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Saturday 8/1/12

We got up and packed, our now overburdened, car once again. So sad to be leaving Sennen yet again, I do it far too often. But the prospect of getting another pasty for breakfast, and the knowledge that were heading to Devon, kept my chin up. I grabbed a “cheese, tomato and basil” pasty from Rowes in Penzance, they were yummy. I should have got two. Ignoring the constant hectoring from Billy that I was going the wrong way, I took the girls on the scenic route to Tavistock. This follows the A390 and A38 to Plymouth, which adds a fuck of a lot onto the journey, but is a far more delightful route, (to me anyway.)

Once, back in the early 80’s the college climbing club, (treasurer, me,)  took a party of climbers from Plymouth to Sennen for a climbing, boozing, and shagging weekend. Several of the more well to do students were driving their “going to University present” brand new cars. Others knew which way tappets and that sort of shite work, and were technically competent at keeping their motors on the road. So me, technically inept about engines, and driving my 1959 Ford Anglia, was the object of some mirth and ribbing. This didn’t do much for my chances of getting laid. What did do my chances some good was the fact that on the way down, every other car had a fault, or a flat, or a fuck up, and I was the only one who made it without incident. In fact, arrived two hours before the rest of the convoy, and had my tent up and a brew going by the time they pulled in. There was much jockeying for seats in my car for the return journey. (I tried to start the bidding at a hand job, but there were no takers.) Un-fucking-believeably, mine was the only car to make the return journey without incident too! The college minibus was pressed into service to collect and tow one car back. I loved that Anglia.

On the route we stopped off at Trago Mills. This was entirely my decision, as I thought it may give the girls a laugh. They did get a chuckle out of it, they hated it, but had a damn good laugh at the obsessive neurotic self-aggrandising crap that the former owner, Bruce Robertson, had put up to commemorate his battles with bureaucracy and the EU. I bought more books there, and we had a brew in the cafe. It’s gone up market since I was last there unfortunately, so stopping there was not as funny as I had hoped it would be. But there again, it was impossible for it to have gone down market

Winding down the road we eventually came in sight of Brunel’s magnificent Tamar bridge. We then had another; “Have we got any change for the tolls” panic. Fortunately we did, just.  

Driving through Plymouth, spotting old remembered sights and places from my student life there, streets and ways I had known and lived on, pubs I had been banned from, the airport I had got arrested at, (I once took a stoll across the airfield, pissed as a newt. The cops were waiting for me on the far side. They arrested me, but the airport owners didn’t want to press charges, I got away with a caution,) and including my old alma mater, was very uplifting. Hitting the Plymouth to Tavi road, and getting our first views of the moors, brought tears of joy to my eyes. Getting stuck on the single track road behind first a van, then a group of suicidal cyclists, then a fucking tractor, also brought tears to my eyes, and made me fuming, but did not detract from the  joy of being there. After all, being stuck behind a tractor is virtually synonymous with being in Devon.

Billy got us to within half a mile of “The Barn,” which was to be our digs for the stay, and by some mental revision of our viewing of it on google maps, we eventually got to the place itself. We parked up, but there was no one around. The door was open, so we let ourselves in and started unpacking our stuff from the car. A guy appeared, hippyish chap in his 50’s, apologised for not being there to welcome us, gave us an overview of the way things worked, and told us to knock on the front door of the house opposite if we needed any extra wood for the fire. This was Chris, our new landlord, him and his wife Ruth lived and farmed the land, here, very nice and accommodating people.

We got settled in. Then we got a phone call; “Oy tosspot, we’re in the campsite in our campervan, we’ll meet you in the pub later.”  Chas and Barbara had arrived. Soon after Nicol and Jenny turned up in their campervan, they were staying with us for the night. It was Nicol’s 75 th birthday that day, and he had arranged for everyone to meet up at the Peter Tavy Inn, which was now our local, to celebrate it. Very kind of him. Ok, it wasn’t actually his 75 th, he’s a couple of years younger than that, but he looks every day of 75. Bethy did a “Rachel” by letting Nicol know Chas and Barbara would be joining us, it was supposed to be a (horrible) surprise for him.

We took a walk down to the pub, the rest of the crew were already there. As well as Chas and Barbara there was Suzie, Nick, Mike, Belinda, Jenny W, Martin, Colin and Nickie, old friends form my raving days. Food was ordered, beer and wine flowed, and  a great night of catching up with folk was done. Perfect venue for it too. It was great to circulate, great to catch up and exchange tales, and to feel part of that crowd once more. (If anyone has photos of the evening, I’d love a copy emailed to me please.)

