Click to see larger version

Yesterday, I entered one of the outer circles of retail hell. My son had to go to work, so I rashly said I'd spend the morning in Bath so he'd have company on the drive. The Victoria Art Gallery was an oasis of civilisation and peace - but the shops? I think I needed reminding just how horrible city centres are: and got it in spades. Not only were the shops full of cut-price foreign tat that I don't need and can't afford, but also the pavements were heaving with people bent on elbowing their way to the very same tat in front of the man or woman next to them. Truly awful.

So, how delightful on my return to pop down to Lyme Regis, and snap this solitary window shopper and admire the Christmas lights!

On Saturday morning, head full of vague thoughts about my impending last-minute grocery shop, I noticed a soft rose-pink glow suffusing the pearly grey clouds in the south-east. As I drove through Lyme Regis, I saw the midwinter sun rising over the sea - a dark pink segment balanced on the horizon. A few minutes later, it had slipped behind the clouds again and all was grey.

You can see why people take such things as a portent of good things to come in the darkest days of winter.

Uplyme Parish Church and village seen on a frosty morning from the slopes of Horseman's Hill

In this cold snap, I have been putting out extra food for the garden birds: mostly dunnocks, robins, blackbirds, chaffinches and tits.

They have porridge oats and raisins, plus peanuts and sunflower kernels in feeders, every morning; and if it's very cold like today, a second helping of oats at dusk.

'My' two cock pheasants have poultry corn - in fact, if they see me through the futility room window, they come running over and stand just under the window, heads cocked. They know I'll give in and throw out some more corn for them!

Yesterday, I made two fat feeders out of small tinned-tomato cans. I punched a hole in the bottom to tie on a string, then melted some of the dripping and stirred in lots of oats to make a sort of fat flapjack. Pressed into the tins and left to cool, it makes a good feeder to hang in the branches. The tits can hang upside down, and the other birds can perch underneath to get at the contents.

More high-calorie fuel for the birds, and a way to recycle the fat without clogging the drains or making a mess in the bin. Excellent! The only drawback was the 15 minutes it took to clean up the worktops and wash the ghastly remains from the pyrex jug I made the mixture in. Oh well...

The five trees shown at the top of the page are now four and a bit. In the very stormy weather last night, the dead one (number four from the left) blew down to a 3m stump, blocking our way to the road. So instead of having fun in blogland, today, I have mostly been picking up wood and having a bonfire. Still, we'll have plenty of firewood for next year...

Almost time for a hot bath to ease the inevitable aches, thank goodness!

Time to get my passport out again, for another venture into the neighbouring county!

Usksider reminded me in his recent post that it's National Tree Week. So, I thought I'd post this image of a beech avenue at Kingston Lacy, near Wimborne Minster in Dorset. It was taken a few weeks ago, just before sunset. I hope he approves of the natural framing

The avenue was planted in the 1830s, and originally had 365 specimens. Some of the trees have now died, and the National Trust has planted a second avenue of young trees further from the road. I don't think it will be up to much in my lifetime - but perhaps my offspring will be able to enjoy it.

The first frosty night is always a bit of an event for me, presaging winter for real. So, when I saw a light dusting of rime on the fallen leaves this morning, a small shiver ran down my spine. But now it is quite glorious: brilliant blue sky and the few leaves still on the acer blazing like a bonfire.

Yesterday I had an "if only I had a video camera" moment*. One of the pheasants had flown up onto the bird table to see what was left, and surprised a squirrel about to try his luck with the peanut feeder. They faced each other off for ten or twenty seconds, then the squirrel lunged forwards and frightened the bird away. Priceless!

* The only other time was when I visited Chancer (the pony) in the field one summer's day, and he was fast asleep on his side in the sunshine, dreaming. Did you know that horses dream, just like cats and dogs? His eyeballs were rolling under the eyelids, hooves twitching, tail swishing, and lips wrinkling. Dogs dream of chasing rabbits; cats dream of catching mice: what do horses dream of? Being chased by predators, probably. Like most prey animals, they live in a state of perpetual alertness, if not controlled fear.

I need some new batteries for my point-and-shoot camera, so I am painting a word picture for you today, instead.

An early morning walk - the air cool but clear. In the east, a strew of high dappled clouds above a clear brightening horizon, and to the west, the earth's blue-grey shadow is being chased down the sky by a rose-pink band.

