Cockington Revisited

It is so beautiful at Cockington on a summer’s morning that we went twice in the space of a week; firstly with our friend Sally from Cyprus and again with Roland who is over from Australia. 

You will notice from some of the photographs that the residents of Cockington are rather keen on visitors behaving themselves well. Naughty children are mincemeat in the hands of authoritarian householders and older miscreants are sent to the stocks. As you can see Roly got himself in a bit of bother – perhaps he was caught red-handed? He was tied up for a while but all was forgiven and we ended up in The Church House Inn at Combeinteignhead where we wet our whistles and shared a bowl of chips for lunch. Funnily enough, Chris thought he was taking us to The Masons’ Arms… which is in Branscombe, East Devon! He’s still trying to live it down.

 

Four Men in a Boat

“Roland, would you mind telling me again about your boat trip, in detail, so that I can tell my blog readers?” I asked with pen and paper in my hands.

“No, of course not, but where shall I start?” our friend from Brisbane chuckled at the memory and sat down on the dry seat I had proferred (it had stopped raining and he was having a smoke on my studio patio whilst I sat the other side of the threshold with the door open between us).

“Start at the beginning,” I suggested, “and I’ll prompt you when necessary.”

“Well,” began Roland, “we arrived at Polly Steps at Teignmouth, on the harbour side of Shaldon Bridge. Geoff (my brother-in-law) drove the trailer onto the boat ramp while Chris (that’s my husband), James (my sixteen year old nephew) and I were already knee-deep in the water in order to manoeuvre the boat off the trailer. Three attempts and we were launched successfully. Captain Geoff sat next to the motor on the back seat, James was on the triangular bow seat and Chris and I were in the middle seats. On the floor of the boat was a conglomeration of ropes, plastic bags, oars twice the size of the boat and a cool bag with three cans of beer.”

“So not much floor space?” I queried.

“Not with all those ropes,” he shook his head and gave a wry smile as if he was remembering something funny.

“And what was the weather like?” I thought you readers might like to paint a mental picture of the scene.

“Oh yes, the weather,” Roly understood. “It was around five o’clock in the afternoon and sunny – balmy even – not a cloud in the sky. The tide was coming in but the water was shallow as high tide was eight o’clock. We were headed for The Passage House Inn at Newton Abbot. As we negotiated the narrow channel for a mile or so up the river Chris and Geoff pointed out various houses and the village of Bishopsteignton set below the sunlit fields on the right hand side. It must have been around there that the shimmering on the water made it ever more hard for us to pick out the channel and the muddy riverbed appeared closer and closer as we looked over the side of the boat.”

“Did you all see that?” I wondered about Geoff.

“Yes, except for Geoff!”, Roly laughed. “Through his expert navigation the propeller started churning up the mud… which reminded me of my own experience of running out of water in my boat a few years ago…!

“Oh no,” I said, remembering that same incident.

“Yes, we could all feel the shallowness of the water and James said to Geoff, ‘Granddad, tilt the motor forward to raise the prop,’ but it was too late; by the time he’d finished his sentence we’d hit the mud full on. We couldn’t go anywhere so Chris, James and I got out to push the boat back into deeper water.”

“Did Geoff laugh too?” I asked, considering that Roland was laughing while talking.

“He couldn’t understand how it had happened and suggested we push the boat into deeper water,” our friend from Australia chuckled. “Young James, being an Oxford rower, said, ‘Hold on, I’ll row us out into deeper water!’ We got back into the boat and this time James took up position in the middle and put the giant oars into the rowlocks. James’ arms criss-crossed as he attempted to row and he complained, ‘Granddad, these oars are too long and need adjusting’. Geoff said, ‘I’ll just saw them off then when we get home!'”

I laughed.

“James started rowing, pulling for all he was worth,” Roland continued, relishing the memory, “and we were going nowhere. We looked over the sides of the boat into the water and saw that we were stranded; inadvertently, we had pushed the boat directly onto a submerged tree trunk! But the ultra long oar came in handy when James used it, gondolier-like, to push the boat off the tree trunk.

Geoff started the motor but let James take over. ‘You see if you can do any better!’ Geoff told him. James negotiated his way into the right channel and headed toward Passage House Inn (where we sometimes stop for Chris to read Mum my blogs). The river was too low for us to disembark at the jetty so we pulled onto the mud and Geoff struck anchor on the grassy bank. Being safety conscious, Geoff covered the anchor with his high vis jacket to prevent people from tripping over it.

