lifts a foot into the open air and replaces it under the covers. It’s a bit chilly and it’s only 6.50 am. The Assistant is busy in the kitchen. A very special visitor is coming. The visitor is very glamorous. She is silken and has a pale delicate complexion and wonderfully pointed nails. The air of royalty will be all around. The Photographer stumbles into the kitchen. He is dressed and ready for a croissant and cheese. Any minute she will be here, all glitter and silvery show. She is late. They are worried. Around the corner and up the drive comes the chauffeur driven car. She emerges and bounds up the drive to shake hands with the man. The daughter waves as she drives past on her way to work. The guest bounds into the house and greets the woman in the kitchen. She is so enthusiastic to see them that she is beside herself. Yes, she would love a quick ball game in the garden and she delicately helps with the vegetable collection, disappearing now and then to say hello to her fans.

Zany, the rescue dog has arrived for the day. Her usual carer, the Boyfriend, is in London, fitting a posh bathroom and the other carer has to earn dog biscuits and bones in Exeter. These people, somewhat more elderly than her usual carers will have to do for the day. Boring! A chance, however, to catch up on one’s beauty sleep, ready for her next engagement.

Bread……and by suppertime half of it was eaten!

 

The Assistant has collected beans and courgettes for lunch, which she will stir fry, mix with a tin of tomatoes ( Spar’s best bargain ) and cover in a cheese sauce and bake. A lunch mainly from the garden. Raspberries have been picked for tea. The Photographer has made two rustic loaves, which will last the couple quite a while. Back in the garden, the tomatoes have been inspected and there is worry over the variability of the weather. Blight has already arrived in the potatoes and the haulms have been cut off. The sweet peas, however, are like jewels shining in the damp weather. The threesome adjourn for morning coffee. Zany slips away to spend an entire morning sleeping in the conservatory, getting that sun tan so needed by a leading celebrity.

 

A box of good things to eat

The Assistant is catching up on podding peas and beans with Zany. She is also listening to, and watching five episodes of Gardeners World. She is relaxed. Zany is busy being a watch dog, barking at the washing machine man, who has just arrived next door. She turns lazily over and goes back to sleep. There is a large red sofa in the lounge, but she can’t be bothered to move. She is dreaming of her glorious outfit for her carer’ s wedding, which she will grace with her presence. She has told them nothing less than a glamorous hair-do with a gold ribbon will do. She supposes the Assistant will find one, it’s the only sort of fashion item, to be honest, that she can be entrusted with. Look at her this morning! Well, actually look at him too. Has anyone ever told him that his hair could do with a trim? Life is hard. Zany wonders if this May woman will have a dog to add a much needed hint of glamour to Number Ten, it is so needed. Who needs a cat for goodness sake!

They are having dinner now. I ask you! NO meat! They are on about a visit to Castle Drogo when they haven’t got me. He is going to have a venison burger and she might have the same. They are going to look at Grayson Perry’s tapestry. He thinks he might be allowed to take a picture of it. Pearls before swine, my dears. She is really looking forward to walking to the 600 year old beech tree and he thinks it will do them good after they have looked after me. They will need a peaceful walk! I ask you! I could have given them a really good six mile run. That’s what would do them good!

A wonderful piece of art. The more you look, the more you see. Amazing

Hello! She is getting up. Don’t say we have to do bird watching again. They are both thrilled that they have two juvenile wood peckers that come and feed close to them outside the front door. They watch it through the glass. It and the tits. When the woodpeckers aren’t in the porch, they are on the phone pole outside. I can’t see them. Apparently, I disturb the birds. Scruffy looking creatures! There, I do agree with Coco, the cat next door. They are only fit for a good sandwich my dears. They are the thugs of bird world. On that theme, thank God that I’m not staying the night. They have enough rooks and crows to stock the whole country. The noise in the morning is dreadful my dears. They love it. They think it’s wonderful. They actually open windows so that they can hear it. The last time that I stayed here, I had so little sleep that my fans didn’t recognise me for the wrinkles As for their television watching habits, I thought I would die. I don’t know about you, but how many nature programmes can you watch? If it’s not nature, they scare themselves with the news. Reporters zoom up outside posh houses and they have this look. You know the one where their eyes stick out and they tell you there isn’t any money, especially for cadgers like the elderly. Who cares! I’ve got my biscuits!

Woodpecker of the week!

 

My God, at last I’m allowed in the garden. I’m off. I’ve had a good sleep. I can get through the woods into the little town and off to London. I can’t take another round of dead heading the roses. I need to see my carer. I need some proper meat. Out of my way you country bumpkins!

Sadly for Zany, this last was all a dream. When she woke up, the Assistant was looking down on her clutching a pair of pruning shears.