The dawn clouds slowly turn from brown, through crimson and neon orange to yellow, then fade to white as the sun rises. A few tiny puffs of lower cloud cast dark radiating shadows on the higher ones, like reverse sunrays.

Looking over the sea, Venus is nestling down in her bed of fluffy pink clouds, after a busy night shining on the dark land, and a fat crescent moon sails above her in the mid-blue sky.

As it lightens, I can see that every grass blade is decorated with a tiny dewdrop, and discordantly, three planes heading south for the winter, leaving hard contrails across the fractal beauty of the clouds.

I stand still and shut my eyes to concentrate for a moment or two. I can small the richness of damp earth and fallen leaves, and feel s slight breeze on my face. A rural soundscape too: twittering finches zipping overhead; a distant cock pheasant; gulls and rooks calling to their chums in the barley field, and the stockman at Shapwick hallooing in the cows for milking.

Again, the modern world obtrudes with the steadily gathering whoosh of distant traffic, and as I round the corner of the house at 7, the whump of the burner as the boiler fires up. Home!

Time to put the kettle on for a cuppa, and start making the porridge...

This week marks the end of a long and frustrating saga of local bureaucracy. We have been waiting years for a kerbside collection of plastic, tins, glass etc. Many people in Devon have had it for years, but not our little backwater on the very edge of the county.

Early this year, my neighbour ordered green recycling skips for the 3 houses in our hamlet. She was told this would take some weeks (we all know how scarce plastic is!), and when the skip eventually turned up, there was just the one. I rang East Devon Street Services up, to be told that “oh well, you can’t order a skip for someone else – you have to do it yourself.” I pointed out that since they didn’t know who I was, I could easily impersonate my neighbour so why did it matter – but that was received rather frostily. “You’ll have to wait 8 weeks” – why? Do they get them delivered one by one from China perhaps? So, I rang up, and my other neighbour did the same.

Eventually, the other skips turned up, so we all trotted down to the end of the lane to leave them for collection on the appointed day. No-one emptied them for three days, so the neighbour rang up to ask what happened. She was surprised to be told they would send a lorry specially from the depot (about 15 miles away) to pick up a few bagfuls of recycling. Hmm – very green.

This happened two more times, so we gave up in despair and just took the stuff to the big skips when shopping.

But I was recently impelled to have another go – and this time, whatever they did actually worked, and the stuff was taken away on the appointed day (10th October).

So, grudging thanks to Devon for finally getting their act together, But I can’t help thinking a commercial organisation that was this sluggish would have gone out of business years ago. Since we pay almost 1/5 of out monthly income in Council Tax, it doesn’t seem like stellar value for money!

Update on 21st November - it seems I spoke too soon. The next collection was a day late; the one after that never happened so we drove the stuff to the local centre; this week, they came a day early, and it was only because I'd put the box out early that it was emptied at all. How hard can it be to organise such a simple routine, one asks?

Regular readers will know that this fruity combination is one of my favourites.

A new twist that I tried out last night!

Ingredients per person:

One Bramley apple, or other baking variety
Small handful of ripe blakberries
2 teaspoonsful of sugar (more if fruit unripe)
2 tablespoonsful of red wine

Method:

Core the apple and make a cut in the skin around its 'equator'. Put it into an ovenproof bowl or dish that allows about 1-2cms all around. Stuff the cavity with as many berries as you can cram in, and scatter the rest round the apple. Pour over the wine, then sprinkle on the sugar. Bake in a medium oven (gas mark 3, 160° C) for 30 mins or until the apple fluffs and starts to collapse.

Serve with custard, cream, vanilla ice cream - or, as I did, just spoon it down as it is. Mmmmmmmmm.

(Folklore has it that we should no longer be picking blackberries, as the Devil spits on them at Michaelmas. However, my theory is that this is an old wives' tale invented to explain the fact that the berries get pippy and dry - or just flyblown and mushy, at the end of the season. This unusual growing season means that there are still fine juicy berries for the picking, over a week after the alleged incident of hellish expectoration.)

As some of my friends have already noted, today is National Poetry Day. This year's theme is Dreams - but I already had planned to put this more seasonal offering on my blog, so I'm afraid I'll have to be off-topic.

The end of summer

Indian summer weather has gone at last – no more warm blue afternoon skies and still, dewy mornings.