Two beers and pleasant chats later we re-boarded and set off to advance further into Newton Abbot. The channel became smaller and smaller and the foliage greater and greater until we ran out of navigable water – it was like a jungle.” Roland paused as he reminisced.

The crew go upriver to Newton Abbot

“Like the ‘African Queen’?” I saw it in my mind’s eye.

“We did mention that,” Roland agreed, “also when were pushing the boat.”

I thought of Humphrey Bogart and the leeches.

“Two hours after we’d set out we headed back,” Roland wanted to finish his story. “The sun was lower in the sky and the tide was almost full, so no more running aground. We passed The Passage House Inn – didn’t go in – and went on to the boardwalk wharf jetty at Coombe Cellars. It was about eight o’clock. The air was cooling as the sun went down and lots of people had finished their dinners. We enjoyed our one drink as watched the ripples on the water, the long shadows and the lovely reflections of the trees on the river. It was absolutely beautiful.”

The sun going down at Coombe Cellars

“Any more mishaps in the homeward leg of your journey?” I had to ask.

“There was no heading peacefully back to Polly Steps, as you know Sally,” Roland chuckled. “Geoff shut the motor off as we reached the boat ramp and Chris, James and I jumped into the water to secure the boat and prevent it from bashing into the ramp. Geoff stabilised the motor, pushing it forward to stop the propeller from scraping the corrugated concrete surface. So the three of us deckhands were all wet in water up past our knees while Captain Geoff was nice and dry still in the stern of his boat. Young James observed, ‘Granddad, you haven’t even got your feet wet during this trip!’

At the same instant Geoff was disembarking from the boat, one leg over the side and in the process of bringing the other leg over, when his remaining foot became entangled in the conglomeration of ropes, plastic bags and over-sized oars… Suddenly, breaking free from the restricting anchor rope – and with his mobile phone in his hand – Geoff fell sideways into the water!”

“And was he completely submerged?” I asked with devilment.

“Completely,” laughed Roland, “and the funniest thing was that his hand came out of the water first! ‘My phone! My phone!’ he called out as he raised his head.”

“Did you have a wonderful time?” I asked.

“It was absolutely brilliant!” our old friend enthused. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world… and no doubt the couple of beers made it even merrier!”

“Thank you Roly.” 

Now don’t feel too sorry for my brother-in-law because his lovely new Samsung Galaxy 6 Edge mobile phone arrived today and he vastly pleased. Every cloud has a silver lining!

Water, water everywhere but never a drop to drink!

Ape Man or Jungle Jim?

“Oh dear,” said my husband Chris as he joined me for breakfast on the terrace one morning about two weeks ago, “I’m not sure that I’ve done the right thing by accepting our latest guest request…” 

“How so?” I asked with surprise as I looked up from my diet shake (no, I’m not slim yet!).

“Well, Igor looks normal enough on his profile photograph – even a tad nerdy – and other Airbnb hosts have recommended them as a nice couple, but, do we really want them to ‘go ape’ in our lovely suite?”

“Go ape?” I repeated, mental images of Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan racing into my mind and it didn’t seem so bad, then I thought of the other connotations – of people getting out of control or over-enthusiastic. 

“I hope they don’t swing from the chandeliers and mark their territory,” Chris said, reading my mind.

“Maybe it’s just a new term for having fun,” I suggested.

So we stopped thinking about Igor ‘going ape’ until yesterday, when he contacted us to arrange their arrival plans. I read the email first:

“We intend to go ape tree until three o’clock and then we’ll come over to you if that’s okay.”

“That’s a relief,” laughed Chris, having checked out on Google that Go Ape is a tree top adventure course with Tarzan ropes and ladders.

A short while ago Igor and his girlfriend, a very nice young couple (not at all nerdy), confirmed that they had had a great time swinging in the tree tops at Haldon Forest, perhaps half an hour from us.

“I’ve never heard of Go Ape before,” I said, “but it sounds exciting – like a jungle gym!”

They nodded enthusiastically.

Of course, they probably hadn’t even heard of Jungle Jim and wouldn’t have known that Jungle Jim (also played Olympic swimmer Johnny Weissmuller) was one of my childhood heroes… along with Tarzan, Superman,  Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone (quote – I can’t say as ever I was lost, but I was bewildered once for three days). They stopped making Jungle Jim before I was born!

Should’ve Gone to Specsavers (Yet Another Instance!)

Earlier today Chris and I were leaning over the balustrade on our terrace to admire the work we did in the bottom garden on the sea side of our house yesterday. We had laboured hard with pruning, strimming, clearing and removing weeds and soil from the steps going down the steep slope (forty-five degrees) so we were feeling pleased with ourselves.

