In These Shoes?

There’s a chance I’m becoming judgy.

I wish it weren’t so.   Being judgy is not particularly a good quality and is usually used to describe someone who rushes to an opinion, typically holding harsh or critical thoughts of others, without reason.   Judgy people are perhaps close-minded based on little to no information.

Oh dear.

When Roger and I moved to Crockern we would see next to no one walking up the footpath, particularly on a weekday with cold wind and rain.   The odd pair of serious hikers, perhaps, equipped with a small pack of provisions, proper waterproof gear, sturdy hiking boots and a map or deep internal knowledge of the Dartmoor landscape from experience.  

But now?   On any given day of the week, even with severe storm warnings and cancelled flights across the southern part of the country, undeterred crowds in the hundreds shuffle past, seeking their instagramable tourist destination:   Wistman’s Woods.

In the past twelve years, we’ve watched the numbers tick up exponentially.   With this, there has been a good deal of destruction to the woods.    In addition to huge amounts of litter, we’ve found cut and burned branches.   We have witnessed middle-aged men and women filling their shopping bags with tree moss for their garden planters.    There have been weddings with lit candles hanging in the trees.   Amateur music videos complete with ridiculous costumes from some D&D fantasy.   We’ve also found the ashes and shrines of dead people, discarded tents, diapers, drug paraphernalia, food wrappers, drink containers and sadly, portable barbeques to name but a few things.  

Oh, and then there are the pooh bags.    This topic is the material for another blog.

Regular morning walks with the dogs are now comprised of routine litter picking.   I’m not to the level of David Sedaris and his 60,000+ daily steps as he fills bags of litter in Sussex, but I can see how his obsession took hold.    The West Dart Valley on Dartmoor is a Special Area of Conservation and is a protected landscape.   It’s a National Nature Reserve.   The Woods are a Site of Special Scientific Intertest (SSSI for those who like acronyms) and home to rare mosses, lichens, beetles and is a rare example of a temperate rain forest.   All this disregard for its significance fills us with a heady mixture of sadness and irritation.   

And while we can’t stem the tide of what is happening, we can land our dismay solidly on footwear.   And we do.   Turns out, we’re not alone, either.   In a study out of University of Kansas, people were best at judging an unknown person’s age, sex and income based on a simple picture of their shoes!   Maybe you’re already doing it too.

“Roger, get a load of these shoes walking up the track!”  I might call out.    “Those are ridiculous.” Is a likely reply from Roger.

When the two of us first met, a friend played for me the Kirsty MacColl song, “In These Shoes.”    Of course at the time, the relevant lyric was, “I once met an Englishman…..”    As we observe many people underprepared for what Dartmoor can throw at them,  it’s the repeating refrain question that now resonates.    MacColl, in her singular voice extols her female empowerment as she meets a “man with a sense of adventure,” then “a guy with a faraway look”, and finally “an Englishman.”    Answering each of their propositions with the simple question:  “In these shoes?”

She’s obviously talking about her own shoes not befitting the situation.   But when the melody lands in my head, I’m referring to footwear not suitable for this wet, muddy, uneven, eroded, slippery, potential ankle breaking, sheep/cow poop covered area.    A small sampling of what we’ve seen stride past:   Kitten heals, treadless Sneakers, Flip Flops, Shower Shoes, Slippers, Low-heel Pumps, Ballet shoes, Plimsoles, Moccasins, Loafers, Cowboy Boots, Uggs, Brogues, Crocs, Sandals, Chuck Taylor High-tops and yes, Bare Feet.  

Okay, I get it.   The healthy approach is to judge actions and not people.   So in that fun, poppy song where the question is asked, “In these shoes?”   Our answer is, “Good luck.”   

It’s Not Roquet Science

According to the calendar, spring is officially here.  The Vernal Equinox has come and gone.    And after weeks of endless rain this winter, seeing the snowdrops and daffodils emerge only serves to increase my anticipation for the season ahead.   Soon we will welcome the return of the cuckoo and the swallows, the bursting forth of leaves on the trees, and the activity of birds, toads, and insects.    We will be energised from our winter slowness.

Yesterday we had a warm and sunny day, and we both jumped into action in the garden.   Tidying flower beds, sweeping out the barn, applying a final coat of sealant to the new doors and a quick mowing of the lawn which had grown to about 12 inches long.   I can feel my green fingers twitching to do more in the garden, but I have learned it is best to just wait a few more weeks as there is no sign of settled weather ahead.    Indeed, today I am sitting inside by the fire listening to the clatter of periodic hail showers.   The changeable weather can do my head in.  Spring indeed.

But being cautious and waiting for the right time to place the tender seedlings into the vegetable beds is not curbing my enthusiasm for what is around the corner.   Case and point:   The other day I spotted our croquet set.  We purchased our Jaques of London Croquet set last summer.   It’s Regulation Standard and has a rather complicated book of rules in a side pocket.    We made this purchase in anticipation of summer visitors.    We reviewed the official rules and discussed the location for our pitch while we waited for the weather to be on our side.

Full disclosure:   Our croquet pitch absolutely-does-not-conform to the standard guidelines set out by the Croquet Association, the national governing body for croquet and founded in 1897.   In fact our game rules don’t comply either.   How can they?   Our land is on a slope.   The ground is bumpy from mole hills, tufts of grass, and the tips of granite rocks projecting up.   What can you do in a situation like this but throw caution to the wind, along with that stuffy rule book, and create our own:    Dartmoor Rules.   