Suddenly the sky is full of flying grey tatters of cloud; and rooks are practising their synchronised wheeling, like stray tea-leaves swirling in a rinsed teapot.

A cool damp wind soughs through the sere beeches. A few brown-edged leaves rustle and whirl from their branches to join the rooks with every gust.

Rain spatters in the air, releasing the scent of wet earth from the newly-harrowed fields, and I can hear the surf roaring distantly on the rocks.

It's the end of summer, and I am strangely elated at the year's turning.

Written late September 1996

My milkman, who works for Dairy Crest, informs me that milk is going up 4p/pint on Sunday. That's because "the company has to pay 3.85p a pint more to its farmers". So - I sincerely hope all the increase is going to you guys and not just into the pockets of the middle man.

(I only belong to 'NFU Lite', so was unable to log into the members section to see if I could find out more about milk prices.)

I probably won't be logging in again till Monday now, so there's no hurry to answer.

Bramble leaves are colouring up. Seen here backlit by early autumn sunshine on the Trinity Hill Nature Reserve, an area of rough pasture and heathland near Axminster. Still blackberries to pick, and more unusually, the pale pink flowers are still in evidence on some of the bushes.

A photo from a few days ago - a happy time before the spectre of foot and mouth had raised its fearsome head again.

A beef suckler herd grazing in the evening sunshine on the side of Cannington Lane, Uplyme. They belong to Clive and Jo Sage of Wyld Weadow Farm, Monkton Wyld. And very tasty they are too: the beef is superb, and we know it's had a good life.

Last week, Pete and I were clearing some brambles in our field, and he commented on how much noisier it is now than when we first lived here in 1985. At almost any time of the day one can hear traffic noise from the A35 or A3052.

The wonderful dark night skies are almost a thing of the past, too. In the 80s, we could see the Milky Way almost every clear night; now it's only very occasionally visible on the darkest frostiest night. Why? Thoughtlessness by neighbours with their intrusive security lighting, a general increase in street and property lighting, and especially the bright street lighting on the Axminster bypass, visible on our northern horizon.

You can see maps that show how our rural areas are being spoiled by thoughtless development here:

http://www.cpre.org.uk/campaigns/planning/intrusion

(Edited 14/09: I asked for permission to copy parts of the maps here, but the CPRE is obviously a bureaucracy like any other and hasn't yet answered.)

Although it has been warmer and sunnier these past two days than since early May, there is a definite feel of Autumn in the air - indefinable, but unmistakeable. My neighbour George, down the hill, has been sending billows of fragrant woodsmoke into the air each evening, and just ten minutes ago, I got a real shiver down my spine as I heard two or three robins singing their thready winter song for the first time.

Suddenly, my thoughts turn to falling leaves, hazelnuts, ripe blackberries, and all the other heralds of summer's end. I just hope that September is glorious rather than dismal, to set us up for the coming winter.

More: listen to a recording of a robin singing here:

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/r/robin/index.asp

and read about the different songs here:

http://www.rspb.org.uk/wildlife/birdguide/name/r/robin/song.asp

Today, I published the first photo essay on my photo web site, so here is a shameless plug for it!

It is a short piece on the neglected places of the countryside.

Have a good weekend,y'all.

Up and out at 6:30, and making time just to stand and appreciate the beauty of this morning. Despite all the troubles in the land, just here, just now, is perfect.

Hardly a breath of air, and the dawn clouds are a tender, puffy blue-grey coverlet over the sky. The lazy cooing of woodpigeons, crows cawing, the clucking of the pheasant, the twittering of the small birds in the garden; a counterpoint to the stockman calling in the cows down the valley, and the gentle lowing of beef cows calling to their calves.

I am so lucky.

And Happy Birthday, Usksider. This post's for you.

For the past few days, we have been fostering a racing pigeon. We get two or three every year who stop for a few days R&R on their way home. Sometimes I can get a ring number and report their whereabouts, but this one was quite shy.

It is called 'Homer' - partly a pun (homing pigeon - geddit?), and partly because when it arrived, it fell hungrily on some corn I'd put out for the pheasants, and my husband said it looked as if it was saying "mmmm, co-o-o-rn" as it stuffed its beak - just like Homer with doughnuts.

