For the third time in the space of about a week – I have experienced another flash of Schiaparelli Pink.
My first flash occurred whilst at work – when a book came into the shop for recycling called ‘Bluff Your Way In Literature’; as quick as a flash I bought it!
It’s a complete god-send if I’m to make any impression on my learned Yaffle friend – a Professor of Literature no less!
Not impressed!
Although who’s bluffing who? It wouldn’t surprise me if clever Yaffle himself hasn’t got a copy close at hand – sandwiched between Spinoza and his other 5099 odd books – and that our friendship is really all one double bluff!
Upon the velvet wings and striped back of a very beautiful Moth…
I found her on the surface of the road basking in the soft orange glow of a street lamp – clearly unaware of the danger posed by passing cars – or my impending clodhopper!
No harm done – I picked her up and let her go into the warm night…
A confession. Because I’ve never followed fashion – or once flicked through the pages of a British Vogue magazine, I’d never have known about the famous couturier, Elsa Schiaparelli – had it not been for my learned friend mentioning her signature colour in one of his illuminating emails. This post would have just been called ‘something’ or ‘other’…
Nor would this ephemeral beauty – an Elephant Hawk-Moth, be forever remembered by me – as ‘Elsa’.
Sheepstor when viewed from base level – rises to a formidable bank of granite blocks – in contrast to the green, easier slopes around its sides…
On Sunday 11th. June 2017 – surmounting the top of Sheepstor’s wall was less demanding than usual because it had been dwarfed by a mass of towering cumulus… View from the top of the ‘wall’….Similarly dwarfed – as if by a mercurial shadow of its own making – expansive Burrator Reservoir appeared like a small sheet of mirrored glass…
As I stood into the wind – the effort of clambering up the steepest ‘path’ to the top of the wall seemed suddenly effortless – the 360° view was breathtaking. In contrast to the fixedness of my feet – my perspectives shifted around me – like the wind and the light across the surface of the water… After drinking it all in whilst enjoying a snack – I was delighted to find some old bones that I had once made into a ‘magic pile’… I found them locked in a crevice – down the side of the rock where I had piled them last year…
When eventually I came back down – I felt dizzy on oxygen – so I sat under an inspirational Hawthorn where I noticed the year turning too…
I stayed here for another indeterminable – indefinable measure of time…
I love this pulsing track by Amethystium – and their awesome artwork too! I feel like I’m connected to Dartmoor by a silken thread…enjoy.
What an unpredictable start to June – and not just the weather! It was awesome to stand on the top of Glastonbury Tor on Saturday 3rd. June 2017 – and watch the gathering storm over England. Back home – a thousand or more white rose petals from the Albéric Barbier that rambles the railings outside my home – are now lying in drifts everywhere – as snow in June…
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date –
Let there be Light. Breathtaking stained glass window in ‘Holy Trinity Church’ Skipton. Archangel Michael slaying Darkness. I especially admired his blood-red wings.
A visit to the Brontë Parsonage in Haworth – followed by a journey through the landscape of Wuthering Heights as identified by my eminent host and genial guide for the weekend – Professor Christopher Heywood.
On Saturday the 20th May 2017 – I stepped over the threshold of the Brontë Parsonage Museum in Haworth for the first time ever – it was a long-held wish come true for me…
A wish come true.
It was the oddest experience, because I had gone with an expectation of imbibing something of its former occupants – as if the three Sisters were going to be in for my visit! On the day – it was my experience that the Parsonage was devoid of their presence – hardly surprising as they vacated the premises more than a-century-and-a-half ago. It had that same kind of emptiness – that feeling I get – when I step into my late father’s ‘Golden Room’ in the early hours when the rest of the house is sleeping – and I expect to see him in some shape, form or other. It always feels like the optimum time to feel or see something of him – yet when I fling back his door as if to take him by surprise there’s nothingness staring back at me. Hardly surprising as I know he went out through the window soon after he died – and he has no need to comeback in – so I really shouldn’t expect half to see him – but I do! What is especially silly is that my head knows that those that have passed on transmute into Nature – and that’s where to find them…
In fact, I believe it is more likely to be the other way round – they come to you – in shapes that sometimes you won’t even recognise as being them…
Emily, Charlotte and Anne in that order. Three graceful swans on the Skipton to Gargrave stretch of the Leeds Liverpool Canal. We enjoyed a beautiful evening walk of about four and a half miles along the towpath.