After agreeing to the location, Roger mows an area in the field by our pond.   It is not rectangular; indeed it doesn’t possess any parallel edges.   He leaves whimsical tufts of grass in the centre and around the edges.     The wickets, or hoops, are set a ridiculous distance apart.    We follow the basics for progressing through the course and then shift to our croquet canon.

Our rules may include any of the following:

1. Everyone needs to agree prior to the start of the game that we all share the same understanding for the Dartmoor Rules, which may differ from previous games.
2. You must have a drink.   We’re not fussy.   Beer, wine, gin and tonic, or even the requisite Pimm’s of fancier joints.
3. You do not have to wear white clothing.   Probably best not to since the terrain is uneven and it can be muddy in parts of the field.   “Hoops-a-Daisy!” will be shouted should you trip over a tuft of grass or a wicket.
4. If you hit the ball into a thick patch of grass, you have choices.    These include, but are not limited to, calling one of the dogs to find the ball and pick it up.   Whereby, you then give chase to the pooch who has the ball.   “Drop It!” you will need to command and the place where they eventually release the ball is where you commence play.   Obviously, there are potential disadvantages to this approach as our two enjoy a good game of keep-away.
5. Or you take your best shot and try to hit the ball out from between the hedges and very tall grass.   After several attempts and all other competitors are zipping along the course, you are permitted to resort to calling the dogs for assistance.   Good luck.
6. If you hit another player’s ball, you can go one mallet away from their ball and take another shot; or, you can send their ball by carefully placing your foot on top of your ball and then whacking the heck out of it (the ball, not your foot) in hopes that their ball winds up in the aforementioned grass/hedge.   The pond must be avoided as the balls don’t float.
7. One very important rule is to not hit the ball under the drinks table, which sits in the middle of the course.    That one is out of bounds.
8. You must not care about winning.

The first time we played the game was when our friend Sue was visiting.   We hadn’t fully fleshed out all of our Dartmoor Rules for Croquet.   As a true competitor, Sue never hit the ball into the very tall grass, displaying the skill and grace of any mallet player.  

But when we played the game with friends Gary and Elise, the grass was taller, the course crazier (including a bend around the side of the pond) and Gary discovered multiple times the tall grass, the thick hedges, and the need for one of the dogs to come to the rescue.

With certainty, Spring will soon arrive and with it, a return to simpler times where we can set about playing games with friends.  

Knock, knock, knock

This past summer friends travelled from the USA so all the women could celebrate turning 60.   I’ve known these women almost my entire life.   Kindergarten, third grade, and high school graduation.   Swim team, summer jobs and endless laughter.   Our roots are long and deep.

I know their husbands, too.   Two were a year ahead of us in high school.   Roger has met everyone before as when we turned 50, we all were in Montana to celebrate.   There have been weddings, funerals, and even visits by some of their children to Crockern.   The history is such that a simple reference to an old car, music, teacher or any family member means we can jump instantly into the present.   There is no need to provide the back story as we all know it.   We were there for slumber parties, heartbreaks, first periods, driving licenses, you name it.  All the joys and challenges of knowing one another for 50+ years.

But just because these friends have known me through the awkwardness of puberty, does not mean I’m not still a little house proud.

Before everyone arrived, Roger and I worked hard to tidy the garden, fill potholes on the track, clean, clean, and clean some more the house and the outbuildings.   Roger and I planned food, activities and picked up a croquette set creating rules befitting Dartmoor and the awkward terrain in our field.   But when I looked at our front door my heart sank.   We’ve needed to replace this door since day one, but it never rose to the top of the to-do list.

We didn’t have time to get a new door, but there was still time to do one of the most effective and inexpensive DIY tricks:   Paint it.   There isn’t much that a lick of paint can’t improve.   In preparation, I tried to scrape off the flaking paint, only to realise I would need to sand the door.   This project was instantly becoming bigger.  While I went to town to pick up a can of weatherproof paint, Roger set about taking the door off its hinges so I could sand it easily.   But those screws were so hidden behind years of paint, once removed, we would not likely be able to return the door to its position.   “I’ll paint it in situ.” I decided.

But there was a proud piece of wood whose purpose we never understood.   We agreed if we removed it, the door would look smarter with its new paint job.   We knew this was a short-term solution, but it would help to improve a rather tired old door, nonetheless.   But here’s the thing with any project:   Starting means you will uncover more projects.   There must be some Newtonian theory to explain this situation akin to with every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction.   Or did Einstein have it with E=MC²?   Entranceway = Major Carpentry squared.

Here’s why:   When Roger removed this innocent piece of board, we discovered it was hiding rotten wood.   We found ourselves with an ugly door that now had an 8-inch gap between the ground and its bottom.   The sort of gap where any number of creatures could come through without encountering a barrier.   It was an invitation to foxes, badgers, chickens, rats, stoats, toads, etc.   And because of this gap, there was no point in painting the door any longer.   It would have been a waste of paint and energy.

Our spirits temporarily dashed; Roger covered the gap with a piece of pressboard we had knocking about.   It did the trick but was ugly.   Fugly in fact.    This is the kind of door that hides squatters in a seemingly abandoned building.  Take a look for yourself:

But doors are important.   They provide access to and from the house.   They provide security by not having a gaping hole.   More symbolically, I suppose, they represent some sort of transition.   A beginning, an opening, a passage leading from one state of being to the next.   They represent a sort of starting anew as in “This will open doors for you.”    At the same time embodying the idea of an end.   A closed door.   But beyond all of this existential gobbledygook, we needed a front door that opened and closed easily, looked nice, and didn’t have an 8-inch gap at the bottom.

