The weather hasn’t been the best since my return from Australia; we are in the beautiful month of May yet the cold north wind still blows with great force and the rain still threatens; the spring blossoms are out, the bluebells have come early and are mostly gone (apparently there were two warm weeks while I was away). Nevertheless, fed up with hiding indoors, this morning Chris and I braved the elements and took a walk into the countryside. We went by way of St. Gregory’s Church and beyond the Newhay path to Aller Arch, then onward to the ford, where we often go of a summer’s evening to sit on the little bridge and dangle our hot feet in the cool stream that runs across the road. We had no such ambitions this morning – it was far too cold and we were rigged out in trainers, joggers and waterproof jackets – but we hoped for some bursts of sunshine along the way.

There were few people out walking on our route as we reached the church end of the town – an old lady coming back from the surgery, a simple man going to his job at one of the charity shops, a tall man and a little wire-haired dog wearing a coat (the dog came over to say hello while the man walked on – “You really are a dog-woman,” remarked Chris, who isn’t a dog-man).

We were at the lychgate by St.Gregory’s when the sun appeared and beckoned us into the churchyard; soon the sun went back in and we went back out but we were enlightened, albeit briefly, by the experience.

“It feels like I haven’t been here for a long time,” I said, “and I’m looking at things through new eyes…”

“Probably not since October,” Chris responded, “I expect it’s more to do with the weather than being away.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t entirely convinced.

We walked under Aller Arch, the top of which is part of the driveway to Luscombe Castle, and I remembered the day, many years ago, that Lady Hoare poured me tea in her drawing room – I had been there collecting material for preparatory paintings for a commission by the Barton Surgery. At that time I had a bad cold and when Lady Hoare passed away some short weeks later I feared I might have been responsible. I worried about that for ages until I met someone who knew the family and assured me that she had died from something other than my cold.

It was sunny at the ford, for a few minutes at least, then it rained and Chris and I had to put on our jackets again.

Back through the arch and by the entrance to the Newhay pedestrian path was a car. The window was open and I leaned close.

“Hello stranger,” I said.

Brian looked up and beamed. At the tender age of eighteen I used to work with Brian at Langdon Hospital.

“You’re always here,” I observed. “Every time we come for a walk to the ford we see you somewhere around here!”

“I know,” he said, “You can keep the beach and the town. I’m Dawlish born and bred and I just love to come out here.”

Brian got out of his car, gave me a big hug and shook Chris’s hand.

I tried to resist taking too many photographs on the way home – I know it’s boring for Chris having to stop all the time – but he said he didn’t really mind. He understands the artist in me and my affinity to this pretty little town (even though I’m Australian born and bred), and it is spring (even if it’s cold and rainy), and there were magical bursts of sunshine; and I had the excitement of seeing with fresh eyes, as if I hadn’t seen the place for such a long time…

I thought I was coming home to spring and warmer temperatures; I thought I was done with long trousers and coats (back in February); but I was wrong, I’ve returned to winter in England. Brr… think I’ll hibernate.

The grass was green but the fields were yellow with rapeseed flowers as we drove from Heathrow Airport down to Devon, which I have called my home for many years now. The sun took its time going down, reminding me that on this side of the world it is nearly summer and everything is to come. In the morning the sun rose early and, ignoring the Arctic wind, Chris put the top down on my new sporty car and we picked up my mum and drove to Teignmouth to see Mary. It was the first of May and the magnolias were out, also the ornamental peach tree blossoms and other blossoms with names I can’t remember because I’m still jet-lagged.

At around the same time that my plane, in readiness to land, had been circling above Heathrow my sister slipped on the wet grass in a hillside orchard and was left with three breaks in the tibia and fibula of her right leg.

Mary held court to her visitors from her bed. We listened with awe as she recounted her misadventure. Mary had been alone when it happened. She had to drag herself for forty-five minutes over rough terrain in order to reach the phone, which was in the car some four hundred metres away near the farmhouse. The goats, her only witnesses (apart from the sheep in the orchard – and everyone knows that sheep aren’t as clever as goats), licked her as she crawled by their pen. Mum cried. I had sympathy pains. Lizzie grimaced. Baby Rosie didn’t quite understand and was a welcome distraction.

This morning I drove Mum in my sporty car but we kept the roof up. The Arctic wind blew stronger than it did yesterday, the sun hid behind the grey clouds and I thought of Australia…

“Green Green Grass Of Home”