In the corner
always in the corner
quietly sitting
pipe
tweeds
buttonhole
soft smile
"Lads" he'd say
and tell us of the moor
long ago
covered in ice
carving out the valleys
changing the tors
and we'd listen
respectfully
of course
turns out
he was right
all along
The summer solstice, the longest day of the year and the shortest night and people seemed to be rushing about all over the place. Take your time, relax, slow down and go with the flow. Quite a crowd set out on this typical summer's evening. The sun was so high in the sky we could not even see it. Out we tromped in their back yard to Cuckoo Rock round and up to Combshead for a wet. Over and round to Down Tor and back to the predictably quiet Royal Oak. Tales were told of adventures far and wide. Of holidays where the unexpected came to pass. There appeared to be some murmurings about pert posteriors but I must have drifted off at that stage.
O
nly the finest of the fine and the fairest of the fair ventured forth on this calm dry evening deep into the south moor. Out to Harford Moor Gate and round south with views over the Sound and up onto the ridge.
Past the Longstone and the longest of stone rows up to Butterdon Hill. Past Flat Rock which certainly was and on to Spurrell's Cross with views over Teignmouth - where else. And back to Hangershell Rock perched so sublimely before heading down to the 4 wheel drive before meandering along the lanes to the pub for a swift one - or two.
No fuss, no fanfare, no attention seeking, no bother to anyone, just quietly getting on with it, as usual, in the finest traditions, nineteen years of duty, finding new places to explore, dodging the showers, past the signs of terrible destruction visited on Bellever, finding four sodastream bottles and a cushion, who do these people think they are, enjoying themselves, then to Arch Tor with a wonderful logan stone, up Hollowcombe Bottom with rushing waterfalls and on to Row Tor where the poignant memorial is no more, back down to the cars, on to the PoW, no signs of the new cats yet, a detailed discussion of the relative merits of old people who can no longer sing ensued and home in the tipping rain.
You really do have to be there ...
