The tide was low, even lower than usual because of the effect of the full moon on the tides; and you could walk out past the rocks and the end of the breakwater; and the waves brought in clumps of seaweed… In truth, the prospect of catching any fish wasn’t great… or small, even; rather, it was fairly non-existent. But such trifles do not deter Australian fisher-folk – they are made of hardy stuff.

At Dawlish Post Office (or “One Stop” – the Tesco store with a Post Office counter at the back – very modern England) a little earlier in the day Roland and I met Brian (hero and cyclist from the Leisure Centre).

“Know of any good fishing spots around here?” asked Roland after the introductions.

“How about hiring a boat?” suggested Brian.

“Oh, I’d rather not. I like to sit by the shore and do proper fishing – none of that mackerel fishing, throwing your line in and out,” replied Roly emphatically.

“Well, what about the river at Teignmouth?” Brian looked at me.

“Have you ever caught anything at Teignmouth?” I asked.

“No, I’m more of a cyclist than a fisherman,” explained Brian the cyclist. “What about fishing off the sea wall or the breakwater here at Dawlish. I’ve seen a lot of people fishing here.”

“But have you ever seen anyone catch anything?” I enquired.

“Now you come to mention it… no! But I’m sure that someone must,” Brian laughed.

Encouraged by that thought, a short while later Roland and I made for the part of the beach just down from our house (you can wave to the people on the beach from our terrace). My Aussie friend set  up the rods while I walked out farther than I’ve ever done before and took photographs from the different viewpoint. Within minutes the security man, who is employed to keep the public from wandering past a certain point to where the seawall repairs are still being carried out, came down to warn us not to overstep the mark and then he realised it was his mate Roland. They had a nice chat and the security man went back to his hut. Then a lady came along with her dogs and chatted with us before the security guard made his way down the beach again had a chat with her.

“He likes to chat up the ladies,” said Roland.

“Did he tell you that?” I asked.

“Yes, he loves his job because of all the opportunities he gets with the ladies. Well, we are mates,” he winked.

A boat with a white sail sailed by close to shore and seagulls sat on the exposed rocks; people walked in rock pools while their dogs ran into the sea; and trains passed slowly as they entered or departed Dawlish station.

The tide came in quickly and we repaired to the top of the breakwater. After two and a half hours of fishing we hadn’t caught anything but seaweed and the sun. Did we mind? Of course not – the joys of fishing have little to do with actually catching fish. And here are some of the photo’s…

The seagulls were very obliging models yesterday at Brixham…

What a lovely surprise to find that Devon Pixies really do exist at Cockington!

On our way home this afternoon Chris, Roland and I popped into my sister’s house for afternoon tea. The coffee table was laden with delicious scones and a chocolate cake; and in the oven was a fresh-baked gooseberry pie. My dear old mum was there, too; she looked so cute in her white sun hat with the pink band of ribbon as she sat on the sofa.

Mum was on great form.

“You look very Australian,” she said to Roland, our old friend from Australia. “I like your brown hairy legs.”

“You’ll be getting off with me next,” said Roland with a smile.

Mary was whipping cream and checking on the pie in the kitchen; and the rest of us, alert with hunger and the suspense of waiting for Mary’s pie, were an avid audience for Mum who held the floor.

“You remember I bought those nectarines on Saturday?” Mum asked, looking at me.

I nodded.

“Well, I made some nectarine jam with them, just like I said I would, and I used the nectarines in the same way as I do with plums, ” she said and then she paused for the perfect length of time for maximum effect before continuing. “It’s no wonder nobody has ever heard of nectarine jam… It doesn’t have any taste!”

“Oh really?” asked Roland, “I would have thought it would taste nice.”

We all agreed that nectarine jam sounds perfectly plausible and delicious (if unusual).

“A novelty jam,” I suggested.

“A speciality jam,” Roland added.

I thought of a peculiar and particularly tasteless speciality fig jam I had tried in Australia earlier this year and I burst out laughing. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a laughing jackass… but of course, my mum knows that.

As a matter of fact we didn’t attend the vintage car rally at Powderham Castle this afternoon, but we parked our cars by Powderham Church and walked to the Turf Locks by the Exe Estuary. Also, we popped into the Powderham Castle farm shop to buy some pies for dinner. Therefore we had the pleasure of meeting some of the old-timers quite by accident in car parks and on the road….

At Trago Mills (our favourite non-supermarket type store) there are always plenty of cute animals clucking or waddling around at liberty; however, today was a cute dog day, as you can see…

Yesterday was a day for looking at the clouds…

“Give us a wiggle,” Chris exhorted, trying very hard to be cheerful, considering I had been so sour from the moment of waking.

“No, I can’t,” I said disconsolately. “I’m too ugly, fat…and deaf!”

After over two weeks of suffering from a nasty virus, this morning, although better in myself, I had awoken to find myself completely deaf in one ear, and it was in my good ear at that. No amount of yawning, nose-blowing, massage or ear drops did anything to help.

Now if you’re a regular visitor to my blog you will know that I’m generally a happy soul, and also that nothing makes me happier than going out for a cycle ride on a nice sunny day; and when I’m riding my bike, and extremely happy, I’m rather apt to give a little wiggle (surreptitiously) from time to time to inform Chris (who always cycles behind me) that everything is well with the world and me (and Chris and me).

“Are you sure you’re up to going?” Chris asked.

I nodded. The bikes were already at the top of the steps, the sun was shining and I knew that a ride would lighten my mood – it always does.

In a few moments, having grumpily passed a group of jostling large pedestrians (or so it seemed to me in my mood) on the small pavement outside our house, we were coasting down the hill to Dawlish town centre. The rush of air going through my hair was exhilarating. We were on our way to the ford, close enough not to be a demanding ride for a person recuperating from a virus but far enough to feel the benefit; and the ford is always a lovely place to visit. Two girls of about fourteen, both wearing jodhpurs, let us pass them on the Newhay path, past the church, just before it narrows on the bridge. They caught us up at the ford some minutes later and we exchanged pleasantries before they continued on their way to a horse farm farther up the road.

The field on the other side of the fence by the ford had recovered from its recent encounter with tractors and baling machines, and already the new grass was lush, green and filled with little daisies; thistles were coming into flower and the leaves on the trees had turned a darker, more mature green denoting that, indeed, we are in Summer. This time there were no families with tots playing in the water, it was just Chris and me, and a lady passing by, waving, in her blue car.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked as we stood on the bridge.

Chris took me in his arms and we kissed. (I bet a lot of people have kissed on that tiny bridge over the ford.)

On the way home, just the other side of Aller Arch (the top of which comprises part of the grand driveway to ‘The Castle’), we stopped and wondered at the sight of an older man in an orange jacket. The red sign close-by on the road informed of ‘ Delays, hedge trimming’ and Chris and I smiled at one another – there was nothing coming in any direction. Suddenly, as if by divine intervention, a cyclist appeared ahead of a tractor; one car appeared, and then another; a lady out cycling with her children came from the town direction, and they had to get off and wait while two trucks, a van and other cars vied for space to pass. At the point of total gridlock yet another car pulled in to wait it out by the Newhay path; inside the car were our friends and neighbours, Catherine and Martin, and his parents Ian and Pearly, who are down on holiday from Scotland.

Before long the gentleman in orange had cleared the gridlock successfully and everyone went on their ways, including us. I managed to raise a few wiggles as I went over the speed bumps in the town centre but I’m still as deaf as a post.