Don’t get me wrong – I thoroughly enjoyed my wander through the suitably gloomy and shuttered rooms of the Parsonage – and peering at the priceless collection of Brontë artifacts behind glass and rope. Like the treasures though – the Brontë Sisters too were not able to be reached in the now draughtless but necessary atmosphere of the Museum.
A timeless moment in Haworth Graveyard.
Not surprisingly – the elemental quarter of Haworth was to be found in the graveyard – with its slippery stones, dripping trees, dandelion clocks – and blessed Rooks; blessed in the true sense of the word that is. I picked up three ink-black feathers that had fluttered down from up above…
Rook’s nest above Haworth Graveyard.
I finished my visit with a pleasurable mooch around the museum gift shop where I bought two fridge magnets and some postcards – but I have to say my greatest souvenir is my entry ticket itself – because of what it represents to me. Finally, I have walked inside the Brontë Parsonage Museum – it was a pilgrimage that I had wanted to make since watching ‘The Brilliant Brontë Sisters’ with Sheila Hancock in 2013 – but time, responsibilities – plus the usual everyday lack of funds had meant that it was always put simmering on the back-burner until now.
Coming away from the relative peace of the Parsonage…
Due to it hosting a 1940’s event centered in the main thoroughfare – 21st century Haworth was teeming with a merry throng of jubilant people – apart that is from me! It was something I had no desire to join in with; all much too exuberant and out-of-step because it didn’t fit in with my idea of time – nor place.
Haworth – as a sea of umbrellas on Saturday 20th May 2017.
There was singing in the rain…
and dancing in the street outside ‘The Cabinet of Curiosities’ – Haworth.
Even the church of Saint Michael and All Angels was spilling through the ‘open’ door; there were stalls set-up in the main aisle – while teas were served in the pews! Needless to say – I retreated fast into the rain drenched sanctuary of Haworth graveyard again…
Almost enough noise to awaken the quiet sleepers in the vault. Detail in Haworth Church.
Seemingly it had been an ‘ill-timed’ visit…
In this day and age – I don’t think it is possible to catch Haworth on a quiet day – as the Parsonage is one of the most visited heritage sites in the country attracting thousands of visitors a year. Mine had been an impromptu visit – if I’d known that Haworth was hosting an event I would have chosen another time. Originally I had penned-in Sunday as the day for a visit to the Brontë Parsonage Museum but as fate would have it – my Saturday visit freed up Sunday for a journey of a lifetime into Emily’s true landscape of Wuthering Heights as identified by my friend and host for the trip – Professor Christopher Heywood – or ‘Yaffle’ as I have fondly nicknamed him! He has taken to calling me ‘Yaffle’ too – and insists that I’m ‘Yaffle A’ to his ‘Yaffle B’ – he even gave me a double first too for something I forget now…
Having shamelessly never bothered to read Wuthering Heights or the Professor’s edition of it – I’m not really worthy of his esteem but one thing I have learned from him is ‘never argue with an academic’!!!
Metaphorically we are at two ends of a spectrum, connected by a huge, invisible arc that we identify as Emily. To me – that is how Emily comes; I mostly see her as Light. As well as in the form of an occasional Swan, Raven, Hawk, Owl, Deer – stone, feather, leaf – the list goes on…
On Sunday – we set off over the border into Cumbria – to a remote village called – Dent. En-route we stopped at Thorton in Longsdale to admire the windswept church of St Oswald’s. Beyond the churchyard wall – we looked towards the great whale-back of Ingleborough – the very hill that Christopher Heywood has identified as the setting for Emily’s one and only novel – Wuthering Heights. In his edition – Ingleborough and ‘Wuthering Heights’ are the same. The sensitive and poetic manner in which the Professor effortlessly imparts his vast knowledge of the subject – flows out of him as if he’s painting another of his beautiful watercolours – or picked up his violin to play again. Just as I found Yorkshire’s dramatic landscape impossible to take in all in one visit – so too was this steep learning curve in grasping the greater complexities of the Brontës. It’s like doing the other ‘Yorkshire Three Peaks’ challenge without an ordnance map; particularly as I hadn’t arrived at the Brontës through reading their novels – or the Professor’s book, instead – I discovered them through their art.
