No west country holiday is complete without a swim in the sea. As a weak swimmer I rarely goes out of my depth. The ideal spot needs to have a gradual incline, without strong tides, sheltered and preferably not crowded. I found such a place here, at Ayrmer cove. A grey shingle beach where a stream meets the sea, defined either side by cliffs composed of huge slate slabs dating from the Devonian era, formed between 395 – 345 million years ago.

The sublime joy of letting go, diving then floating, eyes closed, limbs akimbo, bobbing about on the lapping waters of the little bay. Then, about to wade ashore, re-opening eyes to the wide blue yonder, there’s a brimstone butterfly riding the breeze just above my head, a happy symbol of this sensual interlude.  

Once again thanks are due to the National Trust for owning and maintaining such a place. (On leaving we passed a van’s worth worth of cleared flotsam and jetsam stacked ready for collection). The 20’ walk from the Trust’s landscaped car park on a cul-de-sac outside Ringmore village and the lack of any facilities might also explain its quiet unspoilt state. A few dog walkers, occasional passing ramblers on the coastal trail, and a handful of bathers under the cliffs. Just perfect.

We’d taken one track down the valley, between banks of flower filled hedges, and returned via the field path running parallel on the other side of the little valley. Cows with calves at foot grazed contentedly, hock high in lush meadows brightened by kingcup and other marsh plants. We ambled with our gear, entering cooling woodland shade awash with ferns, before the final ascent back to Ringmore.

This must be one of the prettiest of Devon’s ancient villages, with many a thatched cottage proudly kept and no street lighting along its narrow circling thoroughfares more like paths than roads. The ‘Journey’s End’ pub enjoys a great reputation for its evening meals (The chef and his family live permanently on site, which might help explain why) It’s named after the seminal play set on the Western front in WW1, first performed in London’s West End in 1929. Certainly proved a fitting place to complete our lovely sea blessed outing today.

Based on his own experience as an officer in the conflict, R.C.Sheriff (1896-1975) wrote ‘Journey’s End’ while staying on holiday here and the New Inn (already ancient) was subsequently renamed in its honour. An archetypal old building of low beams, nooks and crannies I fancied it oddly reflective of the officers’ mess in the trenches where the play’s action is set. I wondered if, back in the 1920’s, it might have put Sherriff in mind of that place he knew so intimately and could evoke so powerfully through drama.

Histories of past conflicts affected the parish church too, or rather one of its rectors. All Hallows is a venerable building too, though much restored. In 1637 a new incumbent was appointed Rector here. William Lane was a staunch Royalist who, when civil war broke out in England in 1642, set to raising and training a village militia for King Charles’ cause. In retaliation for his guerrilla action in the area a detachment of troops sailed up from Parliamentary HQ in Plymouth, landed at Aymer Cove, marched up the valley, set fire to the Rectory and arrested Reverend Lane’s two eldest sons. The man himself spent the next few weeks hiding in the Church Tower, aided and supported by loyal parishioners, before making his escape to France. Loved this story for its parallels with the other tales of Royalist rebellion and rout we’d encountered on this holiday, from Boscobel to Colyton….And it doesn’t end there.

Now in the care of the National Trust, Overbeck’s consists of 3.5 acres of terraced gardens set on a precipitous rocky hillside outside Salcombe, giving fabulous views over the extensive Kingsbridge estuary – a great example of a sunken river valley, or ria. Its sheltered position allows semi-tropical and tender plants to flourish and a team of three gardeners backed up by volunteers do an effective job in both maintaining and enhancing this special horticultural haven.

Each garden room opens to another as you rise up or step down to enter them. The contrast of tall semi-tropical trees and native foliage is striking. The green, white and black County flag reminding us of the Devon Riviera location.Trees planted more over a century ago in the woodland area, laced through with winding paths and hidden viewpoints, have added more privacy as they’ve grown to maturity, as well as providing extra shelter.

The garden created around the house known as ‘Sharpitor’, built in the 1890’s, was used in WWI as a convalescent home for wounded soldiers. The estate was left to the Trust in the will of wealthy scientist and inventor, Otto Overbeck (1860 – 1937) who had retired here in 1928. He had made a fortune through his patented medical therapy of ‘electric rejuvination’ and this funded further development of the garden complex that bears his name today.

Our attention was drawn to an example of puya chilensis, a member of the pineapple family, flowering now for the first time in twenty years. In its native South America small birds and mammals seeking nectar act as pollinators, and sometimes they end up feeding it too. The leaves have vicious inward facing barbs so any unfortunate creature getting caught by them only adds to its diet.

Liked the decorative ironwork that around the place, that adds a distinctive playful touch, the creation of a local blacksmith. His work ranges from curly-wurly handrails to concave gate toppings and stencilled sign over the steps leading down from the entranceway. Another graceful touch is the century old bronze figure known as ‘First Flight’ in the garden’s largest flat area – a former tennis court – now appropriately enough known as the statue garden.

Parking at Overbeck’s is very restricted so we walked a mile or so there and back from the car park at east Soar, inland out on the headland, which opened our eyes to other fascinating aspects of the topography. The car park was doubling as a depot for all manner of trucks bearing the full range of kit needed for filming a major motion picture on location. We worked out that it was ‘The Salt Path’.

The book by Raynor Winn tells the story of her and husband Moth’s trek along the length of the south-west coastal path from Minehead to Poole at a time when they were homeless, and he had an illness diagnosed as being terminal.

A publishing sensation it is being filmed over the course of a year, starring Gillian Anderson as her and Jason Isaacs as him. What you’re looking at above are a stack of interlinking flooring used to minimise impact of equipment and facilities on a protected landscape like the coastal path.