“From here it looks like a grave,” Chris said as he pointed out the loose soil on the brick steps edging the lawn.

“I don’t think so,” I disagreed.

All the same, I turned on the hose and held it over the balustrade letting the water cascade like heavy rain onto the brickwork beneath. Water collected in brown puddles over the brick steps and, Chris, thinking he might do better than me, took over. He didn’t.

Convinced that it was simply a matter of perseverance and quantity of water, I commandeered the hose and stood for quite a time leaning over the balustrade. Every now and then I made a comment to Chris about the slowness of the task and how much water it was taking. He didn’t say much – I thought him either bored or deaf (he is a tad deaf) – but I enjoyed his company nevertheless. I like us doing chores together.

After ten minutes or so I was getting a bit fed up with just standing there holding the hose and continually watching the water plop onto the soily wet steps. I seemed to remember Chris saying earlier that it might rain today, which, if so, would obviate the requirement for me to hose the steps to stop them looking like a grave.

“Did you say that it’s going to rain later today darling?” I asked.

No answer.

“Is rain forecast this afternoon Darling?” I ask a little louder this time.

Nothing.

So for the first time since I’d begun hosing I looked up from my lowered gaze upon the garden.Turning to the right to where I had sensed Chris’s head to be I was greatly surprised to find that it wasn’t his head at all but the stone ornamental flowerpot in the middle of the balustrade! Should’ve gone to Specsavers!

I laughed to myself. My ornamental (if not monumental) husband was inside, engrossed with his tax forms on the table – not such an empty vessel after all.

Is it going to rain later today Darling?

How to Deal With Screaming Babies and Children in Supermarkets

Firstly, I must say that I really like babies and children in general. I love their innocence and the candid way they look at you, and suss you out, before they react. What joy when they like you and how disappointing when they don’t (and you mustn’t expect or press too hard for a good response). But however much I may love babies I certainly can’t stick their screaming in supermarkets – the shrill notes go right through me – and not just me and other shoppers; they must be the bane of many a shop-assistant’s life.

Recently I read on Facebook of a grandmother’s experience when her grandchild played up at the checkout while she, herself, was dealing with the cashier. Evidently, the guardian granny was extremely angry when the lady behind her tried to cajole the child and she even swore at the woman for touching the tot. Well, reading this I wondered what I would have done had I been in the same position as the lady behind the screaming baby. It’s quite likely that I, too, would have beseeched the screamer to stop. I might even have squeezed a toe to distract the child from her antics… or perhaps not, I can’t be sure but I could imagine doing so. I have definitely touched the arm or hand of a charming unknown child before now.

Last Saturday, whilst shopping at Trago Mills (one of my favourites stores) I found myself in a not dissimilar situation. One moment I was happily, and peacefully, looking at head-bands for baby girls… and then… suddenly, my ears were assailed by a terrible high-pitched screaming. With a finger in each ear I looked down into a pram at the young perpetrator – he was a blond, curly haired little angel with pink cheeks and red lips. I was about to complain about the terrible noise when the pretty mother got in first… 

“Sorry about Phillip, he’s normally a good boy,” she said holding her own ears. 

Phillip continued to scream.

“Calm down now and stop screaming,” she said firmly.

He howled.

“Oh what a gorgeous boy you are!” I said, turning from the mother to the vexed baby.

Young Phillip stopped screaming immediately and looked at me transfixed.

“He likes you!” she enthused.

“And what beautiful hair you have! Like an angel!” I continued with the compliments because he was really was that beautiful and also because he seemed to love them so much. It was calming.

“He had open-heart surgery not long ago and he’s still getting over it,” added his mum.

I was so glad that I’d taken the soft approach on this occasion.

 

There was another occasion a few years ago when I was in Tesco’s… I heard him long before I saw him. He was a dark-haired “Dennis the Menace” aged about three or four, too big for the trolley seat and therefore stood in the back of the shopping trolley, screaming his head off. Indeed, so awful and embarrassing was he that his mother or father had disowned him and gone off to shop in some other aisle (or store perhaps). 

“Good,” I thought as I rounded the corner and saw Dennis alone, screaming at the top of his voice. I walked up to him calmly, bent my head close to his ear and gave him my best theatrical whisper:

“Shut up!”

Dennis stopped and looked nonplussed. Obviously no-one had ever told him to shut up until then. And while his mouth was still open with surprise a little old lady came zooming up the aisle from the opposite end and bent her head close to his other ear:

“Yeah, shut up!”