It has spent a few days pooping on the conservatory roof, and sometimes peering upside-down into the upstairs windows from a perch on the gutter. But now it's winging its way home - successfully I hope. I just hope it doesn't fall in with some bad-ass woodpigeons and end up in a pie.

Last night was full moon, and I went out for a dusky walk just as it appeared above the trees like a ripe apricot. Lovely to feel the warm air rising off the road and see the bats flitting round catching insects, and watch the moon gradually shrink and pale as it sailed higher in the sky.

Meanwhile, in another field the rape harvest was still in full swing. Those who think that the countryside is quiet and clean should try standing a few feet away from the harvester, being showered in chaff!

(I am playing about with an old manual lens on my digital camera, so these are probably not as well-exposed as they could have been. But you get the general idea!)

Something alarming in the tiny world of my feral pheasants: last night, Mum, Dad and Chick appeared for their evening feast of corn, sultanas and porridge oats, accompanied for the first time by an almost fully-grown youngster, who I shall call Teenager.

Teenager proceeded to chase Chick away, pecking at it and driving it down the garden away from the food. Then all three, minus Chick, went off together. Mum did a desultory search for her missing offspring, but was soon distracted by the other two moving off.

This morning, Chick was in the garden alone, cheeping rather disconsolately, or so I imagine. I took some corn out, but unfortunately, managed to frighten it off - it flew into the field at the back. Mum and Dad came by for breakfast about 30 mins later, but no sign of a fmaily reunion.

So - I feel really terrible. If I'd stayed inside, they would probably have met up by now. I'm sure people will think - 'for goodness sake, why's she making such a drama out of everyday stuff?' True - but if God really cares for every sparrow - then I don't feel in bad company for worrying for one small bird in my garden.

Oh - if anyone else has seen such behaviour or knows why it happens, I'd be interested to hear.

This morning, I went out ragworting in our field: a very usual activity for this time of year. Once the yellow flowers show, it's easy to see where the plants are growing, and root them out. Then into a plastic sack to stop any seeds escaping till we have a bonfire.

Wonder #1: a sunny, breezy warm day - almost like summer. What a change!

Wonder #2: we have a small stream that, until now, has only flowed in the late autumn and winter. It drains runoff from a field higher up the hill. This morning, it was in full flow. Every other summer, it has been bone dry for months on end.

Wonder #3. Yellow wax-cap mushrooms growing in the pasture. I've never seen them except in late September/October before.

So - just a freak wet spell - or is the climate really changing?

Our resident pheasant cock, of whom I have written in the past, has gradually lost all his four or five wives over the past three months, and has been solitary for the last one.

So, I was very pleased to see him with a hen and a single chick yesterday and today. I assume while the hens are nesting, they can't forage far for food, and so couldn't visit the garden. I wonder if any more will reappear with families?

The chicks are just so endearing - miniature versions of their mothers, and they run so fast, they look like little wind-up toys. Aaaah.

Sorry about the crummy photo - they move very fast and it was a dark day, so the longish exposure wasn't ideal.

I have been taking photos of these five beech trees near my house for many years: you can see four seasonal shots in the header of this blog for instance.

To my great sadness, this will no longer be the case: this spring, it soon became evident that one has died already, and two are in distress. You can see that only the two at each end of the row are in full leaf: one is quite dead, and the other two already look poorly.

These trees appear on the Victorian OS map of the area, so have been a local landmark for about 150 years. What a shame that my children will not be able to come back and show their children the same sight.

Ecologists predict that beech trees will be one of the first species to succumb to the wetter winters and drier summers we expect in future. It may just be coincidence - but if not, this is one of the first really stark illustrations of climate change that I have seen.

Foxgloves are at their best just now. There have been fewer than usual in our field - but I discovered an absolutely stunning profusion of them at Holyford Woods nature reserve, a few miles from home. Some of the wood has been clear felled - and the resulting clearing is filled with foxgloves in their billions - there must be about ten acres I think!

I spent two hours feasting my eyes early in the morning when the sun was low - and the rest of the day daydreaming of pink. A bit like the dormouse in A A Milne's lovely poem.

On the first day of June, I was out and about with the camera before 6am. Roses are traditionally associated with this month: so I was delighted to see lots of dog roses and trailing roses blooming in the hedge just up our lane. Here is a dewy dog rose for all my friends here (and anyone else who enjoys such things.)

Well my dears - I had to get my passport out to do the leg-work for this story - over the border into Dorset!

