Category Archives: Photography

Everybody’s Going to Looe – What About You, You, You?

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By now you may realise that our friend Roland and I went to Looe in Cornwall – you ought to as I have mentioned it a few times in my blog posts. It’s just that Looe, and the trip itself, came as a complete surprise to me. I hadn’t planned on going anywhere, then I was going to go fishing, then it rained, and then I was suddenly going to Cornwall.

Often the best of times are had when things happen impromptu, as they did yesterday. In fact, the day was full of surprises, not least because I thought I had been to Looe before and I wasn’t expecting the town to be as big, or as old (some of the buildings date back to the fourteen hundreds), or as beautiful. As you will see from the photographs, the beach and coastline are spectacular.

I was also surprised to learn that a friend of ours had been in Looe on the same day; then later last evening, when Chris and I were watching the property programme, “A Place in the Sun – Home or Away”, where do you think one of the home houses was located? You guessed it!

The other lovely surprise was that the rain held off…

 

Anyone for a Cornish Pasty?

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When you go to Cornwall for the day there is something you really must try… an honest-to-goodness real Cornish pasty! Don’t worry, you can’t miss them because there are pasty shops at every turn. We were starving after our drive into foreign territory, and it was lunchtime, so Roland bought ours from the first pasty shop we came across. And very delicious they were, not too big nor too small, the pastry was crisp and buttery; and inside of each was a perfect ratio of steak to potato, onion and swede; and the steak was tasty and tender, without any hint gristle or bone (as sometimes detected in inferior pasty shops here in Devon).

In fact, our pasties were so appetising that a seagull landed on the roof of a car close to us and plotted his methods for appropriation. It was clear that he was a nice seagull and not experienced or interested in using the tactics of many a nasty seagull in Dawlish – like dive-bombing or swooping down with an open beak; he was more timid and even turned away when we glanced at him, no doubt feigning a lack of intent. He wasn’t a very good actor. At last he summoned the courage to step forward and appeal by dint of his youthful good looks and a charming bashfulness; I was nearly taken in – I stood up and approached him with an outstretched arm holding a juicy morsel of pasty… He moved another step closer… And…

“Don’t do it,” warned Roland, “Or next he’ll be taking food from children’s mouths.”

“Quite true,” I withdrew my hand, remembering the incident, years ago, of a sausage roll being pecked right out of my nephew’s hands when I was taking him out in his pram through Dawlish Brook (I hope James can’t remember – bet he is terrified of Hitchcock’s film, “The Birds”).

But I threw the tidbit onto the ground and the seagull had a nice mouthful of Cornish pasty. Well, you can’t go to Cornwall and not try a Cornish pasty.

 

The Season for Swans – Cockwood Harbour

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Almost exactly a year ago I took photographs of the swans at Cockwood Harbour – the harbour was full of them and, it being early morning, the swans were all asleep and had their heads tucked under their wings. Now I’m not normally a particularly early riser but this morning I awoke at six-thirty with the impulse to go for a bike ride to Cockwood and Chris and I were away within the hour.

The sun was shining and the gentle breeze had the coolness of morning, making it a very pleasant ride, and even more-so because the roads were pretty well free of traffic; it was too early for the morning dog-walkers and sightseers on the cycle-paths and the serious cyclists (in Lycra) kept to the roads.

The tide was out and the slender snake of water remaining was still trickling out under the railway bridge and into the estuary; disappointingly, all the boats were sitting on mud and the harbour was bereft of swans. Nevertheless, we parked our bikes by the railings and strolled around to the bridge. When the tide is out you can walk under the bridge, stand on the other side and take in the view of Exmouth across the water; and, as we discovered, you can see also a flock of swans silhouetted against the sun and the glistening water…

A Family Resemblance?

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Chris, Mary and I went to a barbecue in Somerset. You may think seventy miles is quite a long way to go for a barbecue but it was a special one, and some people had travelled even farther than us. You see it was a bit of a get-together with a branch of my cousins, many of whom we hadn’t seen for seven years or more, from my Dad’s side of the family. In the intervening years some of my first cousins once removed (and even one first cousin twice removed) had brought new members of the family into the world.

I must say the thing that struck me most – even more than the evident good looks shared by all of my blood relatives – was the uncanny family resemblance. Yet stranger still was that that same resemblance occurred also amongst some of the in-laws and non-family members.

“My goodness,” exclaimed a friend of my cousin Stephanie who was hosting the party, “We all look related!”

“Well, we are in Somerset so that’s not unlikely,” piped up my brother Robert.