Bethy gave Mark his birthday present, the one Lee-Anne had bought way back when we were in Swansea. It was an inflatable Zimmer frame. Oh how we laughed. We laughed even more when he attempted blowing it up, and nearly passed out.

Towards the end of the evening, I switched from beer to Scotch, due to me no longer having the capacity for ale that I once had, but still having the tolerance for alcohol. This elicited deep approbation from Jenny; “I don’t know how you can drink that,” she said sniffing it. “Oh that’s nothing, that’s a nice sweet one,” I replied. It was honestly, it was a drop of Welsh Whisky, nutty and mild flavoured. So the next time I went up I got a shot of Ardberg and a shot of Laphrohaig, (in different glasses of course, idiot.) I handed the Ardberg to Jenny, “Now that’s what you call a whisky.” She sniffed it, coughed, handed it to Belinda to sniff, and around the table it went, with all the ladies giving varying amounts of astonishment and incredulity as to; “if that’s what it smells like how does it taste?” Heh, I drank it, then handed over the Laphroig, challenging Jenny to try a drop. She sniffed it, I thought she was going to hurl, but she did try a sip, and pronounced it; “Like drinking seaweed flavoured  turps mixed with alcohol and turf .” Others of the girls were not so complimentary about it. Some of the men were brave enough to try a sip, some even liked it. Hang about? Why am I giving bloody good Scotch away here?

The night was eventually brought to a close, and we all said our goodbyes and staggered off into the dark. Lee-Anne and Bethy took off in one direction, claiming to know the way back. I disagreed with their route, but didn’t argue. I took another way back, carefully guided by the GPS which I had brought along in my pocket. They got to the barn a bit after I did, and covered in mud into the bargain.

 

Sunday 8/1/12.

It was really great to have Mark and Jenny  have breakfast with us, even if we had been woken by Mark doing his early morning exercises while Jenny slept. Good to have the chance catch up without the rest of the crowd around. We made plans to catch up the following Monday. After Jenny and Mark moved on, back home to feed the cat, we made ourselves at home in our new accommodation. It was lovely, the sort of place I want to retire to. One close to a pub. But one downside of the place was that only by standing at the end of the garden and holding our phones in the air on the end of a long pole, were we able to get text messages received and sent. (Thanks again “3 Mobile”!) I got a few cryptic texts; “Can only make it today.” “let us know if ok.” “Will be there at 2.30” Not being an expert on the phone thing, it took us awhile to work out that the Harness family were going to visit us. Brilliant!

They duly arrived, and we got to catch up. Like all my long standing friends, Alan, Jo, and Jack are great to have about. Unfortunately their other son, Tom, wasn’t with them, having returned to Uni that week. Soon restlessness set in, so we took ourselves off to Cox Tor for a walk.

 I had fond memories of Cox Tor, it was one of the main training sites we used when I learned to fly paragliders, (they still use it, look here.)  Many a day I have spent there; falling down the hill, sometimes skimming a few feet above the ground in flight, and usually landing in a sheep.

There was a path, a lovely wooded grove I was later to find out, which led from the Barn up onto the moors, which was about a ten minute walk. So off we set. By the time we got up onto the tor we were in dense mist, and soggy drizzle. In those conditions we could have been anywhere, so much for my memories then. We strolled about, getting higher and more lost by the second. Harness, who is a notorious technophile, pulled out his i-phone and got us a pinpoint GPS reading for where we were. I was duly impressed, and vowed to get an i-phone myself. We strolled down in the direction indicated by his phone, and ended up straight back at the point we had come onto the moors at, very impressive. What was even more impressive were the (accidental) huge cartwheels and muddy landings which me and Bethy performed to entertain people. Both of us ended up  covered in mud/sheep shit.

When we got back to the house Lee-Anne knocked us up a curry, ideal fodder following a day on the damp moors. Alan managed to talk Jo into driving back so he could have some beers, the old charmer that he is. But all good things must end, and so Jack, Jo and Alan, gave their farewells. Before leaving, and on hearing that Bethy would be spending the night of our wedding anniversary alone in the Barn, they invited her up to Bideford to stay with them for the night instead, a chance she grabbed with both hands. (She found the prospect of being alone in the barn somewhat spooky)  Fair play to them, that’s what good mates are for!

