The Royal Duchy Train Passes Through Dawlish

The Royal Duchy steam train passed through Dawlish at eleven-thirty yesterday morning. Mary and Stuart were still with us at that point and our terrace was quite occupied; therefore, I decided to take my shots from our garden on the sea-side, which is just above the the sea wall and railway line. No problem – I heard the whistle and ran downstairs; I had my Canon SRL at the ready on multiple shot mode (a bit quicker than my aged little mobile phone camera, which needs time to think and process).

Later on we thought we’d take some shots of the train returning in the evening.

“The timetable says that the train is due at Dawlish Warren at seven-thirty,” began Chris, “so it should pass by our house five minutes earlier.”

That was at about ten past seven. Chris and I had plenty of time to get out our cameras, change lenses, have a cup of tea, chat, go to the loo… At twenty past seven we were in position, waiting, just in case the train was to come early. Down by the sea wall and on the railway bridge below other folk were also prepared; we all waited patiently; a man and his grandson fishing from the breakwater were the only people who seemed to be oblivious of the impending excitement.

“The steam trains can also be late,” said Chris very astutely at half-past seven.

“But not too late,” I suggested, hoping for a positive response.

“Well, not necessarily,” Chris answered, “It might have to wait for other trains to pass through first.”

“I’m getting hungry,” I said five minutes or so later, “And it’s getting chilly out here”. I rubbed my arms.

Chris and Roland perked up at the thought of my making dinner – they, too, were tiring of waiting and they rubbed their arms too.

“If we were inside, wouldn’t we hear the whistle as it comes through, Chris?” asked Roland hopefully.

“What do you think, Chris?” I asked, equally as hopefully as Roland.

“Yes,” Chris pondered, “I think we would.” (Which was very hopeful indeed on Chris’s part because he is a tad deaf, as you may remember.)

So we three departed the cold terrace for the warm inside; the men went into the lounge room and I went into the kitchen; the men had left the French doors open so that we could hear the whistle. I was just getting the chicken breasts out of the fridge when the men called:

“It’s here Sally!”

And then I heard it too…as it whistled past our house!

 

 

Arthur Ransome’s Hill Top and a Little Bit of Heaven

I can’t speak too highly of our wonderful stay with our lovely friends in the Lake District last week; in fact, I can hardly speak at all because I have a cold and a sore throat – not that I’m blaming either Stephen or Janine, with whom we stayed, or Roland (from Australia) who is visiting us at present and still suffering – not from us (hopefully), but from his cold. Anyway, Chris and I have had such a busy time since we returned on Wednesday from up t’North that I’ve scarcely had a chance to tell you about our Lake District break.

Perhaps you’ll remember that late last year my blog featured some photographs of my sketches of Arthur Ransome, the renowned journalist, storyteller, sailor, fisherman and author of “Swallows and Amazons”; well, those drawings now live with Stephen and Janine at “Hill Top”, the house formerly owned by the great man between 1960 and 1967, and which was Arthur’s final home. Stephen, an astrophysicist (really!), financial analyst and writer himself, is currently in the process of co-writing a book based on the diaries of the famous author at the time he lived at “Hill Top”. Interestingly, Arthur’s six-foot tall wife, Evgenia, used to be Trotsky’s secretary.

Stephen and Janine have spent the past year restoring and renovating the house and gardens, and building plush rental accommodation for guests, but Chris and I stayed in the main part of the house. Every time I took a shower I thought of old Arthur, whose bedroom had been transformed into our bathroom – I fancied that Stephen was a little too quick to assure me there were no ghosts. With the weather being mostly fine we ate most meals al fresco at a table under a parasol in order to enjoy the soft air, the atmosphere of the garden and the beautiful views of the hills and mountains in the distance. In the evenings we sat with our “G and T’s” in the conservatory and watched the setting sun. One night – it was eleven-thirty – it seemed that the sun would not give way to blackness and we marvelled at the pale green glow that rose up from behind the mountains. Our friends explained that it’s because we were so far north.

One afternoon two elderly gentlemen arrived at the door; they were, perhaps, members of the Arthur Ransome Society, or maybe they were just ordinary fans in the vicinity and interested to see “Hill Top”. I thought it was lovely of Stephen to invite them in and give them a guided tour.