And everyone laughed, including the lady who had always lived in sight of the tower on the hilltop in the distance, which we could see from the garden.

A Secret Oasis

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There are no signs pointing to the oasis on Dartmoor – it’s a secret. For all I know there might even be more than one, but I know of this one only. It’s so secret that I’m not sure I should even tell you. Therefore I shall just hint at its location and you may choose to investigate further. Suffice to say, the beautiful (and exclusive) oasis pictured in the photographs below lies in the vicinity of Haytor, where we went on Monday. Actually, it is known as “The Quarry”, and that is about as much as I’m prepared to divulge. Well, we don’t want the whole world to go there and ruin it.

If you’re really desperate to find it (and the bountiful little wild blueberries lurking in the undergrowth and between rocks) please contact me secretly via my site and I will draw you a secret map – for your eyes only. Shh….

Down on the Farm With Mary and Roland

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Yesterday morning Mary and I took Roland to visit Rosie down on the farm. You may remember that last year I painted a mural on the inside of the American Air Streak caravan in the garden; that was when I fell in love with the farm, and the dogs, and the llamas.

Sadly, the littlest llama, hand-reared and beloved by all, died this week at the tender age of two and a half. We girls all shed a few tears and talked llamas (as you do when you visit a farm with llamas) and then Mary and Roland went for a wonderful walk in the top field from where they looked across the valley to the sea while Rosie and I talked about new paintings for the Air Streak caravan.

Spot the Dog

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Our friend Roland thinks that there are a lot of dogs in England. What can he mean? Here are some of the shots I took when we went to Brixham, the little fishing town along the coast from Torquay…

Photographs of the River Teign

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Saturday is generally shopping day for Chris and me, and we usually take my mum along too; but before we go shopping we nearly always take a little detour to the Passage House Inn, located in a pretty spot by the River Teign, where we park up and Chris reads Mum my blogs (which have accumulated of late owing to my virus keeping me in). It was a beautiful morning and we were driving along on the Newton Abbot road when I noticed the river on my left; the tide was in and the reflections on the water were picturesque.

“Can you pull in Chris?” I asked.

Just at that moment we saw the turn off for Wear Farm caravan park and Chris turned in obligingly. It was a good job he did because the views of the river from that vantage point were breathtaking. Strangely enough, considering we pass by so often, none of us had ever turned onto that road before. And here are the photographs, including the ones taken down by the river a few minutes later…

 

 

Three Ladies From Inverness

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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.

 

 

The Royal Duchy Train Passes Through Dawlish

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The Royal Duchy steam train passed through Dawlish at eleven-thirty yesterday morning. Mary and Stuart were still with us at that point and our terrace was quite occupied; therefore, I decided to take my shots from our garden on the sea-side, which is just above the the sea wall and railway line. No problem – I heard the whistle and ran downstairs; I had my Canon SRL at the ready on multiple shot mode (a bit quicker than my aged little mobile phone camera, which needs time to think and process).

Later on we thought we’d take some shots of the train returning in the evening.

“The timetable says that the train is due at Dawlish Warren at seven-thirty,” began Chris, “so it should pass by our house five minutes earlier.”

That was at about ten past seven. Chris and I had plenty of time to get out our cameras, change lenses, have a cup of tea, chat, go to the loo… At twenty past seven we were in position, waiting, just in case the train was to come early. Down by the sea wall and on the railway bridge below other folk were also prepared; we all waited patiently; a man and his grandson fishing from the breakwater were the only people who seemed to be oblivious of the impending excitement.

“The steam trains can also be late,” said Chris very astutely at half-past seven.

“But not too late,” I suggested, hoping for a positive response.

“Well, not necessarily,” Chris answered, “It might have to wait for other trains to pass through first.”

“I’m getting hungry,” I said five minutes or so later, “And it’s getting chilly out here”. I rubbed my arms.

Chris and Roland perked up at the thought of my making dinner – they, too, were tiring of waiting and they rubbed their arms too.

“If we were inside, wouldn’t we hear the whistle as it comes through, Chris?” asked Roland hopefully.

“What do you think, Chris?” I asked, equally as hopefully as Roland.

“Yes,” Chris pondered, “I think we would.” (Which was very hopeful indeed on Chris’s part because he is a tad deaf, as you may remember.)

So we three departed the cold terrace for the warm inside; the men went into the lounge room and I went into the kitchen; the men had left the French doors open so that we could hear the whistle. I was just getting the chicken breasts out of the fridge when the men called:

“It’s here Sally!”

And then I heard it too…as it whistled past our house!