A collection of all-seeing eyes that caught my eye in the Bronte Parsonage Museum.
The Professor has a gift for infusing ‘his’ subject with a dynamism that the confines of the Parsonage Museum just couldn’t compete with. It was no wonder then that my spine tingled right there in the shadow of one so lofty; Ingleborough and Christopher Heywood are the same.
One Man and his Mountain. Professor Christopher Heywood looking towards Ingleborough.
The writing on the wall. Bronte Parsonage Museum.
One day I’d definitely like to head to Haworth again – to experience it on a quieter day…
I love the way the Professor wears Ingleborough as if Nature has placed her own Oxford cap upon his head. It’s a crown befitting someone who has spent thirty years researching the Brontes. Deepest respect + love dearest ‘Yaffle B’ for showing us an unforgettable time – a weekend of yafflin ‘n’ laffin and of discovering new heights; Emily’s Heights. ‘Yaffle A’ X
A big thank you too to my other companion – my son Tom. Gatekeeper on the rolling road to Dent.
St Andrew’s Church – Dent.
Just one Dales keepsake. A criss-crossed stone from the banks of the River Lune. The lines reminded me of the patchwork of stonewalled fields while its overall shape reminded me of the greater landscape – of the Barbon Hills, of Ingleborough and that other great whale-back that often came into view – Pendle Hill.
Along with Haworth – Pendle is ‘just’ over the horizon for my next visit up North to the unforgettable Dales…
Back Home.
Posted on the 28th May 2017 – and dedicated to my very special Aunt Sonia – whose birthday it is today. X
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Where my interest in the brilliant Bronte Sisters began in 2013 – all thanks to Sheila Hancock; her enthusiasm is infectious! Enjoy.
This is an epic short film, breathtaking to watch —— ‘This is: INGLEBOROUGH’ filmed by Connor French and Darren French. . .
Monday – 15th. May 2017. Cockchafer or May Bug. Latin name – Melolontha melolontha.
Almost home after a late night walk in the drizzle with my son – I found a beautiful, bronze-coloured Cockchafer crawling on the surface of the glistening, wet road. Because of its perilous position – I gently persuaded it aboard my hand for a quick ride to the sanctuary of my nearby garden. What a giggle!
As it slowly tickled its way up my hand towards the cave of my sleeve – I found myself laughing-out-loud much to the disapproval of my son – who told me to keep the noise down – “People will think you have been drinking!” – “Put it down!” He snapped. What he didn’t understand was – I couldn’t easily flick the Cockchafer off into the garden because they have barbed legs – so I just stood outside my house on a dismal May night and laughed – while my son grew evermore impatient for me to get the front-door key out my pocket with my freer hand. Too distracted by the Cockchafer – I couldn’t find the key – so he had a rummage in my pocket which just made me laugh louder! He did reluctantly agree to take one photo with his phone – before he disappeared inside his own sanctuary – away from his embarrassing ‘drunken’ mother.
His fuzzy photo will serve as a reminder of quite one of the most delightful – as well as side-splitting encounters with Nature – I have experienced. Because of insecticides – Cockchafers are sadly much rarer these days – but I can remember throughout the 60’s and 70’s – the golden era I grew up in – when ‘May Bugs’ were a familiar sight and sound in the countryside – and bedroom! This however, was the first lifetime opportunity that had presented itself for me to hold one…Held in the hand they are fascinating as well as super ticklish on bare skin! Its impressive pair of feathery, orange feelers instantly reminded me of Dennis Healey – a memorable Labour politician from the same bygone era.
Eventually ‘Dennis’ grew tired of tickling me half-to-death and decided to buzz-off into the sticky night air. What a lovely sight to see the Cockchafer slowly open its back – before spreading a fine set of golden wings. I just stood and watched in awe as it rotated upwards above me – like a small helicopter – and I fancied I could even feel a small downdraught blow over me as its whirring wings carried it away into the enveloping black; really quite magical.