Babysitting 🙂

 

Monday 9/1/12

Got up to a clear(ish) morning, with the prospect of a better day’s weather ahead. It was the first time we had seen the views from the barn without drizzle, and looking down over the fields from the digs gave us spectacular Devonshire views all the way down to Brent Tor, with its remarkable church pinnacle.

So a day out on the moors was mooted, and where better place to start than to drive out to Brent Tor itself? We drove there though the lovely back roads between Mary Tavy and Tavi, with; “Ooh look at that place, I’d love to live there,” being a constant and never disputed refrain. Getting to the Tor I was wisely persuaded to change into my hiking boots, the first part of the path looked fine, the rest was muddy as buggery. The walk to the top is unremarkable, but the church of “St Michael De La Rupe” at the top is outstanding, fair play to the devil for ensuring its construction. The views, religious icons, and historical interest up there are something special, you could (and should,) dedicate whole days to exploring. But we had to move on, as Lee-Anne declared herself “starving”.

We decided to visit our old haunts of Haytor and Hound Tor, which would, if nothing else, give us a scenic drive through the heart of the moors. As we approached Widecombe Lee-Anne insisted that she could not go any further without eating. The Old Inn at Widecombe seemed inviting, so we parked up and went in. God it was great! They had taken the old traditional pub and done it up, but done it up in such a way as to give all the modern comforts of a gastropub, without losing any of the  historic charm. The beer was first rate, and the food! I had something called a “larder plank”, which was basically a smooth wooden platter with a large variety of vege treats on it accompanied by great bread, pickles, and other stuff, (obviously this description does it no justice.) For desert Bethy had the best banoffee pie I have ever tasted. The perfect venue for us there and then, though I should imagine in the summer, and the warmer months, it would be heaving.

Sated, (Lee-Anne was now “too full”,) we drove on. The sun had come out, but it was still fucking freezing and windy. Nothing ventured nothing gained, so we walked up the grassy slopes to Haytor. Feeling bold, Bethy and me climbed to the top of Haytor rocks. Lee-Anne, being more sensible, and more full, waited at the bottom for us. There I got some lovely snaps of Bethy, and of the changing light across the moors. This shot is my favourite of the whole trip.

The other two returned to the car, kindly allowing me to stay up there, to have some time to stroll about and be whimsical. Magical place Haytor, some fond memories there, days spent climbing with good mates, and lifelong friendships being forged.

Getting back to the car, I drove us around to Hound Tor. A big disappointment to find Alan’s catering van, “The Hound of the Baketmeals” wasn’t there, but still I’m sure the man has a life outside of catering to me. The light there was still fantastic and more moor shots were taken. I took Bethy and Lee-Anne to see my second favourite climb there. They had seen my first favourite climb there, suspension flake, the one on which Clarkie had nearly killed the pair of us, the last time we had been there. I’m all heart, nothing but exciting treats for my girls.

So I showed them “Aerobic wall,” a stiff little problem (E2 – 5c) which me, Matt, and Clarkie had spent  quite a bit of time on a top rope trying to, and failing to, crack. The first time Nicol saw it, he top roped it first attempt, then walked off and solo’d it. Then he did it again on a rope, very slowly, and showed us; “how to do it properly”. How he got away from us without having his fingers broken is still in dispute. (Though all of this may have happened on “Hostile Witness” at Bench Tor, such is my memory.)

The girls were chuffed when we got back to Canberra, and we were watching “The Hounds of Baskerville”, one of the BBC “Sherlock” series, to be able to spot places at Hound Tor which were featured in the drama which they had recently visited. One memorable shot of Benedict Cummerbitch as Sherlock is him standing atop “Aerobic wall!”

On the drive back to Tavi we had the misfortune to find ourselves in the midst of a hunt. Fuck I hate the hunt scum with a passion! In the past this would have resulted in me yelling abuse, being aggressive, and probably getting into a fight. As I am now more mature, I gave way to them, ignored their thanks and salutations, and treated them with the contempt they deserve. I didn’t even try to throw a punch, I’m above all that now.

Besides, Lee-Anne wouldn’t let me.

We drove on, I had agreed not to stop to take photos unless the view was “truly spectacular”, this I believe, which is also the banner above, met that criteria.

