What a lovely surprise to find that Devon Pixies really do exist at Cockington!

On our way home this afternoon Chris, Roland and I popped into my sister’s house for afternoon tea. The coffee table was laden with delicious scones and a chocolate cake; and in the oven was a fresh-baked gooseberry pie. My dear old mum was there, too; she looked so cute in her white sun hat with the pink band of ribbon as she sat on the sofa.

Mum was on great form.

“You look very Australian,” she said to Roland, our old friend from Australia. “I like your brown hairy legs.”

“You’ll be getting off with me next,” said Roland with a smile.

Mary was whipping cream and checking on the pie in the kitchen; and the rest of us, alert with hunger and the suspense of waiting for Mary’s pie, were an avid audience for Mum who held the floor.

“You remember I bought those nectarines on Saturday?” Mum asked, looking at me.

I nodded.

“Well, I made some nectarine jam with them, just like I said I would, and I used the nectarines in the same way as I do with plums, ” she said and then she paused for the perfect length of time for maximum effect before continuing. “It’s no wonder nobody has ever heard of nectarine jam… It doesn’t have any taste!”

“Oh really?” asked Roland, “I would have thought it would taste nice.”

We all agreed that nectarine jam sounds perfectly plausible and delicious (if unusual).

“A novelty jam,” I suggested.

“A speciality jam,” Roland added.

I thought of a peculiar and particularly tasteless speciality fig jam I had tried in Australia earlier this year and I burst out laughing. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a laughing jackass… but of course, my mum knows that.

As a matter of fact we didn’t attend the vintage car rally at Powderham Castle this afternoon, but we parked our cars by Powderham Church and walked to the Turf Locks by the Exe Estuary. Also, we popped into the Powderham Castle farm shop to buy some pies for dinner. Therefore we had the pleasure of meeting some of the old-timers quite by accident in car parks and on the road….

At Trago Mills (our favourite non-supermarket type store) there are always plenty of cute animals clucking or waddling around at liberty; however, today was a cute dog day, as you can see…

Yesterday was a day for looking at the clouds…

“Give us a wiggle,” Chris exhorted, trying very hard to be cheerful, considering I had been so sour from the moment of waking.

“No, I can’t,” I said disconsolately. “I’m too ugly, fat…and deaf!”

After over two weeks of suffering from a nasty virus, this morning, although better in myself, I had awoken to find myself completely deaf in one ear, and it was in my good ear at that. No amount of yawning, nose-blowing, massage or ear drops did anything to help.

Now if you’re a regular visitor to my blog you will know that I’m generally a happy soul, and also that nothing makes me happier than going out for a cycle ride on a nice sunny day; and when I’m riding my bike, and extremely happy, I’m rather apt to give a little wiggle (surreptitiously) from time to time to inform Chris (who always cycles behind me) that everything is well with the world and me (and Chris and me).

“Are you sure you’re up to going?” Chris asked.

I nodded. The bikes were already at the top of the steps, the sun was shining and I knew that a ride would lighten my mood – it always does.

In a few moments, having grumpily passed a group of jostling large pedestrians (or so it seemed to me in my mood) on the small pavement outside our house, we were coasting down the hill to Dawlish town centre. The rush of air going through my hair was exhilarating. We were on our way to the ford, close enough not to be a demanding ride for a person recuperating from a virus but far enough to feel the benefit; and the ford is always a lovely place to visit. Two girls of about fourteen, both wearing jodhpurs, let us pass them on the Newhay path, past the church, just before it narrows on the bridge. They caught us up at the ford some minutes later and we exchanged pleasantries before they continued on their way to a horse farm farther up the road.

The field on the other side of the fence by the ford had recovered from its recent encounter with tractors and baling machines, and already the new grass was lush, green and filled with little daisies; thistles were coming into flower and the leaves on the trees had turned a darker, more mature green denoting that, indeed, we are in Summer. This time there were no families with tots playing in the water, it was just Chris and me, and a lady passing by, waving, in her blue car.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked as we stood on the bridge.

Chris took me in his arms and we kissed. (I bet a lot of people have kissed on that tiny bridge over the ford.)

On the way home, just the other side of Aller Arch (the top of which comprises part of the grand driveway to ‘The Castle’), we stopped and wondered at the sight of an older man in an orange jacket. The red sign close-by on the road informed of ‘ Delays, hedge trimming’ and Chris and I smiled at one another – there was nothing coming in any direction. Suddenly, as if by divine intervention, a cyclist appeared ahead of a tractor; one car appeared, and then another; a lady out cycling with her children came from the town direction, and they had to get off and wait while two trucks, a van and other cars vied for space to pass. At the point of total gridlock yet another car pulled in to wait it out by the Newhay path; inside the car were our friends and neighbours, Catherine and Martin, and his parents Ian and Pearly, who are down on holiday from Scotland.

Before long the gentleman in orange had cleared the gridlock successfully and everyone went on their ways, including us. I managed to raise a few wiggles as I went over the speed bumps in the town centre but I’m still as deaf as a post.

I’ve always been impressed by people who save the lives of others; perhaps it stems from the time when, at about the age of eleven, I was saved from drowning by three heroes – the surfie-boy who had found me and pulled me onto his surfboard; my fourteen-year-old big brother Bill, who took over from the surfie-boy; and Chris Betts, Bill’s best friend (and handsome hero – now actor in Australia) who finally brought me in to shore.

My brother Henry saved the life of a little boy who had drowned at the wading pool in Wynnum some years ago; my brother Robert is a piano tuner and part-time fireman, and therefore he saves lives on a regular basis; my nephew Tom is a life-guard (and handsome hero); my own son James, as a teenager, saved a drunk from falling fifty feet to his death from a road bridge. And now, only three weeks ago, my twenty-year-old nephew Chris saved a fisherman who was having a heart attack…

Young Chris was taking a walk along one of the breakwaters at Dawlish seafront when he noticed the fisherman in distress.

“Are you alright?” Chris enquired.

The man in his forties couldn’t answer. Chris felt for a pulse and signs of breathing, and found none. As a former Air Training Cadet, Chris had been taught heart massage and mouth-to-mouth resuscitation techniques so he quickly went into action. After a while an off-duty policeman came along and the two took it in turns to bring the man back to life. An ambulance came and the fisherman was taken to hospital, where he recovered fully.

I would love to be able to say that I have saved a life, but I haven’t, unfortunately, unless you count all my blood donations but that’s not what I mean, I course. I stopped a fight once but I’ve never experienced the thrill and pride of saving a life – it must be wonderful. I’m so proud of all the heroes I know and I just can’t help being very impressed.

Evidently, sickness is no impediment to creativity – if you can stand at an easel you can paint (at least, if you can stand painting). Well, I didn’t want yesterday to be a complete washout so I returned to my Berber Bride in oil and nearly finished her. Earlier paintings in the series were painted in pastel; interestingly, the effect is not entirely different. I’ve attached photographs of the oil in progress and a pastel print.

Oh, I feel hot – think I’ll take my temperature again.