Of course, the cows weren’t being lazy, and I doubt that any of them were actually called Buttercup or Daisy; the real buttercups and daisies were everywhere – in the fields, hedgerows, on the edges of footpaths and even on our cycle track. You will see from the photographs that I could not ignore nature’s bounty. As it happens, the cows, well-known in rural areas for their ability to predict rain, were quite right to sit it out; it has been raining on and off all day.

Don’t blame me – this came from Diana!

Sometimes, after the work is done, if it’s not actually raining, there is nothing we like better than to take to our bikes and go inland to the ford. When there, we always marvel that we need go such a short distance – less than a mile and a half – to be in the heart of the Devon countryside.

On Friday evening we had stood by the ford and watched two tractors – one making the huge round bales of hay, the other wrapping each bale tightly in a continuous length of plastic bandage – and it was fascinating; the bales looked like gigantic mummified eggs dropped on the field. A storm was brewing and the farmers were working against the clock.

We returned to the ford last night, called as we were by the beckoning evening sunshine, to find that the farmers had been successful in their efforts – the field was full of alien-looking eggs. A lone walker, an older lady, was out for her constitutional and she stopped on the tiny bridge over the ford to take in the sight at her leisure; she seemed not to mind that we were already there, perhaps it even increased her pleasure. The lady turned to us and said something. She spoke softly and we couldn’t hear (well I couldn’t hear so I knew that Chris wouldn’t either because he is a tad deaf, as you may know).

“Pardon?” I asked taking a few steps closer.

The lady repeated it but we still couldn’t hear. A second ‘Pardon?’ proved equally as futile. No matter, we understood from the expression on her face, and her gesticulations, that she was enamoured with the evening and also with the fact that she lived not far away – in the houses for the elderly at the end of the Newhay path (if I’m any judge of semaphore-type language, minus the paddles). We stayed nodding, smiling and saying “Yes”, at the right junctures (hopefully) for a period long enough to dispel any embarrassment over either our deafness or her inability to speak audibly. Back on our bikes again, and coasting down the empty road to Aller Arch, I called out to Chris as he came up beside me:

“Did you hear anything that lady said?”

“Not a word!” he exaggerated for the humour.

We cycled home by way the brook, which we had almost to ourselves because of the lateness of the hour; and yet the sun, though lowering in the sky, still shone for us, and for the two lads playing football on the green, and for the dog-walkers, and the woman who smelt of tobacco; and it shone for the pigeons, the geese, and the swans who were camera shy, and had me chasing after them along the brook. Chris noticed a plaque on a bench – on it was printed, “God Bless Mum and Dad” – and Chris thought something was missing (like the names of the dear departed). I don’t agree. What do you think?

You might guess where this came from… Thanks Rob!

It was my first time (honestly, Officer), and anyway, it appears that I wasn’t even all that good at carjacking – he managed to get away. If you’re wondering, I’m not talking about trying to pinch the jack of a car – I’m talking hijacking a slow-moving car. As a matter of fact, it all came very easily and naturally to me, as I will explain…

You see, we have finished our shopping at the Lidl store at Newton Abbot; the shopping is in the car and I have just brought our trolley back and retrieved our pound coin; I’m standing by the trolleys and looking at the car park, in particular, I’m looking for our car because Chris usually brings the car around, as close as possible to the trolley station, in order to save time (he has a bit of a thing about saving time). The car park is rather busy and I see a red car pulling out of a space; Chris is coming along in our new navy blue car and has to slow down while the red car completes his reverse turn.

In tune with Chris’s phobia about time-wasting, I begin to walk to the car (in the hope of gaining ten seconds that might be better spent in the car park of our next port of call). Ah, he can see me and puts on a little spurt in order to beat the red car to the exit. I am looking at both cars ahead and there is very little space between them – not enough room for me to open the front passenger door without hitting the side of the red car – but that’s okay because our car wins the race for the exit and advances a short distance before stopping to let me open the door. It is what I expected – what we always do – and, like a relay runner urging to grab the baton, I am surging forward to grab the door handle. My hand finds the cold chrome and pulls it in an outward motion. Our car leaps forward in a short sharp jerk, not enough to wrench my hand off, but sufficient to cause my hand to withdraw with surprise. The car lurches forward in a strange side-winder movement, pauses for a moment to show me the insignia (four silver circles linked together in a row) on his tail, then he zooms off.

“Ah,” I think to myself and laugh.

Still laughing, I walk around the car park and find our new navy blue Renault in the spot where I had left it.

It’s true that all cars look very much the same to me, unless they are a Mercedes, Rolls Royce or something of a very obvious style; though, of course, I can recognise the different colours and sizes. Once, a couple of years ago when I was in Australia and driving a red Toyota Corolla, my key actually opened the door of an identical, but younger, red Corolla – I had wondered why the key was so difficult to turn. Don’t worry, I didn’t steal the car; it wasn’t the beginnings of an exciting life of committing car crimes (honestly, Your Honour!).

In my defence, here are some photographs of identical black cars…