I don’t think such a thing has happened to me before, not that I’ve noticed, and it would be quite hard not to notice… when a low-flying plane is circling above you.

It was a beautiful sunny morning for a change and we couldn’t resist cycling over to Cockwood Harbour; it’s a fairly easy five-mile or so round trip, nice and flat by the sea, a few hills down – for pleasure – and the same hills up on our return – for fitness; and besides, the harbour looks different every time we go there, according to the tides, time of day, time of year, weather etc…

Chris and I were cycling back up the bridle path when we saw a small plane, flying low and coming towards us. A walker had stopped in his tracks to watch the spectacle. I stopped too.

“Hold on,” I said to Chris (not for the first time this morning) and got out my mobile phone camera.

The plane flew over our heads and off into the distance in the direction of Torquay. We thought the show was over. But no, the plane turned around and circled twice over our section of bridle path, each time going directly over our heads. It seemed to me that the pilot may have suspected that my mobile camera is a little slow to process after every click nowadays; certainly, I needed the two circles in order to get the few shots you will see here. I would have liked another turn because the sun was in my eyes and I couldn’t see what I was taking, but the pilot had already done his bit for my blog.

We are lucky to live in Dawlish where we have a fantastic air show every summer – we have a great view because our house looks over the sea; and yet, this was different – more personal. We felt highly honoured that the pilot had put on a display for us. Funnily enough, the plane had US, printed in large capitals, on its underside; no wonder we thought it was especially for us.

The rain, grey skies and cold weather of late haven’t provided much incentive to taking morning bike rides; some days you really have to force yourself and then you risk getting caught in a shower. I believe that you have to go out in order to live a little and make the most of life – even if that means getting wet occasionally. Hence, yesterday morning, upon awakening and observing the grey of day outside, Chris and I agreed to go for a cycle ride regardless; and we popped our raincoats in my basket.

In truth, there was no great pleasure to be had from cycling in the cold; it was just exercise. When we reached Cockwood Harbour the tide was in; the boats cast reflections on the water; and dandelions, pink weeds and long grasses edged the bank where we had parked our bikes. But the water was grey like the sky and I thought how lovely it would have been…if only the sun had been shining. Nevertheless, I captured the scene as it was – there was a sparkling oiliness to the water that gave it beauty, albeit a grey beauty. Just as I was lamenting the lack of sun and abundance of grey clouds, the sun burst through and lasted for about two minutes.

On the way back, I had stopped on the cycle path to take photographs of some pretty roses when a strapping cyclist dressed in yellow warned of the advance and imminent arrival of runners – a group of six athletic heroes (and add ons who had joined in for some of the way) who have been skiing, cycling, canoeing and running since Valentine’s Day (perhaps to avoid an avalanche of female suitors). The stalwart six had begun their journey in Norway and, not wishing to impede their progress on that leg of their route, we rushed off ahead of them to Dawlish Warren where we saw them again a few minutes later.

A couple of the marines awaiting the runners at Dawlish Warren told me about the Royal Marines 1664 Challenge (details of which I shall paste below). And while we chatted the runners came into view; several old people at the bus stop looked on with a degree of interest, if not exactly enthusiasm; my marines applauded and I took photographs with my now temperamental mobile phone camera. Unable to clap, I called out, “Well done!” My mother always told me, “You can tell that to the marines!”

Want to see some pictures of the dogs’ walk yesterday? Want to see the farm and the surrounding fields? You are in luck because I took these photographs with you in mind.

What do you think runaway llamas eat on the hoof (so to speak)? And how did they get out from the field with two women there to keep an eye on them?

As a matter of fact it was Tim the farrier’s fault. You see this happened yesterday, while I was visiting my sister who is farm-sitting for Rosie, and Mary and I were still talking about Tim whilst she was busy refreshing the water trough and I was taking photo’s. Not surprisingly, we had quite forgotten the two llamas as we laughed and chatted about Tim’s cowboy chaps (those things that almost, but not entirely, cover the pants of a cowboy or hunky English farrier).

Now those sneaky llamas must have noticed how engrossed we were down by the fence, and they saw also that we had left the gate open; no doubt they knew as well that their fast food of choice lay just over the other side of the hedge…

“Oh no, they’ve gone,” I bemoaned.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get some of their special pellets and you can try to herd them back into their field,” said Mary.

I wasn’t too sure about my ability to herd llamas, after all they are rather tall, somewhat jumpy and jerky, and they have big teeth. Instead of risking any physical contact, which may have been rebuffed, I tried to coax them and entreat them with soft words of encouragement. They were like modern school children – they loved the attention but didn’t take a blind bit of notice of what I was saying. Similarly, a firm command (or shout, in other words) made no impact on them whatsoever, although the dogs almost stood to attention for a moment… until, presumably, they realised that it was just the llamas being reprimanded again.

No, the llamas moved only of their own free will, which they exercised quickly (perhaps for fear that I might have been hiding a hitherto unknown prowess in llama herding). One dashed to a holly bush in the corner by the gate to the upper paddocks, whilst the other raced to an ivy vine on the opposite side of the path; yes, llamas love to eat the choicest young holly leaves and ivy!

But Mary was right, most of all they love to eat brown pellets; the llamas nearly knocked me over in their rush to follow Mary as she shook the pan of pellets as if they were a maracas. I shut the gate and joined the feeding party; there was a great deal of disconcerting head-bobbing and jerkiness (and that was just from Mary and me!), but they were grateful enough to tolerate a little tentative patting on the neck.