 

Tailpiece

 

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

The Closing of the Door

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

Time to hang up the watering cans

 

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

South South West at 33,000ft

 

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

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

Torbay or not Torbay

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

 

Note from the Editor

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

Spring Madness

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

This morning the Assistant awoke at 5:30. The Assistant opened the little window wide to see, to her relief, no frost as the first morning bird arose. She believes that it is the nightingale. Its song is trill and it is always the first bird to rise, excited as it sees dawn and unable to maintain its silence. By 6:30 the noise outside the window is incredible. A cat can be heard rustling about in the undergrowth, looking for the first snack in its day long breakfast. Exactly at 7:00, a chainsaw starts up across the river. Goodness help you if you want a lie in at this time of the year, but the work must be done before winter. In the mist along the river, less than half a mile away lies one of the most expensive and exclusive hotels in Devon and the Metropolitan inhabitants are having a rude awakening to Dartmoor spring madness. Dartmoor, in the late spring, is, quite simply, full of frenetic activity. So long have the inhabitants been locked into barns, cottages, and warm clothes that the release is almost too much.

In the surrounding countryside various sights have been seen. Men are stripped down to virtually no clothing ( Poldark had better beware ) as they fight vast swaths of undergrowth. Women appear in skirts revealing legs not seen since last year. There is a general collecting of wild flowers and nearly every dwelling has vases stuffed full of hedgerow delights. Wild garlic is harvested and preserved ready for the winter. Wild garlic pesto is available in some village stores. Rabbit appears on country menus and men go into raptures as they taste the delights of the first rabbit pie of the season.

In the little town, people who only appear in late spring have begun to arrive, cars burdened with housefuls of summer clothes and town provisions. If you have been here all the winter, now you must get up early for your bread and paper, or the incomers will have them.

The shops are almost uninhabitable as spring shopping begins. The two local general stores are cued out from dawn to dusk. Inhabitants need chainsaw oil, strimmer cord, a new saw to attack any job, outside paint to protect buildings from fierce winters. Grow-bags for plants and bamboo supports are almost bound to run out. Camping gear and fold up chairs are in great demand and one store will even order that certain lawn mower for your circumstances. The visitors stand in the middle of this mayhem. They cannot believe the depth and range of goods that can be bought. There are saucepans and kettles mostly for kitchen ranges. There are coats and wellies, all types of country clothing. Local builders come in for the odd bit and piece. One lady is seeking the winter underwear catalogue. Many people have only seen this type of store in a classic TV drama. Talking of TV stars; you may be surprised at who you see, but we have a local rule that they are treated like the rest of us, and they like it that way!

 

All you’ll ever need for life on the Moor………our treasured Bowdens

At the little town clothes boutique, some beautiful clothes for summer are on display, and the male assistant is busy helping ladies with choices of colours. After a drab winter, vibrancy is required. Many outfits will be needed for weddings and the assistant is willing to spend any amount of time helping women to chose the best. There are no discs with numbers given out here. The customer really does come first. Weddings will be booked for what will hopefully be good weather. Indeed, some weddings are already on and the parking warden is having a field day as the new town car park has not yet been built.

In the deli, it is all about choice, especially with so many Devon cheeses and puddings on display. Customers are spilling out onto the pavement.

Out in the countryside, there are parties and meetings among neighbours, who may well not have seen one another since the autumn. Cakes are made to entertain special friends and the little town wine shop has been busy supplying every type of drink. The little town has a hotel and three pubs offering accommodation and on the warmer late spring nights inhabitants drift out onto the pavement.

There are a constant stream of events and soon the town swimming pool, with its own natural water supply will be opening. During the day, you and your child will be able to swim and at night, you will be able to party.

If you are coming to Dartmoor now, you will find the quiet reflective period over and you will need to be fit and energetic to join in.

So what of the Photographer and his Assistant? They get up very early now if they are walking to town. The walk is a sleepy one. It is early and they can still get breakfast at the Deli. They load up with their provisions and walk home in time for coffee. If their daughter is about, she will join in the breakfast. They will meet friends in their favourite cafe. They will buy a steak at the butchers shop and a good bottle of wine in the wine shop. People from away will visit. They will enjoy their garden produce. Above all, they will wake excited about the day ahead keenly aware that they are plain lucky to have another day in the place that is as close as The Assistant can imagine to paradise on earth.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, may you have a wonderful late spring and may your God go with you.

We have included a few entertaining pictures of the little towns election fever. The turn out was high and some of the sights had pathos and humour.

 

All political views are welcome in the little town

 

 

 

Maybe next time…….

And the Little Red Van……..

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

The Photographer sat with his back nestled into the sofa. It was 11pm and he had missed the news. He had turned to the BBC 24 hour News. He had vaguely heard that there had been some shooting in Paris. He had an old friend who lived there and was seeking clarification of the arrondissement in which this shooting had taken place. The news appeared to be very serious. He and the Assistant had only just missed being in the Guildford pub bombings. and the memory was vivid. The Photographer was desperately worried, so he concentrated hard on the report, however, after five minutes of news, the Photographer drifted off into an exhausted sleep unable to concentrate any longer. This terrible event overshadowed the day.