A double whammy. We ladies did a “thumbs up” and continued our shopping in peace.

 

Still April 17th

Some time later today this card, featuring the English composer Sir Arthur Bliss, appeared for Chris…


 

And at exactly the same time this poem appeared for me. What Bliss!

 

          THE ANNIVERSARY “FAULTS”

 

 “Am I too late?” the Possum muttered, holding back the tears

“Have we in truth been married thus for nigh on twenty years?

And each and every year I’ve managed somehow to compose

an anniversary ditty, sometimes poems, sometimes prose

Yet this year, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve really missed the boat

and failed completely, just this once,  to write  something of note

So does this mean, you might well ask, if Love has somehow dimmed

and faded into nothingness, it’s passion somewhat trimmed?

And has the heady adoration, once so freely shown

just spread its wings and headed south, where maybe Love has flown?”

 

“Not so!”, the Possum firmly cried, “For Love should not depend

on calendars, and writing cards and poems without end

and yes, it’s very comforting to give and to receive

these tokens of our love, these signs that help us to believe

But if our lives, so busy now, should steal our precious time

in which we should remember that cute card or pretty rhyme

We shouldn’t ever doubt that Love is still the bond that ties

the two of us together, through the lows and all the highs

 

And though I cannot promise that there’ll never be a fault

come future anniversaries, but if I’m worth my salt

On this you may depend,  my love for you is truly real

and “bursting’s” still the word that  summarises how I feel

So, Darling Sallipuss, you’re still the only one for me

and Just because I’m late, don’t think  I’m not your “cup of tea”

The years may come, the years may go, but every year you’ll know

Your Possum loves his Sallipuss, come rain or shine or snow.

And hopefully this little note will do the job in hand

and make you realise you’re still the fairest in the Land!”

 

April 17th 2018……Our TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY!

(and it don’t seem a day too long!!)    xxxxxxxxxxxx

 

 

 

 

 

Little White Bird

“Little white bird… little white bird…” I’ve been humming and singing in my head ever since Chris pointed out the bird down at the seafront a little earlier and sang those words to the tune of Little White Bull. (Click on the link below if you don’t know it.)

50+
 
PLAY ALL

Mix – Tommy Steele – Little White Bull (1959)

YouTube
 
(P.S. Presumably the 50+ signifies the amount of songs on the recording rather than the requisite age of the listeners for pleasurable listening; however, I reckon 60+ would be more apt if we’re talking age!)
 

Anyway, like a lot of people out and about this morning I needed to get out of the house after our wet Easter weather. It was still overcast and cold as we stepped outside and walked down to the bridge by Coastguard Cottages, which leads to our famous seawall at Dawlish, Devon. I was wearing my pink ski jacket, scarf, gloves and sun glasses (just in case), and I took my fashion-accessory walking sticks that look like ski-sticks. No, I wasn’t expecting snow again but I’ve had a bad knee ever since my last visit to Dawlish Leisure Centre for Aqua-Circuits (rather like Cirque du Soleil but in water – for ladies who want to get slim and fit).

Mighty waves smashed against our famous seawall and rose up like walls of foamy water before losing form and crashing back over the seawall walkway which leads to the station and town – our intended route. We watched for a while to see other intrepid walkers survive the waves without getting too wet, then we ran the gauntlet. How exciting it was to run beside the water walls and dodge them as they descended like thrown bucket-loads of water! Don’t worry, the waves were not as big or dangerous as the ones we get during storms, We felt quite safe and risked only getting wet (hopefully). People waiting for their trains peered over the wooden railings on the station platform and watched us run through the spume and spray.

“Did you get wet?” they called down with smiles on their faces. 

“Just our feet,” we called back.

The huddle of people nodded and raised their thumbs with approval. What daring! What camaraderie! They must have thought I looked like Scott of the Antarctic!

Past the station people had gathered. Old folk, young folk, couples with young children (still Easter Holiday time perhaps), dog owners, visitors and locals – all there to enjoy the bubbling waves on an otherwise dull morning.

“Can you make it past the barrier?” asked a man with a dog as he met us coming back from the seawall on the other side of the station, which normally ends at Coryton Cove.

“No, the wall is broken and barrier secured,” we answered, “but you could go the road way and over the bridge.”

The man smiled his thanks and shook his head. His dog picked up a big stick from amongst the debris of stones and seaweed churned up by the sea and hurled onto the wall; and they retraced their steps. We wouldn’t have gone that route either.