Soon we were able to resume taking the four dogs through the higher pastures for their much anticipated walk; they had waited patiently on the path for the duration of the runaway llama incident. Funnily enough, as we reached the top of the adjoining field we heard some snorting sounds; we looked in the direction of the hedge and saw two familiar heads, craned on long stretched necks, looking at us from the other side of the hedge. From under their pretty long eyelashes, their eyes implored us to take them with us on our walk, and lips parted to reveal two sets of stout yellow teeth.

“Not likely,” we sisters thought alike, without the necessity for words. We laughed and ran off chasing the dogs through the long grass and wild flowers.

“A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse…” I wish I had a horse. Perhaps you’re wondering why a mermaid wants a horse… well, it is not a matter of life or death – just a matter for regret – and if you had gone to Rosie’s farm with me today you wouldn’t need to ask.

My sister, Mary, is farm-sitting again so I thought I would go over on my bike and lend a hand, and at the same time I would burn off a few more calories (back on the diet – so far so good, but it has only been a day!). After a nice cup of tea Mary and I decided to take the four dogs for a walk in the fields, and we would say hello to the llamas en route because, although they look skittish and haughty, they really love human company. We had only just left the farmhouse when we saw a very pleasant sight ahead of us.

“What’s that?” asked Mary with a smile.

“Lady Chatterley’s lover,” I replied.

In fact he wasn’t a gamekeeper at all, but the description fitted somehow for he was not a townie; he looked perfectly at one with the farm surroundings, stood, as he was, beside a big spotty horse. The handsome farrier grinned.

“Nobody has said anything like that since I was in my twenties,” he said modestly.

After our initial surprise we contemplated for a moment then nodded our heads.

“We’re not horse people,” Mary made sense of it.

“Horse people must love their horses (more than handsome men),” I followed her drift.

“Tim’s the best farrier in the whole world,” said the lady with the horse.

“The world?” queried Mary.

“This is my world,” she shrugged, “but this is my daughter’s horse, and I’ve known Tim since he was seventeen.”

Mary and I observed the young man’s muscular arms and the deft way he handled the horse’s hooves and the tools of his trade. We had never seen a farrier at his work before, except in the movies, or Westerns, and, fascinated, we stayed and watched, not least because the old farrier in “Gun Smoke” never looked like Tim. Being of good nature, Tim seemed not to mind me taking photographs for my blog today, and being very interested, I took great many.

At last Malacca Nebone (if I remember the horse’s name rightly – I think it means “shining stars” in Sudanese) was shod, we said our goodbyes (reluctantly), and Mary and I continued on our walk to the field where the llamas were desperate for company.

“I wish it had been a hotter day today,” said Mary wistfully as she hosed fresh water into the llamas’ trough.

“I know what you mean…” I agreed.

“Then he would have had to take his shirt off!” we said together and laughed.

And should you happen to own a horse (lucky you) that requires the services of “the best farrier in the world” (lucky you) look up Tim D. Hughes DipWCF, from Newton Abbot, Devon.

It happened today as I was dressing to go to bookworm club (that’s why I put on my Kindle reader while I was painting earlier this week – in my case it should be called ‘earworm club’). Anyway, as per usual when I’m feeling a bit on the chubby side, I tried on several things but nothing felt quite right and each discarded garment, sometimes tried on more than once, landed up on the bed. After the great reception enjoyed by my surprised green and black harem trousers yesterday I put on my multi-coloured harem pants; the pants looked good but somehow, it seemed to me, none of my tops were suitable for bookclub – pretty yet demure, and not too strappy, low or sexy, was the order of the day. All my tops of the appropriate colour came into the category of the latter.

Perhaps half an hour had elapsed, and desperation was beginning to set in, when I remembered that I had bought a nice, generous-sized pair of white pedal-pusher pants recently; they hadn’t even been worn yet on account of all the rain we’ve had of late.

“Oh my God!” I thought as I struggled to make the waistband meet.

“Crikey,” I said aloud as I looked in the full-length mirror and noted that, having managed to pull up the unwieldy zip at last (after a great battle), the surplus around the girth of my abdomen had been pushed upwards, unflatteringly, above my waist.

“How much weight must I have gained in eight days?” I wondered, “What on earth have I been eating?”

Suddenly the weight of the world was on my shoulders and I felt ugly and despondent. My thoughts ran to drastic actions, such as beginning the dreaded Dukan Diet again.

“Lucky I rejoined Dawlish Leisure Club,” I thought to myself and I envisaged getting up at six o’clock every morning for the next two weeks to go to the gym and the swimming pool before taking long bike rides (weather permitting).

Still wearing the cutting reminder of my recent sloth and extreme over-indulgence, I continued to search the wardrobe for something pretty, demure and fitting (literally) when I came across another pair of new white three-quarter length pants and the penny dropped…

A few moments later, and dressed in soft pink and white, I was on top of the world again. I had even found a pink ribbon to slip around the waistband of the pants and tie in a pretty bow. The small-sized pants, bought last year in the sales by a very optimistic me, had joined the top of the pile on the bed. I put on some shiny pink lipstick, picked up the cakes I had made, and went off to see the bookworms. A nice spread had been laid on by our host and some of the other bookworms, and I cast aside all thoughts of the famous diet torture devised by Dr Dukan. Well, I deserved it – I had had such a nasty shock…

Who couldn’t love that little face poking out of the basket on a chariot (if that is what you call them) outside our favourite Lidl’s store yesterday?