The two had had what turned out to be a lovely day. There had been a reluctant trip to Plymouth to collect the big car, which had some repair work done. They had enjoyed a bit of a dream about a next car as they drifted behind copious amounts of plate glass, whilst being attended to by a customer care person. A never ending supply of coffee was on hand and the Photographer, with his engineering hat on, had asked the sort of questions a Formula One engineer would ask. Experts were called from all directions. Nothing had been too much trouble. The Assistant had been glared at by an overweight customer with enough jewellery and make up to supply the whole of the little town. The Photographer was ecstatic at the 106 p/lt price of petrol at the supermarket.

Riverford showing that Organic doesn’t have to be scruffy

 

From Plymouth the two had drifted in their big car bubble to that marvellous organic emporium, Riverford, where egg and bacon sandwiches were consumed, and the flour supply for home made bread had returned to normal. The Photographer was ecstatic again. He made the decision to take the Assistant, still smarting from the glare at the posh garage, to the Devon Guild, an activity which he always felt was dangerous. Here the Assistant was allowed a new soup bowl and a salt container for the pottery set which she had been collecting for some years. The Assistant was happy, The Photographer relieved. The day was going well.

Next, was the final call of the day. Safely back on their Dartmoor haven, the two took up an invitation. The Wood Man’s wife was home writing her next academic paper, and she had invited them for tea. Waiting on the table was a special Christmas cake, made by the Woodman himself, it glistened with snowy icing. The Woodman arrived home and we all enjoyed tea and first class catching up.

In the evening, the Daughter and The Boyfriend arrived with the new dog ensconced in the mobile kennel that Marcus had once enjoyed, and a satisfying chicken and ham pie was consumed. A good day. Hence the Photographers exhausted snores amidst the carnage of France.

So to Christmas, which was much as nice as this trip.

The little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

This all seems a bit smug, but it isn’t meant to be. Christmas, had, after some years, gone well. There had been one snag, the phone had died and BT had decided that repairs would not take place until long after Christmas. The internet, never at its best out here in the country, began to wave about unpredictably. The Pay as you Go phones were fine, however.

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

The Photographer maintained contact with family and friends without a word sworn. If it came to it, he simply got in the car and went to see people. Was anyone bothered about an area like Dartmoor losing services?

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

The Architect and the Ballet Dancer threw a village party, “which couldn’t be beat”. The gossip and wine flowed in equal measures, and an artist daughter returned from her travels produced a mouth watering selection of food.

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

The Daughter and the Boyfriend had been terrific over Christmas, coming and going, making a slap up meal on New Years and appearing often for tea or a chat. Their black and blue cars kept trundling up the lane no matter how busy they were. The Daughter had actually dragged her parents, screaming and shouting at being wrenched from the fire place, to the seaside and a wonderful walk and lunch. We felt spoiled.

 

Sunset Surfing at Saunton Sands for the New Year

There was a lovely carol singing around a Christmas tree in the little village, where we attend the monthly market. The warmth and friendly welcome with mince pies and mulled wine were so typical for this tiny Devon community.

Christmas Village Matters

 

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

Christmas Eve in the little town spent with the Daughter and The Boyfriend was a delight. The Church bells rang out at midnight and there was magic in the air.

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

Christmas saw a gathering of friends and dear neighbours, who brought much fun to the proceedings. Boxing Day was simply a blur of sleep and good wine.

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

In between New Year and Christmas, the little town community coped. Some shops were open, some were shut. We missed our coffee shop dreadfully. Like a determined warrior, the tiny Spar shop soldiered on, some shelves emptied immediately, but there were enough supplies to feed anyone who had fallen short. Another cafe was beautifully decorated and was short of a member of staff when we were there, but that one member really worked her socks off to keep us all happy.

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

What a wonderful New Years Eve, spent in a cosy home in the tiny community, everyone sharing food and wine and good conversation. How kind it was for this lovely couple, who had had a difficult year, to share this event with company.

And the little red van trundled up the lane and delivered the post.

The simple kindness of friends and neighbours had made this season a truly memorable one for us all.

It is with great sadness that we learnt of the death of Joe, who brought great pleasure with his music, and of Dave, a good farmer, who died too soon. Our thoughts are sincerely with their families and fellow villagers, and of course, the friends and families of the Charlie Hebdo victims. The Photographer and his Assistant remembered with pain the loss of their own fathers so many years ago at this time. What a mixed emotional time Christmas can be as we all go forward into the New Year.

And may your God, whoever it is, go with you.

By the way, the little red van, that simple old fashioned delivery system, is due any minute.

A Dartmoor Sunday

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

 

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

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

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

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

Our wonderful moorland church

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

Still not “right” but at least no power cables

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

Home and Chapel for a solitary medieval monk

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

Walking and talking

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

A Brown Eyed Handsome Dog

By “The Photographer’s Assistant”

Marcus: A very special spaniel

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

 

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