Writing this the day after – as the rain pours down outside my window again – I’m reminded that it is the merry month of May!
A May photograph of my own. I just love this black heart reaching for the light. Black Bryony aloft a Devon hedge – Sunday 14th. May 2017.
When one person’s junk is another’s treasure – and the other way round. A post about the cyclic magic of working in a charity reuse shop.
Left on the shelf! There are some items that no one wants – not even for the bargain price of 50p!
‘Lady Downtown’ – as Val – one of my favourite customers called me. A frilled cushion re-purposed into a rather splendid bonnet!
I love my job working in a recycling centre; for a magpie like me – it is such an interesting and fulfilling place to work. Occasionally one has to handle unsavoury things that one would rather not – but that’s a small price to pay for its rewards. Rarely a working day goes by when I’m not reduced to eye-watering fits of laughter at something that’s been brought in for recycling. It’s rarely the item in itself that’s funny but the combination of ideas that it sparks between us…
Wednesdays are always a guaranteed giggle when first mate – Sallykins volunteers for the day…
Makeover magic. A pair of slightly more flattering hats!
A tired old pram gets a new life…
With wheel re-affixed – Lady Downtown’s love child ‘Trevor’ gets an afternoon out in the fresh air.
In an effort to dress the pram – we dressed the ‘baby’ in a romper and paired them together. They certainly afforded plenty of admiring glances throughout the afternoon but alas no buyers. On more than one occasion I found myself bouncing the handle of the pram – like he was real! I have no idea why I named him Trevor – it just popped into my head and stuck – perhaps he once belonged to a boy called Trevor? Unfortunately, Lady Downtown wasn’t a good mother – and she left him outside in the yard at home time and by morning he’d been kidnapped – ‘just’ Trevor not the wonderful, vintage pram!
He was too adorable!
The other side to all this hilarity – are the things that can reduce one to real tears. Not literally you understand – because I’m not given to that sort of thing – but often I come across something – that makes me stop and think; a quieter moment in an otherwise busy day. This week it was a falling apart bible with an inscription in the front – it belonged to Ethel – whom ever she was? What I loved about it were all the little treasures that were pressed between its pages – a petal, a fern frond, a strawberry leaf – and a number of pretty foil sweet papers – even a cellophane wrapper that had been re-purposed into a holy cross.
Ethel’s Bible of treasures.
Page turning itself – caught by that other unseen energy – the Wind.
As I flicked through the pages – I wondered at the significance of all these priceless yet worthless things and what they all once meant to someone called Ethel – that she should have preserved them so carefully in the holy book. Perhaps they served as simple markers to the text – or maybe they were reminders of special occasions – of Christmases and birthdays – and of days roaming the countryside and picking wild flowers…
So many of the things that pass through our recycle shop – are things that once belonged to people who have passed on themselves. I myself have not long cleared out some of my father’s things – all perfectly good and reusable but no one in the family wanted to keep them – so I donated them to our shop. While going through his books I found another bible of a kind – an old volume called ‘Wayside and Woodland Trees’. Drawn by its title – I stopped sorting his things, to look inside…
Found again – Dad’s lucky four-leaf clover.
There like Ethel – he had put-by a treasure for safekeeping. Inside, folded in a scruffy piece of paper – I found his lucky four-leaf clover now faded and tatty with age. I remembered how much these four, small, conjoined heart-shaped leaves meant to him – the childlike belief he invested in them, especially when he was diagnosed with terminal illness in his late eighties. My father loved walking over open green fields – he could climb over stiles and gates and walk up steep hills without ever stopping – inevitably though – his circles got smaller and smaller as his illness got the better of him. In the end I don’t think it was cancer that killed him but confinement – in that sense hope predeceased him. I kept his book and its precious contents and wondered whether luck can be bequeathed – I hope so. To be able to roam freely and to pick up things that can only be found is luck enough for me…
Like this bejeweled buzzard’s feather – found in April, in the snow, in the dark – in Shedland.
