Quite often, well very rarely and if we are really, really lucky we hear the whirring of the wings and the characteristic peeping of the alarm call as they swoop away. And then, if daylight, we see them as they sweep away low to the ground. This evening, on one of those evening's that are not over-promising, you know the sort of evening when you really must get out there; with the mist swirling, visibility a couple of yards, when the giant (I mean giant) army lorry is a bit lost and needs help; this evening, there it was just sitting on the track with time enough to admire and even get a snap. What a huge treat!
And from then on it all went gently up hill. Those pesky piskies had been out moving the tors around. I don't blame them it must be lots of fun watching those silly 'umans wandering here and there.
From Yellowmeade to Hollow, somewhere near Rundlestone and over the road. Up the long, long track that marks the ancient bounds, past the finger stones that can never be found - pesky piskies. To take a cuppa under the gentle red flash of Great Mis. Of course we had to go to the pan. Down, down with pesky piskies about moving stuff and placing elusive bogs and feather beds to the cars.
On to the Plume, a proper pub, where it transpired that the evening of the 15th February 2017 was very, very significant. A detailed poll of everyone and subsequent data analysis proved as an irrefutable fact that absolutely nobody was going to work the next day - Fact!