You can’t come to this part of Devon without visiting Haytor Rock on the edge of Dartmoor… Our friend from Australia thinks he’s becoming a mountain goat.

I’ve never seen anything quite like it before, not in real life anyway. We were on a narrow country lane in South Devon at the time; now you may know how difficult it is for traffic to pass on country lanes, and how, usually, one driver has to reverse back and find a passing place wide enough for two cars (sometimes this means reversing for rather a long distance). Well, in this instance the two cars ahead of us were stuck, mainly because each car had at least one car behind them; indeed, we snuck into the nearest passing place and there was another car directly behind us. The road was simply not wide enough for the vehicles to pass. There was only one thing for it – the car in front of us drove up the hedge! And, seeing that it worked, the other driver did exactly the same thing.

Unfortunately, I managed to capture only a shot of the first driver mounting the hedge but you’ll have to take my word for it that, a few seconds later there was an even stranger sight of both cars driving with two wheels apiece actually over a foot, maybe two, up on the hedge. I’ve heard of people being driven “up the pole” but never a hedge.

“What is it?” asked Roland (our friend from Australia) as he looked at the big Pyrex dish filled with Baked Banana Surprise.

“Well,” I answered rather surprised (because I thought it was quite obvious what it was). “This is the wonderful pudding that Chris’s mother used to make – only I’ve never made it before, but Chris thought about it the other day when I made a Toad in the Hole and he asked me to make it the next time we have old bananas that need using up.”

“So it’s Banana in the Hole?” suggested our friend.

“Yes, no, it’s Banana Surprise,” I replied (the latter sounded much more appetising).

“I didn’t say it was a ‘wonderful pudding'”, interrupted Chris (after looking at the Banana Surprise), “I simply said that my mother used to put bananas in the batter and we all loved it – the way she did it, anyway – and I thought it might be a change from banana fritters.” (We have banana fritters every three years or so!)

“Banana fritters?” Roland’s eyes lit up.

“Well, I would have made fritters if it hadn’t been for Chris’s request for Banana in the Hole,” I blamed Chris for the disappointment.

Roland smiled and tried to hide his disappointment.

“Well at least it has risen!” Chris cajoled.

“But it looks soggy. Maybe I shouldn’t have cut the bananas in half. How did your mum do it?” I turned to Chris.

“I’m not sure but it didn’t look like that. Mum’s batter was crisp, light and golden brown, and the bananas were soft moist and glistening…”

“Not like mine then?”

“Your batter is perhaps a little thicker than Mum’s, but I’m sure yours will taste just as nice,” Chris searched desperately for something good to say (perhaps lest I should threaten never to cook again).

I cut a large portion of the steaming banana feast and popped it into Chris’s bowl. I topped it with a similarly large dollop of ice-cream, which instantly began to melt and drip over the stodgy, batter hole. Seeing the expression on Roland’s face, I decided to cut him a slightly smaller piece; and, mindful of my figure, I cut a small section for myself.

“You don’t have to eat it,” I recommended after my first mouthful.

“It tastes alright, just not quite so light and airy as Mum’s,” said Chris breezily.

“Or as sweet,” I added, “although I sprinkled the top with sugar.”

“Really?” asked Roland dubiously.

“Maybe we could scrape out the bananas and leave the batter?” wondered Chris and he proceeded to scrape out one of the limp grey bananas.

“They look like the poisonous grey bits in crabs – aren’t they called ‘dead man’s fingers’ Roland?” I asked.

Roland nodded and looked very impish. His shoulders went up around his ears and his eyes glinted mischievously; his contorted mouth was about to crack open and suddenly he could not contain himself any longer… Chris saw it and I saw it too… We all burst out laughing together.

“Well, I’m not going to try that recipe again when I go on Masterchef,” I said. And then I found my mobile phone camera…

It was the perfect day to visit Hay Tor. The sun was shining, there was a nice breeze, not too many people – and, when we reached the top of the hill, there were the Dartmoor ponies…

Last Friday Chris and I took our guests for a ride (both ways) on the oldest continuous running ferry in the country, which just so happens to be the ferry that runs between Shaldon and the river beach at our neighbouring town of Teignmouth; apparently there is a Royal Charter decreeing that there must be a ferry service to connect the two towns, although there is also a bridge – Shaldon Bridge – which links them farther up the river.

After lunch in “The Ferry Boat” pub garden we walked up to Smugglers Tunnel, looked out from the top of the steps over the nudist beach (no nudists in sight, thank Heaven), and we finished our afternoon by walking leisurely through the botanical gardens; I looked wistfully at the bamboo circles, which all the locals of my age will remember as the favourite place for teenagers with canoodling on their minds (my school friend Sally will remember if nobody else does!).

Some photo’s of the afternoon…

I was cooking ‘toad in the hole’ at the time; Chris was at his computer and Roland was in the kitchen overseeing cooking operations (as you do when you’re a friend staying for a while but not quite au fait with the running of the house). It suddenly occurred to me that Roland might be missing the running of his own home, even down to cooking.

“Do you miss cooking?” I asked.

“No, I don’t know her really,” he replied.

I wish my brain was that quick.

The tide was low, even lower than usual because of the effect of the full moon on the tides; and you could walk out past the rocks and the end of the breakwater; and the waves brought in clumps of seaweed… In truth, the prospect of catching any fish wasn’t great… or small, even; rather, it was fairly non-existent. But such trifles do not deter Australian fisher-folk – they are made of hardy stuff.

At Dawlish Post Office (or “One Stop” – the Tesco store with a Post Office counter at the back – very modern England) a little earlier in the day Roland and I met Brian (hero and cyclist from the Leisure Centre).

“Know of any good fishing spots around here?” asked Roland after the introductions.

“How about hiring a boat?” suggested Brian.

“Oh, I’d rather not. I like to sit by the shore and do proper fishing – none of that mackerel fishing, throwing your line in and out,” replied Roly emphatically.

“Well, what about the river at Teignmouth?” Brian looked at me.

“Have you ever caught anything at Teignmouth?” I asked.

“No, I’m more of a cyclist than a fisherman,” explained Brian the cyclist. “What about fishing off the sea wall or the breakwater here at Dawlish. I’ve seen a lot of people fishing here.”

“But have you ever seen anyone catch anything?” I enquired.

“Now you come to mention it… no! But I’m sure that someone must,” Brian laughed.

Encouraged by that thought, a short while later Roland and I made for the part of the beach just down from our house (you can wave to the people on the beach from our terrace). My Aussie friend set  up the rods while I walked out farther than I’ve ever done before and took photographs from the different viewpoint. Within minutes the security man, who is employed to keep the public from wandering past a certain point to where the seawall repairs are still being carried out, came down to warn us not to overstep the mark and then he realised it was his mate Roland. They had a nice chat and the security man went back to his hut. Then a lady came along with her dogs and chatted with us before the security guard made his way down the beach again had a chat with her.

“He likes to chat up the ladies,” said Roland.

“Did he tell you that?” I asked.

“Yes, he loves his job because of all the opportunities he gets with the ladies. Well, we are mates,” he winked.

A boat with a white sail sailed by close to shore and seagulls sat on the exposed rocks; people walked in rock pools while their dogs ran into the sea; and trains passed slowly as they entered or departed Dawlish station.

The tide came in quickly and we repaired to the top of the breakwater. After two and a half hours of fishing we hadn’t caught anything but seaweed and the sun. Did we mind? Of course not – the joys of fishing have little to do with actually catching fish. And here are some of the photo’s…

The seagulls were very obliging models yesterday at Brixham…