Chris drew my attention to the dwarf wall where the brook pours out into the sea; it’s the sea side of the railway bridge and a favourite place of visitors because from there they have an excellent view of the beach but also the brook and town. On the wall was a big fat seagull and a little white dove. Chris sang, “Little white bird…” and the seagull, (who probably had better taste in music), flew off while the little white bird stayed. He even walked nonchalantly (seemingly) toward us.

“It’s the sign of peace – isn’t it?” I said.

Then the sun came out and we walked home on the new footpath by the main road. I felt a bit peculiar in my ski jacket, sun-glasses, scarf, gloves and German-style walking sticks that look like ski sticks. I hope no-one recognised me. I expect people thought I was a German visitor.

I wish Chris hadn’t sung “Little white bird” to the tune of Little White Bull… I can’t get it out of my head… and I never even liked the song.

 

There is Nothing Like a Romantic Poem….

A lover of romantic poetry

Barry Conelly, the elder son of our old neighbours from Gumdale, keeps in touch now and then with emails. He’s one of those “can do” Australian men who can build homes, fix cars, build boats, design buildings and build engines. Recently he’s been sending me poems – ah sweet! Firstly there was the funny poem about Bluey, The Retired Cattle Dog – he was right, I do love the Banjo Patterson style of humorous Aussie poetry – and then came the romantic poem by Pam Ayres. Of course, it is nothing like a romantic poem… and it’s a shade rude… but not too blue (or true blue, come to that).

 Romantic Poem by Pam Ayres

 

The missus bought a Paperback,
Down Shepton Mallet way,
I had a look inside her bag;
T’was “Fifty Shades of Grey”.

Well I just left her to it,
And at ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…

In her left she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down upon the floor,
And then began to strip.

Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Ethel hasn’t weathered well;
She’s eighty four next week!!

Watching Ethel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
And things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!

She struggled back upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said
“I am a dominator!!”

Now if you knew our Ethel,
You’d see just why I spluttered,
I’d spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I’d uttered.

She stood there nude and naked
Bent forward just a bit,
I went to hold her, sensual like,
And stood on her left tit!

Ethel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My God what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
“Step on the other one!!”

Well readers, I can tell no more;
Of what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of grey.

Legging It

“I’m not so sure that I have the right figure for leggings,” I said to Chris as he handed me a two-pack of leggings from Sainsbury’s.

“You have a lovely figure,” he answered unwavering. (I know, he’s well-trained!)

“But leggings? I don’t think I have anything appropriate to wear with them,” I said, popping them into the trolley.

Actually, all I wanted was a nice soft and stretchy pair of sports trousers that wouldn’t make me feel trussed up, as I did in thick jeans with nasty waistbands and studs; bearing in mind that I’ve not long returned from Australia where I was accustomed to wearing summer tops and shorts. The kind of trousers I had in mind were not to be found in Sainsbury’s or any other store that I had been in that day (maybe everyone else had the same idea) and I was coming around to the notion that leggings would be comfortable and sensible.

After my shower the next morning I spent half an hour or so deciding upon which outfit to wear. The snow had disappeared and the temperature was on the up, maybe eight degrees, so the new half-price dress-length jumper with the roll neck, which I had bought to go with the leggings, would have been far too hot. A similar length summer dress from Australia looked plain daft with the navy blue leggings. A pink jumper of normal length – just over the hips – looked weird. A jerkin over the top looked even more weird! I had a laugh though.

I wished I had bought the next size down – the sixteen to eighteen size had no hold and plenty of growing room which sagged and creased at the joints. At length, I pulled the saggy leggings off my ample legs and replaced them with my old boot-leg cut sports trousers, which suddenly looked a lot better than they had before.

Upon reaching the top of the staircase I found Chris was waiting in anticipation. He eyed me up and down, checking for anything peculiar.

“What was so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, could you hear me?” I laughed.

“Well,” my husband began, “I wondered what on earth could be so hilarious while you were getting dressed.”

“I was trying on my new leggings and… (laughing again) when I caught sight of myself in the mirror I thought I looked like Mr Pickwick!”

And if you don’t have a mental picture of Charles Dickens’ famous character Mr Pickwick, here are some images I collected from the Internet…

 

 

Deep in the Jungle

Deep in the jungle, in the rainforest at Springbrook, which is down the coast from Brisbane, beyond the Scenic Rim, and past Canungra (famous for its pies and hangover cures), there are all sorts of strange and marvellous sights to behold. Here are some of them…

And now my “Tarzan” is back in frosty England, probably yodelling from the cold!