One of my all time favourite television shows – has to be Bagpuss! I love the ethos of Emily’s shop – and now I’m lucky again – to be living and working the dream! There’s a kind of magic – an unseen energy – that’s attached to all the things that pass in and out our magic door. It’s easy to believe that even the unwanted ornaments on the shelf come to life once we lock up and go home at the end of the day…
How else could one ever explain how they came to be so artistically arranged?
An episode from Bagpuss and Co – not about small white elephants like some of those on our shelves but a pink one made of straw!
Listening for Skylark while turned towards the setting Sun. Leeden Tor – Dartmoor Tuesday – 2nd May 2017.
The second day of May – was one of those crystal clear Dartmoor days when my eyes and ears led the way – while my earthbound feet just dragged along somewhere behind…
The living and the dead. Trees reaching for the Sun in Ravens’ Haven – Dartmoor
My visit started with a wander through my favourite Dartmoor wood to see if the Ravens were in – and whether they had produced any young this year. It always seems to be that the beginning of May marks the time that this pair’s offspring – if any – usually fledge their swaying tree-top nest…
Oh for a bird’s eye view! How I’d love to be able to look down into their swaying tree top nest.
From another earthbound angle.
” Cronk Cronk” One of the adult Ravens on parental duty. (If you enlarge the image by clicking on it – you’ll see it’s in full cry – a beautiful din!)
I arrived in the afternoon amid a flurry of raucous noise – the two parents were frantically flying back and forth the length of the wood – keeping close tabs on a fine pair of youngsters that had clearly not long discovered they had wings. I was in my element. I could have sat inside the wood – and listened to their cacophony of deep throaty ‘cronks’ until sunset – it was sweet music to my ears! I stayed in their company for a couple of hours and managed to snap my best Raven shot ever!
What with the trees – combined with a Raven’s speed – it’s almost impossible to capture a Raven in its haven…
I’m thrilled I got this shot though!
Walking back to my car from the wood – I was delighted to get that wished for aerial view of a bird’s nest – not a Raven’s but a beautiful nest nonetheless…
Abandoned nest in the Gorse – all bar one brown oak leaf from Winter past…
Then it was onward by car and upward by foot to Leedon Tor for sunset – where I laid down on the moorland grass and lost my earthly self. Slowly – one by one – all my senses shutdown until I could only listen…I think it was the nearest to Heaven I’ve ever been.
Love Shed Hunting. It’s not just about looking down – it’s about looking up and all around and listening…the birdsong at eventide is sublime.
It is my experience, late April heralds the time of year when Red Deer cast their magnificent antlers; they cast not only their antlers but a magic spell – that holds me in thrall until I find one – it is a Quest.
There is no way of knowing exactly where or when an antler will fall because they fall at will – but it is the expectation and excitement of finding one that’s addictive; I say expectation because you have to believe that you will find one.
Every evening this week – I have disappeared for a couple of hours or more into the forest I call ‘Shedland’ – in the hope that I’ll find a cast antler. There is nothing more exciting in my eyes – than that first moment of recognition when suddenly I realise what I’ve been searching for – a huge, branched beast of an antler! Tuesday – 18th April 2017 was my lucky day – and it came right at the end of a two hour shed hunting session when day had almost descended into night. Suddenly five beautiful, glowing white tips lying on a muddy bank in the darkness stopped me in my tracks – their tracks. I waited until my eyes fully opened and acclimatised to what lay in front of me – it ‘s a magical moment that I often play over and over again in my mind – it is so powerful. Before picking it up – I took a photograph of it in situ…
White in the darkness – moment of recognition.
I say ‘always’ – I have only ever found three – two whoppers in 2016 and this beauty. It’s what makes all three so prized. The odds are I won’t find a shed antler because they are more likely to be cast over a huge area of thicket that’s impenetrable to mere humans – thank God ‘my’ four boys have sanctuary away from people with guns. These are truly wild stags.
My boys! I call them the ‘Four Stags of Yggdrasil’.
A freshly cast antler provides a great calcium source for many nocturnal animals too – foxes, badgers, mice – and the deer themselves enjoy a wholesome gnaw and nibble – so I’m deeply grateful when Nature leaves one for me. I know the date that this antler was cast because I covered exactly the same ground the night before.
