Personally, I wouldn’t dream of becoming a miner but Chris would; in fact, he did just that last night. Now I hardly dream at all because Chris is a bit of a snorer (an understatement, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings by making a big thing of it – you understand). Chris, on the other hand, often dreams and last night was no exception; he told me about it when he came back to bed with our cups of tea.

“I dreamt I was a miner last night,” he told me.

“Oh yes?” I tried to show some interest though I was still half-asleep on account of our late night (we had to feed my niece’s cat at midnight because they are away camping in Cornwall and I forgot to feed the cat earlier in the day!).

“Yes, I was wearing a miner’s mask (I smiled to myself) and helmet with a light on the top,” Chris said.

“Like a proper miner then?”

“Yes, and we were digging a tunnel – I think it was a tunnel…”

“So you weren’t alone?”.

“No, there was a team of us. Anyway, as I was digging away into the rock my pickaxe went  back, struck someone behind me and killed him.”

“How horrible!” I sympathised.

“Yes, well the other miners said that we’d all get the blame so we went outside and closed the tunnel. It was awful – I could hardly breathe behind my mask – and when we were outside the others took their masks off but I couldn’t.”

“Ah, we both know why you had that dream – don’t we?” I responded.

Chris laughed.

“And how did you sleep last night Darling?” Chris asked.

“Very well, for once thank you. I even managed to sleep deeply enough to have a dream myself; I dreamt that Mary (my sister) had lost weight and wore a skimpy bikini to show off her enviable figure (which, indeed, I envied),” I replied.

“So you’ll be wanting me to wear that snoring mouth-guard every night from now on? (I nodded.) And I suppose that tomorrow night I’ll be dreaming about eating chewy calamari?”

‘Twere right lovely, ’twas – our few days in the Lake District, Cumbria. For some reason everyone speaks like that in t’North! Chris and I left Roland, our dear friend from Australia, to fend for himself and house-sit for us whilst we swanned off to visit our other friends, Janine and Stephen, in t’North (we’re right friendly like that in t’South, as Northerners know).

Strangely enough, the day before we left for t’North, while we were shopping for wine, orchids and sweets in our favourite Tesco store, and we had just reached the pasta section at the end of the first aisle, when a young man appeared suddenly in front of us. Now this young staff member (or “colleague” as we hear over the store Tannoy system) probably isn’t as young as he seems because he’s been working in the store for quite a few years and, truth to tell, he is retarded; however he is as bright as a button in the cheerful stakes, especially once he gets to know you. He always greets us with smiles and hellos, and he is often to be seen at the end of a checkout – he is usually the one who asks if you require help with packing.

I expect you’re wondering what was so funny about last Saturday. Well, this seemingly young chap has a very loud and high-pitched voice, and an accent from t’North, possibly Lancashire (which borders with the Lake District). Chris and I were huddling close together behind our trolley (we are very affectionate shoppers, as you may remember if you’re a regular to my blog) as we passed the racks of spaghetti, fettuccine and linguine when the happy fellow in question stepped in front of us, beamed and asked in a loud, high-pitched voice:

“Are you going to Glastonbury?”

Chris and I had to stop and think for a moment. We would be going close to Glastonbury on our way up t’North the next day but we wouldn’t be going to Glastonbury, and anyway, surely we’re a bit old for going to the music festival; and we didn’t go even when we where young; and it’s too muddy; and isn’t it on next weekend?

“No,” I answered.

“Are you going to Glastonbury?” asked Chris.

“No,” the Tesco colleague laughed, as if the idea was ridiculous.

Up t’North the next day Chris recounted the tale to our friend Stephen, who was as amused as we were. During the following three days of our stay that question – “Are you going to Glastonbury?” – was asked many times and always the answer would came back the same… “No, are you going to Glastonbury?” And everyone laughed. The men sounded so funny with their accents.

“Do you know what is even funnier?” Chris asked me when we were on our own.

“No, what?” I responded.