I drove into Tavi, I was under orders to buy myself a decent shirt, and some socks without holes in them, for our meal at the Fat Duck the next day.  We were in a bit of a rush, as it was damn near closing time. I found a posh looking gents outfitters, grabbed a gray shirt which looked ok, and a bag of socks, and hit the till. The guy serving, (obviously a puddle jumper, ) gave me an appraising up and down. “Ok,  yes I do look like a sack of shit tied up with string. I am the sort of guy who clothes would be rejected by Oxfam. But  yes these are for me,” was what I wanted to say, but Lee-Anne was next to me, so I put my bollocks before my urges.

We hit the Tavi Morrisons for food for the evening, and were much pleased yet again, by the cheapness, quality, and variety of food in  the average UK supermarket.

Getting back to the barn, and unloading the car, I couldn’t find my hearing aids anywhere. Major disaster. We turned the pace upside down, twice, I looked in places that even I wouldn’t have been so stupid as to put the bloody things. “Where did you have/see/use/put them last,” was asked a million times to no avail. Apart from six grand going down the shitter, there was the added delight of the thought of everyone yelling at me for the rest of the stay. Yes, I know everyone still yells at me if I’m wearing them or not, but that’s not the point.

 

Tuesday 10/1/12

We went and ate at the Fat Duck. This was such an event I’ve given it it’s own page.

 

Weds 11/1/12

I was up before the other two, and the sun was out shining. I took myself off to Cox Tor again, and had a wonderful time at the old paragliding site, remembering my many injuries and crashes there. As I  associated Cox Tor with paragliding, I had somehow forgotten how picturesque it was up there, or at least how picturesque it could be in the sunshine. This probably due to the pain involved in my past association with the place. I strolled about, got some (I think) nice shots, and took the time to feel myself back in Devon.

On the way back a small chaffinch sat on a wire and sang, (but it didn’t sing the Leonard Cohen song.) It filled my heart with longing for being, well, for being where I actually was at that time. Stupid of me really.

Back at the house the girls had roused and we had a nice breakfast; “How long will it take us to drive to Plymouth railway station?” asked Lee-Anne. “Oh about 20-30 minutes no more,” I replied. However, I replied not considering the vans, busses, suicidal cyclists, and tractors that we would inevitably encounter, nor the fact that traffic has increased fourfold since I lived in Tavi. We set off, the vans etc did impede us, but the views down to Sheepstor and Burrator in the beautiful sunshine compensated somewhat.

We had set off in plenty of time to just miss the first train of course. Frantic texts were sent to the Harness clan warning them of Bethy’s later arrival. They replied that they expected that to happen, as they know I am a twat. Harness invited us over for a meal the next day, so we could pick up Bethy and drive her back, which was ever so kind of them. But we had a big night ahead of us, and Matt Abbot arriving at some indeterminate time the next day, so we had to decline. But we still owe you big time for hosting our girl, Harness family.

We had an hour to kill before the next train, so we drove down to the Barbican, and had a brew at Captain Jaspers. I took some shots which I thought may be of interest to my American chums, the Mayflower steps and other stuff. The sun was shining still, Plymouth Marina looked like Cannes.

After some shopping at the Glassworks, which used to be the fish market when I lived there, we headed back to the station. I felt ever so proud of my girl. There she was in a foreign country, only 16 yrs old, and setting off on a train trip alone, to stay with a family she had only actually met three times for brief periods. She had to change trains at Exeter too, with only a brief gap to get the right one. I’m sure she was less  nervous than we were. Lee-Anne texted her every 3 minutes, until we knew she had got there safely, and met up with Jack.

We drove back to Tavi, stopping only to pick up some…things…

Back at the Barn we set ourselves up with a rucksack full of best clothes, and drove into Tavi. This, as I have said, was our tenth wedding anniversary, a whole bloody decade of being wed, and we were still both full of awe and love. So let’s celebrate it in style!

We’d booked into Browns Hotel, and pushed the boat out by booking a suite with a  four poster bed. We found the hotel, parked in one of the tightest bloody spots I’ve ever crammed a car into, (if you’ve ever witnessed my “creative parking” skills, you’ll know what an event this was.) We booked in, were shown to our room, and very nice it was too. We got dolled up in our finest gear, and went to the bar. We didn’t last very long there before rushing back to the room.

And that’s all I’m saying.

 

Thursday 12/1/11

We woke as late as the hotel would let us. A breakfast was included in the stay, so I indulged heartily. As we were in Tavi our phones had a signal, so we phoned around. Lee-Anne updated her mother in Aus on our fun filled stay. We then got a text from Bethy; “Going into college with Jack for the day, will be catching a later train back.” Oh, so you’re not missing us too much then?

Back at the Barn we unpacked, and decided to take a nap. We were tired, ok?