We asked friends about their doors.    We went around and around with the idea of making our own door.    But here’s the rub, I would not settle for a solid door.   I wanted a stable door.   The type of door where on a warm summer’s day, I could open the top to let the fresh air in, but not invite the chickens into the kitchen.    I set about getting quotes for two doors.   This front door in dire need of replacing, and another door downstairs, which was okay but did very little to keep the cold out in winter.   If you’re replacing doors, you may as well do them all at the same time.

Doors aren’t cheap.   Stable doors are even more expensive.   But I was determined and once we decided it was worth the price, I ordered the doors.   Nearly 12 weeks later, the doors arrived!   They are beautiful and solid stable doors.    The front door is a bright and happy red.   The downstairs door is a beautiful solid wood with natural treatment.    We lined up Les to fit the doors as we know we don’t have the skills, experience, or tools to do this job.

Why red?   We like the idea of a red door.   Not for the folklore traditions that a red door represents a hospitable home.  Or that it is a sign of energy and vitality.   Nope, red because it makes us smile.  It sits nicely against the white of the house.   It’s a bright colour on a grey day.  And it matches the cattle grate I decided on a whim to paint red two years ago when we painted the house.

Two days later, and the doors are in place.   They are lovely.    I find I want to keep going in and out of them, just to hear that sound of a solid door closing with such perfection.   I may keep it closed to uninvited guests, but friends old and new are always welcome and Roger and I will open our doors and invite you in.

Duck Island*

From the window in our living room, I keep a close eye on the pond around this time of year.   That’s not to say year round I don’t observe something daily – the changing play of light on the water, the emergence of toads and frogs, or the time I spotted a Kingfisher on the island – but it is now that the ducks return to consider whether or not to make the pond’s island their future nesting spot.  I like watching for them from our living room hide in winter as it is warm and cosy inside when the weather outside can hold the cold and wet on its wind.

Watching and waiting for the ducks, I can’t help but think they are funny creatures.   I mean, have you ever looked at a duck?   Really looked at one?   Have you noticed how a duck manages to be both graceful and goofy?   Its rounded head and body are perfectly nestled, with a glossy shine on its feathers before those big flappy feet pop out to reveal themselves!   They glide with grace across the water, but on land, they waddle trying not to trip over their two big feet. 

We’ve had a few varieties of ducks visit our pond since we established it.   Mandarins.   Mallards.   And once, a Goosander.   And though they are not ducks, we’ve had equally cool visitors with Egrets and Cormorants.  Before our visiting ducks partner up for the season, we sometimes have seven or eight ducks swimming laps around the pond.    Usually about five males, and the other two or three are females, assessing their seasonal options.    After a few weeks of sizing up their future mates, we are generally left with two pairs.   They appear to take breaks from the winter storms, slowly floating around the pond as they consider whether or not to build a nest on the island.  

Ducks choose their nesting locations carefully.   Dry ground near water, sheltered or hidden among vegetation is ideal.   When we established the pond, we left an area of rocks and dirt in the middle, planted two trees and are hoping, in the fullness of time, for greater shelter.  Currently, it is still somewhat exposed and a little soggy, but for a duck, it seems like a decent home.  There is plenty of thick grass and a nest isn’t going to flood or get washed away as might happen along the river.

A few years ago we had a pair nesting on the island, while not particularly sheltered, it was next to impossible to spot the female.   I was logging a few hours each week watching the ducks on the pond to discover that after swimming around the island, the female would leave the water through some reeds, and essentially disappear.   Binoculars and getting different vantage points from the pond’s edge is when we could see her, but her ability to blend into the plant life was a marvel. 

She spent most of her time protecting the eggs.   Daily, the male would appear and give her a break for food and a bit of a swim.   He sat on the nest during this time.   Around the time the eggs were due to hatch, we heard a desperate amount of squawking.   Looking out upon the pond we could see the female running around the field, completely inconsolable.   The male desperately following her.    She zigged, zagged, flapped, hopped, crossed the river, came back, rounded the pond in one direction, and then the other.   It was awful to watch and we were not certain what had happened to cause this behaviour, though we suspected.  

This area is rife with predators for ducks.    The colony of heron who make their home in the stand of pines across the valley are very familiar with the pond.   No fish, but lots of toads, frogs, newts, and all the spawn in the spring.   Plus, duck eggs are a delicious nugget.  Foxes can swim and will do so if they are hungry enough.   Stoats and weasels are likely to hunt down any eggs in a duck nest.    We know we’ve had a stoat here, having seen it once or twice, though we haven’t seen it in some time.   I’m hoping for its return because the rat around the bird feeders is back.   We need the natural balance restored.  If it does return, I’m counting on there being enough other sources of food – rats, rabbits, field mice, and such – that any duck nest will be safe. 

How do you have a safe duck nest?  Going down the rabbit hole also known as the Internet has shown me ways to help.   Duck nesting baskets.   What a thing of beauty.   But there is a rather substantial part of me that feels like planting trees, hedges and putting in a pond is the right intervention.   If the ducks select the island as a nesting spot, isn’t it at their own risk?   Don’t the predators also have a right to some nutrition?   What would Sir David Attenborough do?

Last year, we saw the ducks on the pond, but couldn’t spot a nest.   Then one day there were seven little ducklings swimming behind their mother.    Cute, cute, cute!

Looking out the window with binoculars to hand, I see a pair swimming around the island.    They occasionally pause to stay out of today’s wind gusts.    Perhaps this pair is contemplating nesting on the island early March.   I’ll have to keep watch.

*Unlike the one built in St. James Park in 1665, ours was constructed in 2018.