“Well, you know that Stephen is from Lancashire?” Chris asked (I nodded) and he continued, “When he asks ‘Are you going to Glastonbury?’, he does so in a Scottish accent!”

T’Northerners talk very funny.

Last Saturday Roland caught a fish! The photographs tell the story…

If you’re a regular to my blog you will know already that the little ford, on the way to Smallacombe Farm in the countryside only a mile or so from the centre of Dawlish, is one of my favourite haunts; Chris and I love to cycle there on summer evenings and dangle our feet into the water. Today we thought we’d go for a lovely walk to the ford with Roland, our friend visiting from Australia. The sun was out, the sky was blue and cloudless – it was the perfect day for walking and showing off the pretty ford. It was also a perfect day for taking photo’s but, unfortunately, my SD card was still in my laptop; hence, I borrowed Roland’s fancy iphone and snapped away to my heart’s content.

Apparently we are not the only people to have fond associations with this part of Dawlish for, as we reached the top of the road looking down to the ford, we saw the beautiful sight of three young children, all in their swimming costumes, playing in the water; they were accompanied by a pretty young blonde, a young man and three dogs of different varieties and sizes – very large to tiny; the wonderful thing was that were all so natural and happy. A bicycle was parked on the bridge so I took off my sandals and walked through the shallow water.

“Watch out for the slippery green patches,” said the young woman.

“Did you slip over?” I bent down to ask the two tots.

The little boy promptly walked on a slippery area and fell down on his bottom. I laughed and he did it two more times. His name is Rudy and he is three years old. The little girl, Maia, wearing a sweet little sun hat, was similarly interested in the passers-by who had stopped to chat and share in the joy of being at the ford on a hot day, but she was less extroverted than her boy-cousin of the same age; and the older girl, Tegan, at the grand age of eight was old enough to be slightly reserved but polite enough to join in conversation and tell me that Rudy is her brother. The adults – brother and sister – had brought their offspring to the ford for the same simple pleasures they had enjoyed when they were children themselves.

Much to the amusement of all, one car and a tractor passed through the water whilst we were there. I took many photographs and I think they are good ones (Roland’s phone camera is probably better than mine), the only trouble is that his phone is so fancy that he doesn’t have an SD photo’ card and I’ve no idea how to transfer shots from phone to laptop. And he can’t send them to me individually for some reason. Tomorrow we are off to the Lake District for a few days, therefore, we shall have to work out how to download those photographs when we get back. Apologies to all, especially the lovely family who didn’t mind me snapping, and who were told that they would be in today’s blog post. Watch this space towards the end of next week for shots of the rural idyll…

Our lovely Aussie friend arrived in the mid-afternoon; we went out onto the terrace for drinks and a few snacks, including a bowl of cherries; we left the snacks of nuts, crisps, cheese straws, bread and jam (and cherries) out on the white table while we showed our friend the garden below the terrace; when we returned, perhaps ten minutes later, we found a seagull on the table and a bowlful of cherries. Some cherries had been spat out onto the paviors – he loved everything but cherries!

Last night I read a newspaper article that claimed Ex- British Prime Minister Tony Blair accepted no blame for the current problems in Iraq. Quite by chance this morning, whilst checking the veracity of a quote in an email, I came across this particular quote by Dwight D. Eisenhower, 34th President of the Unites States (1953 – 1961).

“Preventive war was an invention of Hitler. I would not even listen to anyone seriously that came and talked about such a thing.” 
― Dwight D. Eisenhower

Dwight D. Eisenhower > Quotes

www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/23920.Dwight_D_Eisenhower?page=1

It was so lovely, sunny and hot today that I had to open both the studio doors. I felt like I was in a garden (my idea of heaven), which isn’t so strange because Chris built my studio in the pot garden (pot as in plant pots rather than cannabis!). Here are some photo’s of my favourite piece of garden. And if you’re wondering why there is a life-saving ring hung on a chair – why I was painting it, of course.

Thanks to Rob for this joke. I think my title is better.