Return from Devon

The Bothy. Our little holiday barn conversion, just big enough for two, (though large enough, we figured to fit all of our tiny cottage in). Beautifully furnished, with a bijou, bird-filled garden. Woodburner stove, four-poster bed, beams, wooden floor. Views across the splendid Trentishoe Down. Gorgeous when the sun is out, a bit Sherlock-Holmesy when the inevitable mists and rain set in. But the Bothy was cosy beyond belief, far more so than our own picturesque hovel, and we were very happy there.

What did we do? A lot of biking from A to B to C. Visited friends - some with chickens - (and EGGS - for ME!) -

We were fairly close to the sweetly pretty but over-subscribed village of Lynmouth -

The North Devon coastline is spectacular.

Approach to Heddon's Mouth

There was rock scrambling for Andy. If you are like me and hate heights, don't look too closely at the tiny figures below...

'Spot the Andy'

- and his once-yearly dip in the sea - no matter how bracing. And I believe he was suitably braced. I was having none of it.




There were rock pools for me. Each to his - or her - own.





I did get to drag Andy along to the Devon County Show, or rather, he nobly biked us fifty miles down the main road to Exeter, where the city was practically under riot-control due to the show's popularity. We had a lovely time, the sun actually shone, we looked at goats, sheep, cheeses, docile bulls, butter carving, rabbits, vintage bikes, country crafts, wandered about until our cheeks shone and our feet hurt. The bee keeping tent was bustling, and they had sold out of honey - sad for me, but great to know there is a new interest in this vital husbandry. Actually, everywhere was rammed to bursting point, and at midday they had to shut the gates to newcomers. For once the crowds didn't bother me at all, I was so happy to be in my personal paradise. I had a 2GB memory card for my camera and I was going to use it. But I have come to realise that several hundred shots of cows backsides are not everyone's cup of tea. (A friend who's father is a Devon dairy farmer dryly remarked that looking at my camera viewer was rather like looking at her dad's...). So, my heavily pruned set of show pictures are safely squirrelled away in a Flickr set, and they are here, if that is your thing too. (Bizarrely we completely missed the pig section, not sure how we managed that).

1. Bull, 2. Bull, 3. Bull, 4. Bull, 5. Devon Reds, 6. Devon Reds detail, 7. Devon Reds, 8. Devon Red and calf, 9. Untitled, 10. Cattle backs, 11. Spotted cow, 12. Holstein Fresian, 13. Holstein Fresian, 14. Stornmoor Thunder Cloud, 15. Stornmoor Thunder Cloud, 16. White bull, 17. Whites, 18. Whites detail, 19. White bull, 20. White, 21. Ducklings, 22. Poultry show, 23. Big cheese, 24. Butter carving, 25. Butter Carving, 26. Butter carving, 27. Tufty owl, 28. small owl, 29. Fluffy owl, 30. Eagle, 31. Eagle, 32. Eagle detail, 33. barn owl, 34. Sheep shearer, 35. Sheep shearer, 36. Sheep horn detail

On the Last Day and after a convoluted series of messages via Facebook and texting, we visited one of my oldest blog-friends, Donna Flower. Unusually, I didn't take a single photograph. We had a simply lovely afternoon with her, and visited the legendary Fabric Room. There was much groaning and swooning over delectable textiles, which she not only conserves, but sells, through regular open house sales and her website, Donna Flower. Her home is beautiful beyond belief and meeting her after nearly four years was a wonderful end to our holiday. Thank you Donna!

The Bothy, almost seen, near the horizon, from Trentishoe Down

So we return refreshed, yet older and wiser. Reasons we are not moving to North Devon, beautiful though it is; it is mainly connected with tiny, winding roads which are impractical for commuting with a motorbike, especially when the weather gets rough in winter. It is too isolated, not enough jobs, too run down in places. I could not live there without a car, which I can't afford. Weather can be (very) iffy. We've got soft living in the gentle Cotswolds. We kind of knew all this, but eight days of it confirmed it. We had previously decided on North Devon rather than South Devon, as South is so much more expensive, though coming from there I would have much preferred that.
Can we afford it, ever? We don't know. We are in limbo again. But (oh, how contrary I can be), I was terribly homesick while we were away and it was wonderful beyond belief to get back to our sedate, lush patch. Mustn't feel too settled though, as we've got a snowball's chance in Hell of finding anything we can remotely think about here. Now we wait another year, carrying on scraping our house deposit together and hope to God the housing market doesn't shoot off again. One day we will be settled.

Thank you to every single person who left a lovely comment after my last post. I did sneak in half an hour's internet access mid-week and went all teary eyed and snuffly when I found the good wishes. Although it has been a nice break, I was raging to get back to work and missed all my internet friends. We have, however, rather taken to four-poster beds...

Holly-bobs

By the time you read this, we will be trundling down to the West Country on the Varedero to a small one room barn conversion (with four poster bed) in Parracombe. I don't think I've stopped working since Feb 2008, when my first needle felt kit arrived, wonderously and anonymously through the post. (Thank you, fairy Godmother). It has been an incredible year-and-a-bit, but I am serious need of some non-creative relaxation, (well, just my Moleskine sketchbook...) This will be my first week's holiday since 2005, soon after I started this blog and went totally freelance.