Twas a Few Days Before Christmas

A few days before this past Christmas, our friends Kate and Bill came to visit with their children, Evelyn and Teddy who are six and four years old, respectively.  We had the decorations up and settled in for a few days of fun and games, food and drink, and pre-holiday celebrations.

One morning we all set out for a walk.  Jumping from rock to rock.  Slipping in the muddy conditions and having an all-around good time.   Evelyn, a keen mushroom identifier, noticed the orange jelly mushroom on a gorse bush.  The dogs were running about chasing leaves, sticks, and scents.  It was complete fun, despite the wind and wet.

When we found some shelter from the battering weather, Roger and I took the opportunity to share very important information with the children.  “I’m not certain we’ve ever told you both this, but we know Santa.” I said.    There was little acknowledgement from the two with this bombshell, so we continued.  “Yes, we met him at the North Pole.  When did we last see him Roger?”  I asked.  “Oh, that would have been two years ago.” Roger replied.

We continued our walk with more jumping and running and slipping and sliding until we came up to the woods.  We didn’t enter, explaining to Evelyn and Teddy that Wistman’s Woods has really suffered from too many visitors who have damaged the trees and the mosses.  People are now being asked to not enter the woods.   While we stood there, we introduced the other fascinating thing about these special woods.  Not the temperate rainforest bit — though I suspect Evelyn with her love of mosses, lichens and mushrooms would have adored that intel – but instead we mentioned that the woods is where the pixies on Dartmoor take a much-needed break from helping Santa at this time of the year in this part of the world.

“I don’t see them.”  

“No, you won’t.  They’re very secretive.  And busy.”

“You know, there are a lot of dress up Santa’s.” Teddy told us.  We quickly responded:  “That’s true.  It’s a very busy time of the year getting the reindeer fit, finishing off the list of toys, packing the sleigh, and making travel plans for across the globe.  That’s why Santa relies on a bit of help from people like us, too.”

“You see, Santa needs grownups around the world to be there for photos. To hear the hopes and wishes of kids everywhere. And grownups like us who don’t have children play a big role, too. We are asked to report things we see about children in our neighbourhoods. That naughty and nice list has to be made somehow.”

Now we had their attention.

“And the secret to knowing the real Santa from a dress up Santa is that you can pull his beard.”  Yes, we pulled out Miracle on 34^th Street.  And hey, why not?

Back in the house we made hot chocolate, while the dogs snoozed.  The fire in the wood burner was ablaze, while we hung our waterproof clothing by the AGA with care.  When out on the drive, there arose such a clatter (specifically, Roger spotted someone driving up our track).  Evelyn and Teddy arose from their games to go see what was the matter.

And who should appear?  But Santa, Mrs. Clause and not a single reindeer!

His eyes how they twinkled.  His dimples how merry!  His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!  And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.  And didn’t pull off when Teddy gave tugging it a go.

By the fire, Santa chatted with both children.  Teddy was the first to jump into the conversation, as Evelyn was somewhat hesitant.  “I understand your favourite colour is red.” Santa said to Teddy.  “It’s yours too!  Look what you’re wearing!” Teddy exclaimed.

Santa mentioned that he really likes it when people leave out milk and cookies, and appreciates the odd glass of sherry, too.  He also mentioned that the reindeer need those carrots, so thank you very much.  He offered one caution; however, and that was to please not leave out brussels sprouts.  It transpires that Blitzen adores them, but it gives him “a case of the wind, and I sit right behind him.”  Santa shared.

When Santa mentioned the pixies taking their breaks in the woods, Teddy said, “But you’re not supposed to go in there anymore.   Too many people have pulled off branches and scratched the mosses.”  Santa nodded knowingly and said, “That’s right.  We need to protect those woods.  The pixies help to do that.”

Evelyn had a quiet conversation with Santa and slowly opened up when he let slip his knowledge of her favourite colour (blue), her best friend, her love of swimming, and the mushroom identification app on her Mom’s phone.   I think he may have also referenced that she correctly identified orange jelly mushrooms!

After Santa and Mrs. Clause left with the gifted bottle of wine from all of us, Kate and Bill asked the children what they thought about Santa coming to visit.  Teddy was as amped up as if we had just given him a pound of sugar plumbs which were now dancing in his head.  Evelyn remained somewhat reserved.  But when Kate asked her, “How do you think Santa knew about your favourite colour, your best friend, swimming, and identifying mushrooms?”

Evelyn stood taller and taller and announced, “Because he’s magic.”

Hope your holidays were merry and bright, too!

Building Works

As the year comes to a close and a new one is about to begin, I find myself reflecting not just on the past year, but the past several years.   Where do I begin?   Is it with memories of friends and family who are no longer with us?   The laughter-filled visits with friends near and far?   Or, is it something more concrete like the things we’ve accomplished or plan to address around this old place?  

In looking at my notebooks, I stumbled upon the start to a blog piece which I abandoned during the pandemic.   I suppose I have my answer to the above questions:  Finish what you started, Catherine.

Spring 2020.   The world went quiet with Covid restrictions.   And for us, we got busy with projects outside.   Specifically, we turned our attention to some of our outbuildings.  Roofs, walls, floors, you name it, they all needed attention.  We couldn’t put it off any longer, either, or the outbuildings would have become unusable skeletons, lacking the necessary muscle or skin to hold them together.  And we love these old stone buildings, complete with their unknown histories and beauty. 

We’ve worked with Andy before.  Early days at Crockern, it was Andy who organised replacing beams, building walls and laying floors in what is now our bedroom.  He’s talented, hardworking, and a great problem solver.  So it is always Andy we turn to when the projects get too big for us to manage.   In fact, he is scheduled to come back early February of this year to help us with some exterior doors, but I digress. 