They enjoyed a bit of a gnaw!
It’s like finding magic! It measures thirty-one inches from its pedical to it’s tip.
Yes!
Casting a magical shadow. Bringing my prize home under the orange glow of the street lamps.
When finally I emerged out of the forest – I carried my prize all the way round another three miles on the road – it was a perfect excuse not to get home too early and put it down – even though it’s got a good weight to it! I stopped off in the church yard – to show it to my Dad…
Old habits die hard. I still like to show him my finds!
Showing Dad my first find. ‘Yod’ an eight-point cast antler in April 2016.
I placed the antler on his plot and sat awhile next to him. I listened to the owls – and thanked the stars above. They were shining over the church more brilliantly than I can ever remember…
I didn’t really want to come back in – I was so happy!
From earth – to earth.
Yod and Son of Yod – my other ‘pair’ of cast Red Deer antlers.
My three cast antlers have all been given names – my first is ‘Yod’ – my second is ‘Son of Yod’ – and this year’s find – is ‘Yaffle’!
‘Yaffle’ because it’s got a ‘Y’ at one end – a huge ‘E’ at the other – and in between there is a small white mark on its trunk-like structure where the wild animals got to it before me – it looks like a Woodpecker’s hole! ‘Yaffle’ is a country name for a Green Woodpecker. It all makes perfect sense to me!
Deer Yaffle! From muddy bank 18th. April 2017 – to crowning a cushion of Daisies in my garden – 21st. April 2017.
One of the fun things about having a grown-up son – is being taken out for a spin in his nice motor! On his visit home this time round – he surprised me with a newer model. I have to say – I was rather sad to think of his faithful runner abandoned on some faraway forecourt in Kent but I’m sentimental about cars – where as he isn’t – to me they hold memories. I give them names – he thinks I’m potty! His latest car is ‘Ravena’ – not just because it is black and it can fly – but because it has a bonnet that reminds me of a Raven’s beak. His former car had a front grille like a Great White – so I named it ‘The Shark’!
Goodbye ‘Shark’ – Hello ‘Raven’!
Monday 10th April 2017 – marked my maiden flight – or voyage – drive in ‘Ravena’ – a day out over the border to Dorset! Our first port of call was the county town, Dorchester – and as always with me – I sought sanctuary from the brightness of the day inside a church – St. Peter’s. Inside it was cool and quiet while outside the town hustled and bustled under a clear blue sky. I bought a perfect postcard in the church to send to my beloved Uncle Peter and his faithful lion-dog ‘Sir Winston’.
Peter loved his card – and made a couple additions of his own!
The postcard is an engraving of one of two recumbent medieval Knights that can be found sleeping on the sills of the Church’s beautiful stained glass windows – together they add a lovely feeling of peace and sleepiness to the atmosphere inside the church – especially on a Zun drenched afternoon in April.
Bathed in “Zunsheen”. Memorial to one of Dorset’s own great literary sons – poet and writer William Barnes near the steps of St. Peter’s Church – Dorchester. He was born in Dorset in 1801 – his collection of pastoral poetry is written in Dorset dialect; so it’s Zun not Sun in Dorset! William Barnes died in 1886.
From the glow inside – and outside St. Peter’s Church – it was onward to Portland Bill Lighthouse with a bought picnic from M&S in town…
On our arrival – I was thrilled to be greeted by a familiar feathered-friend perched on the gable end of Portland Bill lighthouse; the clever Raven was expecting me!
“Cronk Cronk” went the Portland Bill Raven. One only need compare it to the seagulls to recognise its impressive size.
Images from the Head. The Portland Bill Daymark: a Portland Stone obelisk erected in 1844 to warn shipping. Also my lucky find at the very tip – a Hag Stone!
A Hag Stone is simply a stone with a natural hole through it – but it is a whole lot more besides! To read more about Hag Stone lore – just click here.