Fortunately, not until after we had caught up with a couple of hours kip, Matt arrived. Great to see the old sod again, he hasn’t changed a bit. Well ok, he has, he’s now as grey as an old Brock, but there again, so are most of my mates. The ones who still have any hair that is. I’m neither grey nor bald. And I know at least one of you colours your hair, so don’t push me.

We chatted and took the piss and generally caught up. Matt’s a father of two now, and you should hear him, he never shuts up about his kids, who’d have thought it! Despite the intrusion of kids into his life Matt has still kept up his climbing, still leads at E1-E2, and climbs with Johnny Dawes and Ron Fawcett, just to name drop.

We drove into Plymouth and collected Bethy, she had really enjoyed her adventure, and had lots to tell. She had seen the new Sherlock Holmes movie, and was insistent that I got to see it too. She had also enjoyed being the centre of attention at Jack’s college, and feted as Jack’s “real Australian” friend. Questions about many aspects of Aussie life had been asked.

The four of us ate at The Peter Tavy Inn again that night, without getting lost on the way home. Back at the Barn, Matt opened the bottle of Scotch he had thoughtfully brought along with him, we got stuck in. The girls, more sensibly, went to bed.

 

Friday 13/1/12.

 Friday the 13 th? Eek allors! What should we do? Being brave hardy soul, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and risk a walk on the moors with Matt. The girls declined to come, preferring to “chill” back at the barn.

We drove off to Postbridge, Matt had got his eye on a walk in that area. We got there without too much trouble, parked up and set off. Matt is a mountain leader trainer, (I used to be one back a century or two ago,) a qualified guide, and a mountain rescue man. So obviously his map reading would be shite, and he’d need all the advice I could give him. The first part of the walk was pleasant enough, we followed a lane up to the start of the moors, and as it was sunny and cool it was very pleasant. We had decided to follow the course of the East Dart river, but seeing the lie of the land we took the tops of the hills overlooking the East Dart valley. This soon proved to be a mistake, and we found ourselves knee deep in peat bogs. Still it was wonderful just being out on the body of the moor, just the two of us, and back “doing a stomp.”

We bickered and argued like an old married couple over “which is Flat Tor“, where “Fur Tor was”, what “that wood in the distance is,” and in fact, “where the fuck are we?” All good clean fun, just like back in the day.

Matt reminded me of the time we were out on the moor with Clarkie. Clarkie had, probably still has, a very annoying habit while out on the moors. Whenever we were on a stomp he would, after what seemed like just another five paces since the last stop, pull out his map and start taking sightings and planning directions. This not only broke up the walk, and slowed us right down, but when he, inevitably, proved to be taking us in the right direction, was incredibly annoying. Once when a gang of us were out on the moors, and had stopped for lunch, I distracted Clarkie, (I think I got his attention by wrongly identifying a type of cloud, he could lecture for hours on such matters,) while Matt nicked his map, then replaced it. The next time Clarkie opened his map, at least four steps away from where we had just stopped, there was nothing inside the covers but ashes.

He had to go away and calm down for a while after that, I did think it was going to come to blows.

Eventually we decided we had gone far enough, we headed downhill to the river  and followed that back to the car park. Even we couldn’t go wrong following a river. The walk back, though open moor, along a river, and passing some wonderful scenic views, gave me a great opportunity to do some photography. It also gave Matt the opportunity to fuck off into the distance and leave me behind.

On the way back we passed Belliver Tor, ah fond memories.

My first term at college, and I was sharing digs with, and “in a relationship with” a complete nympho, who I’ll call Carolyn, (as that was her name.) One day she invited me out to go “Letterboxing,” I’d never been before. She told me what it was, and what we had to do, it sounded a hoot. So on a drizzly Saturday she drove us out to Belliver Tor, and we hunted for the letterbox, as ever, in vain. We were standing on top of the Tor, when she decided to get a little amorous, I didn’t object. Despite the weather we did the dirty deed there and then, on top of the Tor. (I didn’t mind at all, she was warm, and underneath me.) We had just finished, and I was putting the beast back in it’s lair, when the hunt came around the corner in pursuit of a fox. I was too busy laughing to abuse them. Is it any wonder I love Dartmoor?

When we got back to the Barn, Howard and Janet had arrived from Sennen. Introductions were made, rooms allocated, and plans developed. I must say that our landlords were very accommodating over us having guests.