Before heading to Africa in February 2020, we had arranged for Andy to come out in early April to begin the work on replacing the roof over the generator.   This would be the generator we had to purchase when our old Lister gave up the ghost in 2018.    It’s a slick Kohler 12 KVA generator and is self-contained and quiet.   We sometimes miss the old chug-chug-chug sound of the Lister, but there is something equally pleasing about a quiet, reliable and efficient generator.

For this outbuilding (we call the stables), it was not just the roof which needed replacing, but a structure to support the roof needed to be constructed inside the stone walls.   These old walls were in decent shape, but would not easily support the new roof, especially with strong winter winds from the North.   Of course, nothing in an old building is square or level making the design for this roof a mathematical challenge.   Think wonky trapezoid and you’ve just about grabbed an image of the shape for the new box-profiled metal roof.

The other building needing repair was the barn.   The roof here had holes up to the sky, a window that was an open hole in the wall.   To do nothing was to guarantee that eventually the barn would become unusable and fall into decay.   Off of this barn was a small lean-to which had a rusted tin roof supported by a long metal pole we found and jammed underneath it to hold a support beam in place.   It was a quick fix we implemented about seven years ago.   The chickens made their home under this precarious layout.

Timing for these roof repairs was important as we have birds which depend upon accessing the eaves for nesting.  Our Jackdors returned every early spring to the corners in the barn roof, and we always have swallows nesting in the rafters in the roof above the generator.  The very roof we were pulling down needed to be rebuilt in time in time for the birds to build their nests.   As luck would have it, all the materials had been ordered before supply chain disruptions on building materials hit the nation as the Covid pandemic emerged.   Further, construction work was permitted to continue during the lockdown periods if it was outside.   Fortunately, we were able to begin the work on these buildings.

Roger and I moved as much stuff as we could to secure and protected locations.  Scaffolding was erected on the barn.   A complete tear down of the roofs over two buildings and a lean-to happened in no time flat.   I spent several days managing large bonfires to burn the rotten roof frames.    We organised piles of salvaged tin roof, slates, and other materials for reuse or recycling.   Mountains of rocks began to grow in areas near the building sites.   Dumpy bags of ballast to make concrete for repointing arrived.    Each morning, work began around 8 a.m. and ended around 5:30 p.m.   

Slowly, from the rubble of tearing down the falling down roofs emerged the new frames, then the slates for the barn or the metal box frame for the stables.   The windows were replaced.   Roger built beautiful doors, 6 in total.   The 18 solar panels were installed, along with a new whizzy set of batteries and inverter.    What a terrific addition this was, too.   BSP (before solar panels) our generator came on every day for about 4 hours.   ASP (after solar panels), our generator now only needs to run between the months of November and March, and then only for a few hours every few days.    This is an important shift in fuel consumption when living off grid.

The buildings are transformed!   The stables, which were leaky, muddy and essentially unusable, are dry and organised with some of our garden tools and woodstore.    The barn is also dry and clean, allowing for a nice working area for various projects.   The guts of our electrical system – generator, batteries and inverters – are dry and free from clumps of roof possibly falling upon them.

When the roofing projects were complete, we didn’t stop there.    I shifted the piles of stones to make the edges of newly formed flower beds which I filled with soil and plants.   We replaced the large diesel tank with a smaller one since the generator runs less often and requires less fuel and backfilled this area.    What once was an eyesore of an excavated site is now a beautiful stone wall containing a hillside.

The summer of 2020 was busy and we managed to restore – with great help – two major outbuildings and also create a few new outdoor areas for sitting and enjoying the flowers.    As for the birds, they returned to find new roofs with easy access to previous locations for building their nests.  

A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

I’ve just come in from the garden.   Not a sunny, warm gardening type day, but a late August afternoon that feels more like early October.   It’s wet and windy, with a brisk temperature in the air.   I worry about the last brood of swallows who have recently fledged and are happily flying about.    There doesn’t seem to be many insects today and these young swallows need to mature in order to make the long journey back to southern Africa in the coming weeks.

There is a good amount to do to maintain the garden and I enjoy getting lost in my thoughts while spending a few hours each day tending to its needs.    Of course, I do make more work for myself as I have a growing list of ideas, which I can either address now, next year or never.    At the moment, there is no work in the garden that compares to last year when I had to rebuild all the garden beds and move all the containers.   All this because we decided to paint the outside of the house. 

Where we can, Roger and I try to do as many projects on our own, unless the project exceeds our skill set.   Repairing the roof on the barn and the outbuilding which houses the generator is an example of where professionals – with their youthful energy and van full of tools – were hired.   We had that all done in the spring of 2020.   How lucky were we that we had booked this work – and had the materials – before there was a supply chain interruption due to a global pandemic.   And it being an outside project, Andy and his crew were able to carry on with the work.

But painting the house was certainly something we could manage.   And being thrifty, we opted to not employ the use of scaffolding and instead purchased a ladder which extends to 25 feet with stabilizers at the base.    Roger was set to do the high sections!

When we moved here, the outside of the house had been freshly painted by the previous owners to help it look neat and tidy.    But when we arrived it was clear we had bigger fish to fry.  Crockern needed more than a lick of paint on the outside.   A quick stroll through the archives of this blog can remind anyone of the projects over the years:  the living room, the bedroom, the bathroom, the office space, the floors, the insulation, the stairs, the electrics, the plumbing, the water filtration, the heating, and the generator.   And that is just so we could live comfortably inside.   As to the outside, there were numerous stone walls to repair, creating the veg gardens, repairing the chicken run, developing drains along the track, repairing the track, replacing gates, putting in a pond, developing a wildflower meadow, planting trees and other bits of landscaping to create a more diverse habitat.  Suffice it to say, our relaxed approach to the outside of the house was born of necessity.