From Portland Bill we cruised along to Chesil Beach…
Chesil Bank viewed from the high road coming back from Portland Bill…
Footbridge over the water to Chesil Beach…
Watching the Moon rise from the footbridge…
Listening to the drag of shingle…
A walk along Chesil Beach at sunset – is a ‘Kickerbocker Glory’ of sensory delights complete with a raspberry-ripple topping.
Here we enjoyed a walk along part of the World Heritage Jurassic Coast – and although I didn’t find any recognisable fossils – the experience was as old as Time itself – or as timeless…
‘Boys’ will be boys! It wasn’t all peace and serenity though – a couple of times they needed chastising for lobbing the occasional pebble at me – but most of the time they were good ‘Boys’!
To one side of the long strip of beach – April’s Moon rose like a huge orange – while on the other side – the Zun melted to a glorious raspberry-ripple-pink over a serene sea that just rumbled ‘n’ rolled the shingle continuously into shore – and out again…
Shingle on Chesil Beach keeping rhythmic time on our visit. There is also a ‘pay and display’ car park that’s 24 hrs a day – seven days a week!
My ‘Saturn return’ stone!
Among the millions – I found two special stones on Chesil Beach – one was a super-smooth, heart-shaped stone for a special man called, Peter – and the other was a small pebble for keeps; I have named it ‘Saturn Return’. To read about the astrological meaning of ‘The Saturn Return’ simply click here.
Speaking of return – it was all too soon time to journey home in the darkness to Devon having thoroughly enjoyed our visit to warm, Zunny Dorset.
Goodnight to the ‘The Guardian Cormorant’ who stands at the ‘gateway’ to Chesil Beach.
Finally, thank you to Archie – for chauffeuring us on our two-hundred-mile round, impulse trip to Portland Bill – we set off in the afternoon – so thank God for the lighter, Spring evenings! I look forward to our next outing – when I can’t promise not to ‘litter’ Ravena’s smart dashboard with stones and feathers again – and fill her roomy boot, with its once spotless interior, with more kindling twigs for the fire; he’s a tolerant son and a most excellent driver!
My all time memory of riding shotgun in Archie’s former car – ‘The Shark’ – was at Longleat Safari Park in Wiltshire – when he was overtaken by a ton or more of speeding Rhinoceros!
A beautiful pair of Ravens etched in glass in Walkhampton Church – Dartmoor.
As the Raven flies – Walkhampton isn’t that far from my favourite Dartmoor wood – so a walk to both made a perfect April pairing. First off – I enjoyed a quiet amble through Ravens’ Haven and almost immediately stumbled upon treasure – or leftovers! A second squirrel’s skull complete with two sharp yellow teeth…
Skull and crossbones.
Spring clean!
I think the Ravens had been Spring-cleaning as the skull, plus bones and numerous pellets were scattered beneath their tree-top nest.
A handful of Ravens’ leftovers.
A little further on through the wood – I picked-up another treasure – a Witch’s hat!
A dried, blackened Toadstool – or frilled Witch’s hat!
All the while I was searching the woodland floor – the pair of Ravens were searching me…
Raven watchtower.
Not wanting to crick my neck – their exact position high in the tree-tops was difficult to pinpoint at times – but by following their distinctive call I was able to track them around the wood. My ‘Raven’ isn’t very good but they did allow me to join in their conversation – probably amused – or bemused – by the fool on the ground who tried to talk their talk!
Raven!
Eventually it was time to move on and leave the Ravens in peace – and wander over to Walkhampton Church with its fairy-tale tower…
Four over-sized pinnacles silhouetted against a darkening sky. St Mary’s Church – Walkhampton.
At around sunset – I would have expected the church to be locked – but as luck would have it – the door was left on the latch…
Bringing the outside in. Etched on glass – Ravens, Ponies and Granite Tors inside Walkhampton Church.
As well as its impressive church – Walkhampton boasts another equally impressive shelter – its surprisingly comfortable bus stop!
If ever you are passing through Walkhampton – it’s well worth a STOP!
I finished this visit to Dartmoor – with an impromptu stop on B3357 betwixt Foggintor and the Staple Tors to meet up with my tousled haired friend again…
My luckiest find of the day.
Homeward bound. A perfect end to a visit full of simple pleasures…
Including a lungful of early ‘May’ near Ravens’ Haven – aah.