In need of fish&chips&icecream&pinkrock&beer money, I got stuck into my neglected commissions list and fulfilled an order for our lovely neighbour, four Christmas robins.





We are going to see old and much loved friends and paddle in the cold North Devon sea. Hopefully this Saturday we will visit the Devon County Show, which is going to reduce me to happy tears; it was the one big event mum used to save up for, so that we could have a 'rural' day out together and dream of having chickens. I haven't been since I was eleven, when friends of the family had to take me, as mum was too ill from her chemo to come. She was determined that I should not miss it; she knew how much I loved it. It wasn't the same without her, but by the looks of it, I managed to enjoy myself.





Because she shielded me from the worst of her sickness, I had no idea how fatally ill she was, nor that my dad would pass away before her, only a few months after these pictures were taken. Me, in my hand embroidered 'FONZ' flares, and my hippy hat with animal badges on.






I have never felt so close to this little girl as I do now, stood atop the biggest combine harvester at the show. Her life was about to be scattered to the four winds, and yet, she survived. She become lots of different kinds of people over the years and ended up, circle-wise, pretty much the same person as she was then, with similar ambitions as she has now. Country life, smallholding, growing veg, home baking, painting and making things. She thought she would spend all her life in her beloved Devon, but spent most of it trying to get back.






I know that this time round, that young 'me' and the spirit of my mother will be with me, somehow, sizing up pigs, crooning over hens and bustling round the WI tent looking at chutneys. The ultimate aim of our trip is have a look at property prices...let's see if we can't get on the housing ladder this time round, before we reach our dotage. I've been too long away from home.

Hurrah for the Circus!

I have a quiet passion for anything circus. I've never been to one, and I'm not sure if I'd like the real thing, especially not performing animals. Of course, to see Cirque du Soleil would be marvellous, but we'd have to take out a small loan or sell our body parts to afford the tickets. So I content myself with browsing my collection of what I might grandly call, my resource material. Look...





One of my best 10p finds, from a village fete bookstall. A moment when your heart beats a little faster and you look round quickly to see if anyone else has spotted your treasure.





Battered, torn and broken in places, yet Humberto's little circus is beautiful to me.




Not so fragile - my Christmas present from Andy (very *subtly* suggested by me). It weighs as much as a baby elephant itself, and is a whopping 45cm tall (17 & 3/4") 29cm wide (11") and nearly 8cm thick (3").




It is stuffed with a smorgasbord of everything circus, hundreds of pages of pictorial gorgeousness. I could happily drown in it and frequently do.





On a (much) smaller scale, this sweetie, an open the flap booklet. Front -




Inside...



Turn the flap...



Turn the flap...



Turn the flap...




Back cover.



Not everything is on my bookshelf though. The other day I came across this, via Fern Animals and almost cried with sheer delight.







Tomorrow I take the first batch of this menagerie to the shop, which in itself is worthy of a little Grand Parade. It's been a long old seven weeks.

A BIG PS - I do not like performing animals either, unless they are firmly between the pages of books!

Work hard, play hard.

Now the winter is finally over, once or twice a week we escape with a picnic - I cannot think of many other things I'd rather do than set off with Andy, a simple bundle of food, the open road and the prospect of a few miles ahead; especially in May, when the lanes are drifting with Queen Anne's Lace and the mild wind is scented with oilseed rape.




The weather is changeable and though we may set off in bright sunshine, dark clouds bounce across from the West, threatening rain. The new leafage glows against the grey skies - that is the joy of an English spring; the moist, fresh, greeness which never fails to fill me with hope and happiness.




As we were tramping the edges of the fields this week, we spotted...




Can you see it? No? Come closer. I can see it, because I know where it is - hidden tightly - there's the clue.




Ah, he's been rumbled - there he goes!




Mr Hare, you are a shy fellow - but now we know exactly where you are!





Choosing the right picnic spot depends on the mood of the weather. Sometimes it is best just to find a sheltered spot and watch the rain clouds roll in. There must be good eggs, and a thermos of watery hot chocolate which tastes ever-so-slightly of mildew.






We shared our breadcrumbs with an excited ant, who had never seen such riches in his microcosmic world. He staggered off, his little back laden with this wonderful new bounty. Somewhere below the earth, in a patch of West Oxfordshire, a new religion has been born. Centred around bread.

Turning the circle of our walk, we headed into the reserve. It is a bumper bluebell year in the UK - our woods are carpeted with acres of them stretching out of eye's reach. And I would hate to be the only British blogger not to show a picture of them.




The woodlands never sound so pretty as in Spring, when the birds are singing their hearts out and the cuckoo is doing what all respectable cuckoos should do.






After a good four hours, it's home to a small queue of impatient geese, demanding crowns. This mega order is almost done and they go off for their photoshoot next Friday. There are little gangs of animals dotted around the studio, waiting to be packed. At times I feel as if they are plotting something.

Marching mice

"We are the marching mice,
We march from Here to There,
We marches up and marches down,
We do not have a care!"

"We are the marching mice,
We do not give a fig,
For bears or geese or silly dogs,
Although we're not that big."

"We are the marching mice,
We marches all night long,
And when our tails begin to fail,
We sing this little song."

PS - many thanks to CUTEABLE , for giving the Mice Brigade a mention.