But the house was looking shabby.   Really shabby.   We also recognised that the paint was never going to just fall off on its own, fully returning the exterior to the natural stone.    We had to lay this lazy fantasy to rest and recognise we had no choice but to paint.

To do the job correctly, the loose paint had to be removed with a wire brush.   We also needed to repoint all of the loose mortar.    Next on the task list was treating all the surfaces with an algae wash to reduce mould.   Once we did this, we applied a stabilizer to keep any further flaking of paint and mortar.   For each section of the outside walls, this meant touching it with a wire brush, then a mortar knife, next a brush for the wash, and finally a brush for the stabilizer.   We hadn’t even painted it yet!  And the painting was two coats, sometimes three in areas that take the worst of the weather.

The task was made more challenging as this house is not comprised of a simple and flat surface.   There are funny angles.   It’s built into a hill, so the ladder with the stabiliser feet had to be shimmed up onto planks of wood which were held in place by hammering metal posts into the ground just to keep it from falling over.   It is built of bumpy rocks, not smooth with even siding.   We have potted plants and flower beds in the way.   Each area required the two of us to move things out of the way, climb up ladders (Roger) or climb behind plants (me), and frequently replace a well-used brush.   We were a finely oiled team.

And very sweaty.    It was brutally hot as we were in the middle of an extended heatwave.  There were lots of bugs.   Little breeze or clouds to provide any relief.     Not being a fan of the heat, I would go out and start painting at 6 a.m. just to avoid roasting in the sun.   We had to wear sunglasses due to the glare off the paint.

What were we thinking?

It took us nearly 3 weeks and roughly 90 litres of paint, but we did it.    And the place was transformed. Of course, we still have facia boards, window trims and a couple of doors to address, but the weather isn’t on our side at the moment.

It’s Pretty Big, You Can Hardly Miss It

I often have to travel for work, leaving Roger and the dogs to tend to Crockern alone.   Like any couple, Roger and I have our different areas that we manage around the place.   But when Roger was going to go hiking in Wales for a week, I realised that my expertise was lacking in a couple of critical areas.

Before he left, I asked for a tutorial on how to manage the generator should it not come on (not really a problem in the summer as we have enough day light for the solar panels).   Of greater importance was our spring and how to sort out a problem if we have no water.    Roger dutifully showed me his various project areas.   I took notes, asked questions and then took more notes.   I was set.  Besides, what could possibly go wrong in 8 days?

Well, there was that storm with 65 mph wind gusts.

The following morning I went out to investigate and pick up fallen branches.   We had one dead Rowan tree which had been blown out of the ground.   Fortunately, it was being held in place by a rather large and sturdy pine tree, so the stone wall did not get taken down with it.   But the tree needed to be felled.  

I searched, and searched, and searched for the chainsaw.   I put my hand on every item in the outbuildings and named them.  Shovel.   Rake.   Strimmer.   Hedge trimmers.   Wheelbarrow.  Garden gloves.   Hose.   Alas, no chainsaw.   I called Roger and miraculously reached him as he was in a place with little signal.   “It’s a pretty big item, you can’t miss it.”  I was told.   “Well, Roger, I am missing it and I can’t find it.”   Having looked more than once, I knew all too well it was either missing or beneath an invisibility cloak.  

I called a neighbour to see if they might be able to lend a hand (and a chainsaw).   Heather came to the rescue, but not with a chainsaw.   Instead she brought her hand-held electric limb cutter (intended for branches about 2 inches in diameter) and can-do spirit!   I had a tree saw.    Determined, we set about our task and quickly took off the weight of the tree by removing branches.  The trunk will have to wait until that darn chainsaw can be found upon Roger’s return.   But to stop the tree from falling onto the wall, we secured it with ropes.   Not a perfect job, but a good enough job and we saved the wall!

Ah, reading my book.   Relaxing walks with the dogs.   Playing the piano.  Doing some yoga.   Puttering in the garden.   Painting the radiators.   I was going to be relaxed and productive while Roger was away.   But I was worried about the spring, so I daily checked the flow.

And midway through Roger’s time away, the spring stopped.  WHAT????

I pulled out my notes and my reading glasses and headed to the watershed.   As soon as I got there, I read step one, “Turn off the stop cock inside the cupboard under the stairs.”   Not off to a resounding start, I turned around and headed back into the house to accomplish step one.

When Roger showed me how to do this critical fix to our water supply, I paid close attention.   “Think about the logic of how the system works.” He kindly said.   But when I looked at the system of pipes, pumps, joins, compressors, I can tell you it did not follow a logic that works for me.   So I took notes of the steps:

1.   Turn off the stop cock inside the cupboard under the stairs.  

2.   Shut off yellow handle toward tank – that’s the flow.

3.   Put the yellow handle straight up to stop the flow from the spring.

4.   Remove filter housing and remove filter.

5.   Return filter housing but without the filter.

6.   Open the yellow handle all the way toward the house.

7.   Move the red handle toward the hotel.

8.   Hold onto the pump connection and reverse thrust the water for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the water level in the tank.

Okay, there is more than one yellow handle, so that caused a low level of stress.   Placing my notes and reading glasses on top of the open water tank was perhaps not the smartest idea.   When I realised this near disaster, my stress notched up to level three.   Fortunately, I was lucky and nothing fell into the tank.

Having followed steps 1- 8, I counted to 120.   I watched the water level.   It appeared to make a difference.   I next followed the steps in reverse order to put the water back on for the house.

