It wasn’t raining when first we set out for our walk along the sea wall to Coryton Cove beach, the beach favoured by locals and end of the road as far as our sea wall at Dawlish is concerned; but the skies were clouded and grey, and it looked like rain was on its way. Nevertheless, we didn’t mind – Stuart and Mary (don’t they sound like a king and queen?) were down for the weekend and everyone wanted to go out, if only to stretch our legs. Mary and Stuart (sounds just as regal) made a beeline for the shops while Chris, Roland and I preferred to take in the sea air. Of course, the clouds opened up when we were half-way between the railway bridge and the shelter at Boat Cove and we had to run through the puddles as quickly as possible to avoid getting soaked; there is something very nostalgic about being in the rain and running through puddles, we were laughing as we stepped under the shelter.

Three ladies were sitting on one of the green benches; anticipating only a short shower, we chose not to sit and stood to the left of the ladies. Now I’m not one to be unfriendly when I have been running in the rain and laughing, and I’m standing a few yards away from three charming ladies, so, having determined that the ladies had Scottish accents I asked:

“Are you from Scotland?”

“Och aye (I may be exaggerating a tad),” answered the perky lady in powder blue, “We’re from Inverness but we love it here in Dawlish – we’re staying at Dawlish Warren for the week. And I’ll tell you another thing…we’re not voting for independence on the eighteenth of September! All the family know how to vote – I told them….”

We continued chatting about Inverness, Dawlish and importance of remaining united, and we may have carried on chatting even after the rain had stopped. At last we three walkers said our fare-thee-wells (and blew kisses) and we walked on to Coryton Cove, our intended destination (which still looked a bit grey and uninviting).

On our way back, just as we were passing by the shelter again, it started to pour down and we sought cover with the lovely ladies who were still there. By now we were old friends reuniting and our return was received with much merriment. We introduced ourselves properly this time – the two mature ladies are Jane (but they call her Jean) and Bunty (in the dark blue), and the younger lady, Bunty’s daughter-in-law, is called Linda. Our conversation turned to family, husbands and even burials (but in a nice way – Bunty might end up resting with both her late husbands).

“Not many people talk to us old ones,” said Jean.

I nodded. (I knew what she meant.)

“You’re very understanding,” Jean added.

And then the sun came out and the sea turned a beautiful aqua blue. If the ladies from Inverness happen to read this I’d like them to know that they made my day – our chance meeting seemed to me to be like sunshine on a rainy day.

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