We decided to eat at the “Elephant’s Nest” that evening. It’s a great little pub, and the beers and food were fine. Interesting mix of company too, though Matt got on with Howard and Janet, and they with him, like a house on fire.  Back at the house the carousing continued, though for some strange reason I stuck with tea that night. Probably due to Matt not having and Scotch left for some reason.

 

Saturday 14/1/12.

We all arose at different times, to a glorious morning. However stepping outside I found it cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. Matt’s car was covered in Jack Frost’s paisley designs, it looked quite lovely.

We decided on a hike. For a change.

We perused Janet’s book  of Dartmoor walks, and found a nice one. It started and finished at a pub, so that was a plus. We drove to the Dartmoor Inn at Merrivale and parked up. After releasing Bethy from a self imposed jail, we set off. The first part of the walk took us down muddy country lanes, all rather beautiful. We got great scenic views across to the, now forbidden, Vixen tor.

I remembered the first time I took Charlie to Vixen Tor, long before it was shut off to the public. In the centre of the crag is a massive split, you can chimney up inside here, right on to the top of the “Sphinx’s Head”. All well and good, we romped up it (it goes at about “diff”.) We farted about on top, and took pictures and then decided to get down. Now you should be told that the way up is totally unexposed, you’re enclosed in a cleft after all. To get back into the cleft you have to slide, or jump over the cleft from the highest part onto the lower top. Charlie refused to do this, despite my reminder that there were was no other way down. Time passed. More time passed. I was stuck, bar calling the fire brigade out to get him off I had no clue how to get the soft Cornish Wally down. I got him to;  “At least try sliding over the gap.” While he was attempting this, eyes shut, I grabbed both his legs and pulled. He slid down, screaming, and leaving half the skin off his back on the rock.

Years later Charlie had to do the same to me, to get me down off Tryfan, so we’re quits.

Soon we climbed the hill to get onto the moor proper. To get there we had to leap a small stream. Lee-Anne made a hash of this, but not as much as Kai, Janet’s dog, who stayed on the wrong side or the stream and howled until carried over.

We strolled through the vast waste and spoil tips of the Foggintor Quarry, and followed some of the disused and removed tram and train lines which used to work there. Eventually we made it to Merrivale Menhir and stone rows.

Once, while at college, and wanting to impress girls, I took a group out “night navigating” in this area. Instructing them in the use of map compass and torch, I confidently led them off out into the darkness. We stomped about in the pitch black, with me in the front all heroic and guiding. After about an hour a voice from the pack  complained; “We’ve passed this stone row three times haven’t we?” Bollocks, I’d been sussed, I was hopelessly lost. “I was wondering who would spot that, well done. See what could have happened to you if you were not alert!” I don’t think anyone fell for it. By sheer chance I spotted a car’s headlights on the road by the pub, and so “navigated” in that direction, fortunately getting them back to the pub before closing time.

We took a load of photos of the menhir, and the stone row, and then strolled back to the Dartmoor Inn. It’s a funny old place this. It could be a real earner for the right landlord, but it looks like it’s stuck in the 70’s. Not that that is a bad thing, but somewhat strange.

On the way  back to the Barn, and my mobile picked up a message; “Al, I’m at the Peter Tavy Inn, come get me.” Pete had arrived. (Unfortunately Catherine had to give her apologies, her dog was ill, so she stayed behind to care for it.)

I collected Pete, and brought him back, more introductions were made.

Matt decided to go for a cycle. The fit bastard. Funnily enough Matt had changed in some respects, despite my earlier proclamation he had not. He was now something of a fitness fanatic, ate vegan muesli, drank soy milk, included lots of fruits and greens in his diet, and had brought his own salad with him even,  he is now something of a health nut. “Fear of getting old,” is my diagnosis.

Lee-Anne made us all curry for tea, and we had a quiet night in the barn on the wine.

 

Sunday 15/1/12

Another cracking day of sunshine, though, if anything, even more bloody cold. We set off on another hike, again taken from Janet’s book. We drove through back lanes from the Barn down into Peter Tavy, and parked at the pub. “I’ll pop in and book us a table for lunch,” I said, “Oh you shouldn’t need to do that!, said someone who will remain nameless. I got into the pub, and a very heavily tattooed, but not unattractive, hippy bird took my booking. “What you doing today,” she asked, “Oh we’re off up onto the moors for a stroll.” “Well watch you don’t get blown off.” I couldn’t resist an open goal like that, could I? “Chance would be a fine thing!” She giggled. I wondering if she was going to offer to oblige. “Last orders are at 2.00 pm, so make sure you’re back in time.”