Feeling proud of my success, I stood to gather my glasses and notes when suddenly a huge rush of water came blasting out of the pipes.   Not into the tank, but one of the joins gave way and water was rushing out of the tank!   YIKES!

I ran into the house to shut the power off to the pump.   During my tutorial, Roger had casually mentioned, “If there is a leak, turn off the power to the pump.”

That did the trick, but I was now at a level 8 stress, the water tank was dangerously low and I had to repeat all the steps again.    After doing so, that same pipe join gave way again.    Running back into the house to shut off the power again, I could feel level 10 stress (and a headache) perilously close.

Wet with stressy-sweat and blasting water from the pipe, I could see I needed to repair the hose join and it was clear the little washer inside was broken.   Off I went in search of a replacement and I knew we had a bag somewhere.   I searched high and low applying the idea “If I were Roger where would I put them?”    No luck.   I couldn’t reach Roger to find out where they actually were located, either.    Muttering to myself, “No doubt, those washers are next to the chainsaw I can’t find.”  I implemented a work around and took one from a pipe join that wasn’t in use.   Tada!   Back in business and the water is working. 

This was not an easy adventure, largely because I could have used some oversight doing this for the first time.    And I still don’t see the logical flow to our water system.   Then again, the logic for Roger has him knowing where to find the chainsaw and hose washers.   I look forward to his return.

Should I Have Curtseyed?

A few months ago we wrote to Prince William in his new capacity as the Duchy of Cornwall.   In our letter we shared information about the West Dart Valley, the area of Dartmoor we call home.   This region is part of the Duchy estate, so he probably already knows a good deal about it.   Still, we thought it might be helpful to share with him some of our concerns and observations about the pressures this unique landscape is now experiencing.

No doubt his team of ecologists know all about the rare lichens, mosses and beetles in Wistman’s Woods, and that the whole valley is a Sight of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI) and a Special Area of Conservation (SAC), so we outlined the increasing pressures on the landscape we have witnessed in the past dozen years.   We reported the huge jump in visitor numbers; the almost daily mountain bike riders where they aren’t permitted; camping in areas where it is not permitted; the sawing of branches off of the ancient and protected trees by some visitors in order to have bonfires (also not permitted for obvious reasons); and, the numerous photoshoots, weddings, and other nonsense happenings in an ancient and protected woodland.

While we were at it, we shared an update of the many improvements we’ve made to our small patch including our on-going efforts at rewilding, the planting of hundreds of trees and hedges, and establishing the pond.   We shared highlights of our endeavours to reduce our carbon footprint with the instillation of solar panels, increased insulation, and improved water systems, among other things.   We also mentioned the resulting uptick in wildlife diversity around our home.   We boldly encouraged his Royal Highness to take time in his busy schedule to learn more about this unique part of the Duchy of Cornwall estate.  I did, however, stop short of sharing the link to this blog.

I was not surprised to receive a response a few weeks later from someone charged with the task of replying to all correspondence to the Prince.   My complete surprise came just the other day when we learned His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales and Duchy of Cornwall would be on Dartmoor!

While Roger and I have relatively quiet lives, every day there is some level of excitement, an unpredictable turn in the day.   Yesterday was no different when the doorbell rang and we were told about an injured lamb.   While I called one of the local farmers, Roger went out to find the lamb and bring it inside our shed until someone could collect it.   It wouldn’t stand a chance if it were left outside in the rain.    And a few hours later, this young lamb was taken to have its injuries treated. 

But during all this commotion, I missed a phone call.

An important phone call.

It wasn’t until the following day when I listened to the voice message and learned that Prince William, referred to as The Duke in this official telephone communique, would be visiting the Woods and likely coming up our track!   And why not?   In our letter to him back in May we did write:  “Should you find yourself in Dartmoor at some point, please feel free to visit and see the transformation of this modest property.”

“Roger!   Prince William is going to be here!” I cried out while Roger sat about a foot away hearing the message at the exact time.   Roger remained blithely cool.   I was not.  Instead, I was thinking how I might get to meet the Prince.

With great effort to supress my excitement, I joined Roger and went about the day’s business.   But like any proper curtain twitchers, we kept a watchful eye on who was walking up our track.    It was unusually quiet on the footpath when Roger noticed a group of about 10 men walking toward our house.   They were smartly dressed in outdoor clothing, but not the usual gear for a group of ramblers planning to set out for the day.   “Catherine, I think this may be them.” Roger calmly said.   With that, I ran outside to do busy-work in the garden.   I pulled a weed or two from the front flower bed, watching as this group of men passed.    They were definitely not out for a long stomp on the moors.   We exchanged friendly hellos, but Prince William was not among them.

About 30 minutes later, we looked up the valley toward the woods and saw a larger group.   “Come on Roger, let’s take the dogs on a walk to the woods.   That has to be them!”   We grabbed the dog leads and headed out.  My mind raced:   Do I have my camera?   Should I have applied some lipstick?   Why is it so windy, my hair is a mess?   I should have worn my blue waterproof, not because it might rain, but it brings out the colour of my eyes.  

Up ahead, they were leaving the woods, climbing over the stile and heading our way!    As we would do with any large group, we stepped off the footpath.  As they approached, Millie and Brock put on their usual show of tail wagging and high pitched excited barking.   No doubt, breaking royal protocol for dog behaviour.   The three photographers in the front of the group, stopped briefly to fawn over our two dogs.   The rest of the entourage walked past, nodding and saying hello as they passed.   Including Prince William.