I rarely visit Plymouth – even though it is so close to Dartmoor – in fact I’m more used to viewing the ships in Plymouth Sound from afar – from the area around Sheepstor. I’m too much of a country mouse for the big city!
A colourful maritime window that caught my eye on Plymouth Barbican.
Up close – Plymouth is as monumental as the great Tor itself –
Monumental Plymouth. (‘image’ can be enlarged by clicking on it!)
although some just can’t tear themselves away from their mobile phones no matter what the wider picture!
I was snapping a shot of Plymouth’s iconic Smeeton’s Tower down on the Hoe – and they just happened to be in the foreground.
Ruins at Foggintor on a suitably fogbound day. Sunday 19th. March 2017
It was while passing by the ruins of Foggintor Quarry – on Dartmoor – that I received my name Raven – as in Raven Bean. The Beanies are a walking group that I used to walk out with once in a while – everyone had a prefix name to ‘Bean’ – and mine was ‘Raven’. It was when a lone Raven flew out of Foggintor Quarry over our heads – that I excitedly exclaimed to our great leader Old Bean – “Raven” – and the name stuck. In that sense – Foggintor is where I was officially baptised into the Wonder of Dartmoor. Nowadays – I’ve inevitably become a bit of a lone Raven myself and prefer to walk alone – or with just my son, Tom – for company.
I like to stand and stare too much – to move on at my own pace and think my thoughts without too much chatter. Even young Tom finds my tendency for grinding to a halt trying at times – nevermore so than when I come across some beloved ponies. It’s never enough for me to just say a simple “Hello” – I like to hold meaningful conversations with them; meaningful to me that is! Tom gets impatient by my dawdling – and if he sees a dreaded group of them on our horizon first – he will deliberately try to guide me off course before I spot them. It never works though – because my eyes are as keen as my namesake.
Foggintor Quarry is one of those interesting, atmospheric places on Dartmoor – that is suitable for an easy, short afternoon stroll – even when the infamous fog has descended because there is a track that will always lead you back to the road.
Sunday 19th. March 2017 – was one such occasion! We parked at the romantically named ‘Four Winds’ car park on the B3357 and set off in the direction of the quarry over moorland. In no time at all – an inquisitive, young pony came running to me unbidden. Such a beautiful bright-eyed creature – and so trusting.
Mirror mirror. Reflection of myself in the eye of a Dartmoor Pony.
I find it unimaginable to think that these gentle, inquisitive animals too often go for meat – or are just shot before they even reach their first birthday. If I could have bundled my new friend into my rucksack I would have done – but wishful thinking is no solution to saving Dartmoor’s ‘unwanted’ Hill Ponies. I enjoyed the ‘moment’ – and was delighted to see an aspect of myself reflected back – we both wore our hair untidily – in a side plait.
Same untidy hairstyle…
but without the beautiful, sun-bleached highlights.
Company at Foggintor Quarry – 19th. March 2017.
On our delayed arrival at Foggintor Quarry – we were treated to an aerobatic display – not by Ravens – but by a group of brave young hearts from Holland – who were queuing up to launch themselves off the edge.
Foggintor Quarry – where not only Ravens dare. A brave, young outward-bounder leaping off the edge. WOW! BRAVO!
From our aerial view above the quarry – we watched them one by one – bravely throw themselves off – as they whizzed down the zip-wire – ‘skimming’ the windblown surface of the dark, shifting water below.
Caught dangling in mid-air.
We had arrived at the fortuitous time – any earlier and we would have had to stand around in the cold and damp for the afternoon’s spectacular to begin. As it turned out – our meeting with the Dartmoor Pony had been most timely – despite Tom’s intermittent grumbles!
We continued our walk all around the top of the arena – and hoped that the fog would not descend too low should we end up going over the edge ourselves – only without the aid of ropes and carabiners! We arrived back at the Four Winds – suitably soaked by mist – Foggintor had lived up to its name.
Foggintor gemstone glistening in the surface water.
On the stony track back – I picked up a small heart-shaped keepsake that fitted in my pocket with room to spare; if only the pony had fitted into my rucksack as easily…