One day we went to our local Coniston Water, where Arthur set his novel (I believe) and where we saw little sailing boats, some with white sails and some with red sails ; another day we walked to the Hoad Monument, Ulvaston – naturally, we sang “Galveston, oh Galveston…” when we weren’t puffing our way up the steep hill (we thought we were being original until Stephen said that everyone did that!). The monument is a replica of Eddystone lighthouse. From our vantage point we looked out over Morecambe Bay, still beautiful under grey clouds, and then we beat a retreat to a Buddhist temple retreat for afternoon tea before the rain came down. ‘Twere right grandly (and unusual).

Here are some of the photographs I took with my little mobile phone camera but if you’re interested in seeing more go to Stephen’s site at www.hilltopvista.com

 

Boxer has Unusual Mouthguard

Dream, Dream, Dream…

Personally, I wouldn’t dream of becoming a miner but Chris would; in fact, he did just that last night. Now I hardly dream at all because Chris is a bit of a snorer (an understatement, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings by making a big thing of it – you understand). Chris, on the other hand, often dreams and last night was no exception; he told me about it when he came back to bed with our cups of tea.

“I dreamt I was a miner last night,” he told me.

“Oh yes?” I tried to show some interest though I was still half-asleep on account of our late night (we had to feed my niece’s cat at midnight because they are away camping in Cornwall and I forgot to feed the cat earlier in the day!).

“Yes, I was wearing a miner’s mask (I smiled to myself) and helmet with a light on the top,” Chris said.

“Like a proper miner then?”

“Yes, and we were digging a tunnel – I think it was a tunnel…”

“So you weren’t alone?”.

“No, there was a team of us. Anyway, as I was digging away into the rock my pickaxe went  back, struck someone behind me and killed him.”

“How horrible!” I sympathised.

“Yes, well the other miners said that we’d all get the blame so we went outside and closed the tunnel. It was awful – I could hardly breathe behind my mask – and when we were outside the others took their masks off but I couldn’t.”

“Ah, we both know why you had that dream – don’t we?” I responded.

Chris laughed.

“And how did you sleep last night Darling?” Chris asked.

“Very well, for once thank you. I even managed to sleep deeply enough to have a dream myself; I dreamt that Mary (my sister) had lost weight and wore a skimpy bikini to show off her enviable figure (which, indeed, I envied),” I replied.

“So you’ll be wanting me to wear that snoring mouth-guard every night from now on? (I nodded.) And I suppose that tomorrow night I’ll be dreaming about eating chewy calamari?”

 

The Long Awaited Photographs of the “Rural Idyll”

At last (with a little help from a more technically minded friend) we managed to download and transfer some of the photographs taken on Roland’s iPhone last weekend. What a lovely scene to come across on a summers day!

 

Talk of T’North

‘Twere right lovely, ’twas – our few days in the Lake District, Cumbria. For some reason everyone speaks like that in t’North! Chris and I left Roland, our dear friend from Australia, to fend for himself and house-sit for us whilst we swanned off to visit our other friends, Janine and Stephen, in t’North (we’re right friendly like that in t’South, as Northerners know).

Strangely enough, the day before we left for t’North, while we were shopping for wine, orchids and sweets in our favourite Tesco store, and we had just reached the pasta section at the end of the first aisle, when a young man appeared suddenly in front of us. Now this young staff member (or “colleague” as we hear over the store Tannoy system) probably isn’t as young as he seems because he’s been working in the store for quite a few years and, truth to tell, he is retarded; however he is as bright as a button in the cheerful stakes, especially once he gets to know you. He always greets us with smiles and hellos, and he is often to be seen at the end of a checkout – he is usually the one who asks if you require help with packing.

I expect you’re wondering what was so funny about last Saturday. Well, this seemingly young chap has a very loud and high-pitched voice, and an accent from t’North, possibly Lancashire (which borders with the Lake District). Chris and I were huddling close together behind our trolley (we are very affectionate shoppers, as you may remember if you’re a regular to my blog) as we passed the racks of spaghetti, fettuccine and linguine when the happy fellow in question stepped in front of us, beamed and asked in a loud, high-pitched voice:

“Are you going to Glastonbury?”