So we walked on, we passed though groups of small houses, hamlets, and saw more than enough “I want to live there” places. We found the foot path which would take us up onto the moors. Janet found a hunk of granite with some lovely crystals in it. Lee-Anne and Bethy decided to carry it over the moors for her, and slogged on with it. Eventually, I put it in my rucksack. After a while we came to a muddy patch with a swing made of an old fencepost and some hosepipe. By heaving and shoving Bethy was put on the swing and swung. Then Matt nearly caught the spiky end of the swing in his face, “all fun and games until someone loses an eye,” as the old saying has it.

Up on the moor itself though the weather was clear and bright as you will ever see it in the UK, though the wind was bitter. We walked through some industrial spoil, and saw the old Wheal Betsy engine house, which was last remaining, though now not working, Tin mine on Dartmoor.

Once I was at  Wheal Betsy with Harness, who was doing a project on industrial Dartmoor for college. For reasons best known to himself,  he had taken it into his head to, first cautiously, then incautiously, stroll over a disused shaft, his weight supported only on the vines, gorse and brambles which had grown over it.  “Look they’re strong enough to bear my weight!” he procalimed. No, no they weren’t. Not for much longer anyway, and he fell into the hole. I don’t know which hurt him more, having me pull him out, the brambles, or my wet trousers from laughing.

There were two possible ways back to the pub, one took the roads, the other went over the moors and dropped down onto the village and pub  from high above. Me and Matt chose the latter, the others the former. It was a gutting slog, half of it through unimproved farm land. But it was great to be out on the moors again, especially with Abbot. We swapped tales, spun yarns and embroidered old Kilworthy tales. We caught up on old names and half remembered events. We were shadowed for some of the journey by a woman on a horse, and a guy on mountain bike. We’d get to a gate, and hold it open for them, they’d get to the next gate and hold it open for us, and so on we went.

We got roughly above the village, after a brief but heated argument over where we were, we decided to; “fuck it, let’s just head downhill and hope.” We hit a road with a signpost; “1 mile to Peter Tavy.” Sorted! Matt looked at his watch, 15 minutes before food orders finished. We legged it, only stopping so Matt could point out houses in the area in which he’d screwed the then lady resident, back in his Kilworthy days. There were more than a few.

We got into the pub with five minutes to spare. I had imagined that by now the rest of them would have eaten and be waiting to piss off, but to be fair they had waited for us. The girl took our orders, the pub was heaving and food serving seemed a little behind, so we had a bit of a wait. I ordered a pint of Otter, very nice. Very nice indeed. So nice in fact that I was soon into another, thirsty work moors walking. Then I had another. It was then I realised that I had had nothing to eat that day so far, and I was now into my third lunchtime pint. Ah, this is the life.

Getting back to the house Pete kindly made us all a cup of tea, and Matt kindly fell asleep.

But all good things must pass, and soon Matt and Pete had to give their apologies and leave. Thanks to them both for coming that far, and for sharing a little of our holiday, sad partings.

We spent the evening with Howard and Janet, watching “Gavin and Stacey” and drinking wine. There was leftover curry, so we demolished that with a heap of mash, rather than rice. A perfect way to chill after the day’s exertions.

 

Monday 16/1/12

 We got up and Janet and Howard packed up ready to leave, a sad farewell, this would be the last we’d see them for a while, as with everybody who we had visited or had visited us. They drove off, they hadn’t been gone for ten minutes when we noticed they had left the dog’s lead. We tried ringing them, to not avail, no signal. Then Lee-Anne noticed something else even more concerning, her handbag was missing. For the second time in less than a week we turned the place upside down searching for something, and again got no joy. “When did you last see it?,” was asked pointlessly, but Lee-Anne remembered, “Howard had it, he mistook it for his own, no, Janet’s!” We drove to the bottom of the lane, no signal, we drove into Peter Tavy, no signal. In the end we ended up driving into Tavy to get a signal, there we texted Janet. Pete Gillings replied; “I’m not Janet, and I don’t have your handbag!” So we texted the right number, “Nope we don’t have it, just turned our car out, nothing in there. Can we have our lead back please?” Back to square one; “Anything important in it?” I had to ask, “Nothing much. Our passports, plane tickets, two credit cards, several thousand Aussie dollars, insurance papers, flight details, accommodation in London details and receipts. You know, that sort of stuff.”

Shit.