We were intending to see "Pirates of the Carribbean 3" for a little light relief, but as the queue at the cinema was out of the doors and down the street 5 mins before start of programme, we decided to have a pint instead.

We went to the Royal Lion in Lyme Regis, and the evening didn't get off to a brilliant start.

Pete: "Two pints of Best please."
Barman: "We don't do Best."
Pete: "Well, what have you got then?"
Barman: "We do Gold."
Pete: "OK, two pints of Gold please."
Barman: "Gold's off - the barrel needs changing."
Pete: "OK, I suppose we'll have two pints of bitter."

(We checked to see if Harold Pinter was hiding under the table writing the script - but no sign of him, sadly.)

We sat in the bar and drank the beer - which was OK but not that special (or best, come to that). Two people were sitting at a nearby table, and while we watched, they were brought their meals by the barman. The chap asked if they could have refills of their drinks, and (like us) was rather taken aback when the barman came out with "No. You'll have to go to the bar - it's not table service" in a rather gruff manner. Sound of jaws dropping...

I could (just about) understand this if the pub had been really busy and the staff were run off their feet - but there were two barmen on duty and only a handful of occupied tables at the time. But as it was - such behaviour seems not only inexcusably rude, but also a PR disaster. I shall think twice before ever going in again - and I hope the couple concernend didn't leave a tip.

Why is it that service seems to be such a foreign concept in some establishments? I can't imagine this happening in the USA, for instance.

Next time - I'll stay in Devon!

Calling all Devon and Somerset fans of a capella singing!

Last night, the St Petersburg Blagovest Ensemble sung an enchanting concert at St Peter and St Paul - our Parish Church here in Uplyme. A packed house gave them a rousing welcome, and they gave a masterful performance of both Russian Orthodox church music, and in the second half, folk songs. I thought they were quite exceptional - the operatic power and control of all six different voices was really something to hear. (Soprano, second soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, baritone and bass.) Also a chance to hear a musical genre rather different from my usual fare (and have a quick drink in the local afterwards!).

If you live in Great Torrington (Tuesday) , Silverton (Wednesday), or Martock (Thursday) - hurry along to your local church for a real treat.

Today, and a few days ago, I have seen a pair of yellowhammers feeding on the seeds I put out. The first visit to my garden - which is nice.

I always associate them with winter, when twittering flocks of them can be seen in the trees, decorating them like tiny gold Christmas ornaments in the late winter sun.

Many people are keen on the larger and more spectacular British birds - but I love the tiny ones. Finches are a really colourful family - from the perky pink and blue-grey chaffinch, the striking red, gold, black and white of the goldfinch, the rather thuggish-looking olive greefinch, to the lovely yellowhammer. The cock bird has a brilliant yellow head and belly, and a rich chestnut back with dark splashes, and a distinctive white stripe in the tail.

Yesterday I was rather amused to see a baby blackbird begging for food from a robin and a sparrow that were feeding from the same pile of seeds and porridge oats in the garden. One of those "if only I had the camera" moments: a big black bird with its bright orange bill wide open, bowing to two tiny 'parents'. I suppose the instinct to ask for food must be much stronger than any visual signals that might make the chick behave differently.

I'm surprised that a brood has already hatched successfully - it seems awfully early. Or do adults beg for food?

Yesterday, cabin fever overtook me after too many days staring at the computer screen, and I thought "blow this for a game of soldiers". I took the day off, and we went to Dartmoor on a gloriously sunny day. I chose a new place to visit, near Meldon.

Meldon Woods are a glorious sight just now - acres of bluebells in a hazel and beech wood on the valley slopes. Quite magical. (But you cannot hear the 40 ton stone lorries rumbling along the road from Meldon Quarry!)

Black-a-Tor Copse is a rare relict upland oakwood, which could easily be inhabited by hobbits. As well as the subtle ochre of new oakleaves, there are lots of mossy boulders to admire. These brought a Zen garden to mind, and I chose a subdued colour palette to draw attention to the shapes. Perfect peace here - only the distant sound of a cuckoo,
bleating sheep, and the wind in the trees.

A perfect end to a perfect day: old-fashioned tea in the courtyard, at the Victorian tearooms in the Okehampton Museum of Rural Life. A soft-boiled egg with white bread and butter, a slice of home made jam sponge, and lashings of strong tea.