Chris and I had to stop and think for a moment. We would be going close to Glastonbury on our way up t’North the next day but we wouldn’t be going to Glastonbury, and anyway, surely we’re a bit old for going to the music festival; and we didn’t go even when we where young; and it’s too muddy; and isn’t it on next weekend?

“No,” I answered.

“Are you going to Glastonbury?” asked Chris.

“No,” the Tesco colleague laughed, as if the idea was ridiculous.

 

Up t’North the next day Chris recounted the tale to our friend Stephen, who was as amused as we were. During the following three days of our stay that question – “Are you going to Glastonbury?” – was asked many times and always the answer would came back the same… “No, are you going to Glastonbury?” And everyone laughed. The men sounded so funny with their accents.

“Do you know what is even funnier?” Chris asked me when we were on our own.

“No, what?” I responded.

“Well, you know that Stephen is from Lancashire?” Chris asked (I nodded) and he continued, “When he asks ‘Are you going to Glastonbury?’, he does so in a Scottish accent!”

T’Northerners talk very funny.

 

Fisherman From Australia Shocks Dawlish Residents

Last Saturday Roland caught a fish! The photographs tell the story…

A Rural Idyll – Down at the Ford

If you’re a regular to my blog you will know already that the little ford, on the way to Smallacombe Farm in the countryside only a mile or so from the centre of Dawlish, is one of my favourite haunts; Chris and I love to cycle there on summer evenings and dangle our feet into the water. Today we thought we’d go for a lovely walk to the ford with Roland, our friend visiting from Australia. The sun was out, the sky was blue and cloudless – it was the perfect day for walking and showing off the pretty ford. It was also a perfect day for taking photo’s but, unfortunately, my SD card was still in my laptop; hence, I borrowed Roland’s fancy iphone and snapped away to my heart’s content.

Apparently we are not the only people to have fond associations with this part of Dawlish for, as we reached the top of the road looking down to the ford, we saw the beautiful sight of three young children, all in their swimming costumes, playing in the water; they were accompanied by a pretty young blonde, a young man and three dogs of different varieties and sizes – very large to tiny; the wonderful thing was that were all so natural and happy. A bicycle was parked on the bridge so I took off my sandals and walked through the shallow water.

“Watch out for the slippery green patches,” said the young woman.

“Did you slip over?” I bent down to ask the two tots.

The little boy promptly walked on a slippery area and fell down on his bottom. I laughed and he did it two more times. His name is Rudy and he is three years old. The little girl, Maia, wearing a sweet little sun hat, was similarly interested in the passers-by who had stopped to chat and share in the joy of being at the ford on a hot day, but she was less extroverted than her boy-cousin of the same age; and the older girl, Tegan, at the grand age of eight was old enough to be slightly reserved but polite enough to join in conversation and tell me that Rudy is her brother. The adults – brother and sister – had brought their offspring to the ford for the same simple pleasures they had enjoyed when they were children themselves.

Much to the amusement of all, one car and a tractor passed through the water whilst we were there. I took many photographs and I think they are good ones (Roland’s phone camera is probably better than mine), the only trouble is that his phone is so fancy that he doesn’t have an SD photo’ card and I’ve no idea how to transfer shots from phone to laptop. And he can’t send them to me individually for some reason. Tomorrow we are off to the Lake District for a few days, therefore, we shall have to work out how to download those photographs when we get back. Apologies to all, especially the lovely family who didn’t mind me snapping, and who were told that they would be in today’s blog post. Watch this space towards the end of next week for shots of the rural idyll…

No Cherries!

Our lovely Aussie friend arrived in the mid-afternoon; we went out onto the terrace for drinks and a few snacks, including a bowl of cherries; we left the snacks of nuts, crisps, cheese straws, bread and jam (and cherries) out on the white table while we showed our friend the garden below the terrace; when we returned, perhaps ten minutes later, we found a seagull on the table and a bowlful of cherries. Some cherries had been spat out onto the paviors – he loved everything but cherries!