We drove home despondent. Lee-Anne went to get a batch of washing on. Her handbag was under a week’s worth of dirty clothes at the bottom of the washing basket. Phew!

We took a spin through the beautiful South Hams, the sun again was favouring us. We got to Bigbury, parked up, and strolled across the sands to Burgh Island. The plan had been to have a cream tea at the stunning Burgh Island Hotel. Bethy, as you may know is a big fan of Agatha Christie’s “Poirot”, and she had recently watched “Evil Under the Sun”, on DVD which is set, and was filmed, there. It was shut, just for that one day, for repairs and renovations. Bugger. We retired to the lovely Pilchard Inn on the island, I had a beer, and the girls had soft drinks. We had some filled rolls for lunch which we superb. I don’t know why, but I really love the Pilchard Inn, again fond memories, (which I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I’m not going to bore you with.)  We strolled around the island, and made our way to the old Huer’s hut at the top. I took some shots, then Bethy did a little dance, so I shot that too.

We drove into Salcombe, and while the girls did some shopping, I strolled around and photographed some of the sights. We drove around the South Hams again,  I could live there, but it’s a bit far off the moors. We made our way to Mark and Jenny’s, Charlie got there soon after. No Barbara unfortunately, she was up in Leeds making big money. Mark and Jenny had made us a three course meal, which was ever so kind of them. Mark had made his famous “Hommity Pie” for the main course, as we had asked for, nay, demanded, he do so. A pleasant evening was made even more pleasant when Charlie produced, with an inevitable; “Here you go tosspot!” a bottle of “XO Marmite” for me, he’s a big softy at heart!

During the conversation, we were discussing work at the time, Jenny raised a point of near  existential quality; “Could you retire now?” We all chipped in with the various pros and cons, financial considerations, practicalities of our retirement plans, then Charlie took it to an even more existential level; “The thing I missed when I retired,” he said speaking as someone who has retired at least twice already to my knowledge, “is you miss the sense of belonging. It’s not the work, it’s not the pay, it’s not the people, it’s the sense of being part of something bigger you miss.” Putting the joking to one side we discussed this seriously, and he may have a point. So I called him a sad arse, and the night returned to frivolity again. Leaving these three was as hard as ever, good friends, great friends, a rock against my desertion of the UK.

 

Tuesday 17/1/12

 Packing day, in more than one sense.

We had decided, or rather realised, that we had far too much stuff to take back to Aus in our 23 kilos per person allowance. In fact I think our rampant spending had doubled our load. I drove into Tavi and bought toothpaste, teabags and toilet paper, all the “t’s” how very alliterative. On returning to the barn, I was quickly sent back for packing paper, gaffa tape and thick pens. I was shit out of luck on the thick pens, Tavi is too posh for them, three bloody shops I tried without luck.

Back at the house we boxed everything up in two banana boxes, bloody hell, we had a lot! Ok, find a shipper. I remember this being a doddle when I crated stuff over to Aus when emigrating. It wasn’t any more. Having rung round a number of shippers all we could get was; “Well we may be able to, but how much does it weigh, and where is your paperwork?” Exasperated at telling them/asking them; “We don’t know, can we bring them to your office and get you to weigh them and do the paperwork with you?” To which we got polite but firm “No”.

We found online the addressfor a shippers on the Estover trading estate; “Let’s just turn up there and throw ourselves on their mercy.” It sounded like a plan. So we did, and we drove into Plymouth and found the road given, and couldn’t find the shippers anywhere. We drove around for ages without a sniff of such a place. In the footwell of the car Lee-Anne found the bit of paper with our “numbers of last resort” on it; she rang a place down at Queen Anne Battery, and spoke to Lesley. I listened to one side of the conversation, Lee-Anne did her best; “We’re desperate. Please help,” routine, and it bloody well worked. We turned up at Lesley’s office, she was a dream, a brilliant find. She weighed our boxes (20 kilos each) and did the paperwork and organised for them to be shipped. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow with your passports for customs clearance”, she said. Not a problem, though by that point if she’d have asked me to dance naked down Union Street carrying  a banner stating; “I love Sailors” I would have done it.

On the way out of Plymouth I followed a diversion which nearly ended up with us in Dorset.

Back at the Barn we had one of our famous; “Let’s eat everything left in the fridge!” meals, and packed our, still heaving, suitcases. We decided to leave later than planned the next morning, to pay the extra fee, and stuff trying to get the car back on time. None of us really wanted to leave the barn at all.