Despite my imagination where The Duke might stop in, have a cup of coffee with us, and let us show him the wildflower meadow, the hedges, the pond, and all of our various home improvements, he and his entourage continued along the footpath past our house.   There was no chit chat.   No tours.   No discussions of a shared interest in the environment.  I didn’t have the embarrassment of no biscuits to offer with the coffee.  I didn’t get a picture.  And just as well, my hair was indeed a mess, I was wearing a black fleece and no lipstick.   Besides the perfunctory head-nods and passing hellos, Millie and Brock had barked.   And with this, we may have left an impression.

The Humble Hedge

Driving down a cosy corridor lined by hedges, I find myself saying aloud, “Please no on-coming cars.”   It takes nerves of steel to navigate these narrow country lanes, and while I can do it, I do not enjoy reversing to a discrete part of the road where two cars can barely squeeze past one another.   Instead, I wish to take in the unmatched beauty of Devon Hedges in early summer.    From the margins there is a riot of colour thanks to the bluebells, red campion, herb-Robert, stitchwort and wild garlic to the thickness of branches and leaves above which are in flower with blackthorn, hawthorn and rambling dog rose.   This is surely the stuff of a Turner painting.  

My favourite cousin Jim felt the same when he first saw a Devon Hedgerow during a visit to Crockern.   As we wended our way down a country lane defined by its hedges, Jim remarked, “This looks like it’s right out of Country Life.”    As if on cue, a pheasant then darted past.   As we emerged onto the moors, grazing sheep, cattle and wild ponies put in an appearance, confirming Jim’s observation.

You can find hedges all over the UK and there are at least a half a million miles of hedgerow criss-crossing the countryside.  Historically, hedges were often planted as boundary lines around farm fields or gardens.   They also provided shelter for livestock, while also being stock-proof barriers between fields.  But, in the mid 20^th century, tens of thousands of hedgerows were removed across the UK with the aim of increasing agricultural efficiency.   Many of those left behind suffered through harsh trimming, or agricultural chemicals.   But a well conserved hedge will teem with life, provide connectivity for wildlife and increasing biodiversity.     

Rural hedges are typically a mixture of shrub and tree species and often include both the hedge and features such as banks, trees, walls, fences and gates.  Many Devon hedges date back to the late 12^th century, having been planted on banks which can be 2-3 metres high.  Walking down one of these lanes is to travel through history.   Holloways.   Droving routes.   The footsteps of our ancestors.   

When Roger and I moved to Crockern, the old stone barrier walls had been neglected and become piles of rocks in many places.   Sheep easily trespassed, nibbling down any growing plants, creating a landscape resembling putting greens.   Wildlife habitats and diversity were minimal.   We are not expert at building dry stone walls, but we put our efforts into rebuilding ours.   After a few years, when we had certainty the sheep would remain outside our property, we started planting.   We repaired flower beds and planted our first hedge along the boundary line at the front of the house.   Since then, we have put in our own half mile of hedging throughout our property.   

The first hedge we planted follows the property line to the front and bends around to connect with Gin and Tonic Hill.   Here it joins the stone wall which serves as the boundary between our lower field and the back of the house.   We started with over 350 little whips, 4 rows deep, of field maple, holly, dog rose, guelder rose, alder, hawthorn, and blackthorn.  That was in 2015/16.

Having established itself to a thick and increasingly dense hedge, we now have a windbreak for the vegetable garden and privacy from the people walking on the footpath.    Perhaps most importantly, it is providing a connective corridor for wildlife and a large diversity of flora and fauna.   We no longer see an ugly stock-proof fence, but instead lush foliage filled with flowers and berries which are a vital food source for invertebrates, birds and mammals.   Planting these hedges was like opening a café for wildlife!   The bird activity has increased hugely in the last few years.   Sparrows, Goldfinches, Chaffinches, Blackbirds, Robins, Nuthatches, Siskins and others dart in and out, building their nests, rearing their young, and taking shelter to avoid the threat from the practiced dives of the neighbouring Sparrow Hawk.

Our hedges are also terrific song posts for the birds.   The chirping and singing is a happy soundtrack to life at Crockern.    The chickens like having their afternoon siestas by the edge, where they can contemplate their next meal from the butterflies, bees, moths, dragonflies, and other insects buzzing amongst the foliage.

(Hedge in February 2016)

(Hedge in June 2023)

Seeing how well this hedge established itself, Roger and I didn’t stop there.   And to give full credit, I will edit that last sentence.   Roger didn’t stop there.    After starting the wildflower meadow in 2017/18 and putting in a spring-fed pond in 2019, Roger picked up another 200  trees and hedge plants in 2021/22. And given that we have only 2.5 acres, when the scheme from the Wildlife Trust came along, Roger naturally put in a plan requesting another 400 hedge plants to go along the wall by the river to connect with the trees running along the valley south of us.   These plants will also create some ground stability to help prevent erosion.    The Wildlife Trust loved his plans, and probably also had a surplus of plants because he received nearly 800 last year!   Roger has been busy.

But among all the trees, hedges, gardens, and other plantings we’ve done over the past dozen years, there is one hedge which has special status.   Filled with field maple, hazel, blackthorn, hawthorn, spindle, alder, dog rose, dogwood, elder, and hornbeam it runs along the north side of the pond, bisecting this field to connect back up toward the hedge along the boundary stone wall.  We call it Jim’s Patch.   Jim was a much loved cousin, who passed away over a year ago.   Roger was planting this particular hedge when we received the news that Jim had died.   Not a glass of wine, a good belly laugh or a witty quip goes by without thinking of him.   In a few years this hedge will be thick and established, giving the appearance that it has always been there.  

Ah, hedges.