Wide farm fields today stretch towards the sea but this place was once a hive of activity after RAF Bolt Head was constructed here in WW2.  This fighter base on the English Channel, home to spitfires and typhoons, was at its busiest in the lead up to D-Day – Operation Overlord – whose 80th anniversary we will be marking on June 6^th.

The military aerodrome closed in 1947, replaced by a smaller private facility for light aircraft. We were amused to see a Range Rover pulling a cutter at speed, back and forth, along the strip bordered by a cereal crop, maintaining peak grass performance.  The original strip was built on a layer of sheep’s wool overlaid with metal grid. I’m wondering if that’s still in place under the grass.

Heartened to see the NT rangers have been reconstructing lost hedge banks. These would have been original field boundaries, grubbed out to accommodate the construction of the wartime air base. With native varieties of shrub planted on top, in time the traditional deep hedge banks should look as if they’ve always been there.

Leaving Overbeck’s we climbed steeply by path and steps to gain the high open spaces skirting Bolt Head. And what an impressive stretch of coastline it is. A simple plaque on a viewpoint overlooking the estuary reminded us of how fiercely powerful the elements can be and the immense bravery of those who risk their lives to save others from natural disaster.

There are fantastic views from the coastal path to be enjoyed on a lovely clear day. Turning off for the car park inland, we threaded through traditional meadowland. A welcome stop off and chats with fellow ramblers at East Soar’s barn.

The farmstead is now run as an outdoor activity centre for young people and other groups, with goats, sheep and other farm animals for the young people to encounter and learn about. They even host weddings in the barn. A last stretch back along the straight access track to the car and we were away. Another wonderful day on the Devon coast, with special thanks to the National Trust for helping making it so at every turn.

West country gardens hold a special allure. in the English horticultural world. Milder climates, sheltered situations, the effect of the gulf stream and an earlier spring all play their part even with the effects of climate change at play. So it was a special treat on this holiday, based on this holiday in the heart of the South Hams, to go visiting two of them, starting with Mothecombe, ten miles east of Plymouth.

We were joined by our dear friend Michael Gee. He and Kim being passionate knowledgeable gardeners they share accumulated plant insight and appreciation. Michael hosted me when performing with Barnstaple based Orchard Theatre in the 1980’s, touring new plays and adaptations of classic novels around the southwest. I’ve mentioned Michael before, an expert on mazzards (Devon cherries) and the county’s apple orchards, for which he received a British Empire Medal from the late Queen.

Mothecombe is situated by the mouth of the Erme, one of many fast flowing rivers that drain Dartmoor to the north. Sheltered by lush deciduous woodlands, in its own microclimate, the salt laden breezes that blow into the cove at the bottom end have little effect on the upper reaches of the little valley which in turn defines its extensive gardens, manor house and estate village. That said a terrible storm in 1990 blew down a lot of older trees which has opened areas up for new planting since.

The handsome Queen Anne mansion, with nearby Flete House and their respective estates, were inherited by the Mildmay family in 1873. Mothecombe House was modernised and extended in the 1920 ‘s, with Edwin Lutyens as architect. Today 5,000 acres of coast and countryside remain of the once even more extensive Flete estate, centered on Mothecombe and the Erme estuary. Between 1982 – 2019 the 15 acre interlinked gardens were the preserve of Anne Mildmay-White. We enjoyed a good conversation with her as she was on duty taking visitor tickets and providing refreshments in the reception area situated in a converted stable block. Turns out Michael and she had once worked together fundraising for the Devon Community Foundation charity, so they enjoyed catching up.  

During Anne’s custodianship the emphasis was on wildlife friendly improvements to garden and grounds. The former cut flower garden was turned into a pollinator plant hotspot when 250 lavender plants, with 12 varieties, were established there, alongside pollen rich annuals and perennials. On the wall was a big notice board showing the common varieties of solitary bees you’re most liable to encounter in UK gardens. This sheltered corner acts as open-air classroom when Bee Conservation Trust volunteers give talks and training sessions for adults and local school children.

We lingered in Lutyens’ handsome refashioned walled garden in front of the house, with its wisteria adorned terraces and wide flower borders. Just outside were impressive specimen trees like magnolia and the wide spreading pink blossom glory of a venerable Judas tree (cercis siliquastrum).

From there we followed our noses through the informal orchard, on through the camellia walk, down into mature woodlands to where the path ended overlooking Mothecombe beach. Watched keen surfers, riding waves rolling in as the cove narrowed up to rock pools and near deserted sweep of sandy shore.

Returning through the woods, we could see through to where the next generation of the family were leaving their mark on the land – a series of shallow ponds feeding off the combe’s stream had been excavated. In a few years they will no doubt look as embedded as the rest of the extended garden landscapes. Came across the original ornamental pond and bog garden, a feature half hidden by exotic blooming evergreens and giant gunnera.  We also encountered small pieces of contemporary metal sculptures of birds and animals skilfully fashioned from cutlery, like this kingfisher.

Higher up, where the valley opens and spreads, a former horse paddock is being regenerated as traditional meadow. Since 2020 it’s been seeded with yellow rattle yearly and subject to seasonal mowing, removal and grazing by sheep. A work in progress as the profusion of these semi-parasitic annual flowers continue to weaken the grasses, allowing meadow grasses and flowers to re-establish.

Being a private estate, Flete is an attractive self-contained location for shooting feature films and its beautiful outdoor locations have been seen in versions of Sense & Sensibility, Rebecca and My Cousin Rachael.

A thatcher was at work replacing reeds on the roof of one of the old estate cottages, back up to the car park in the fields where visitors for beach or gardens start their trek. The former Victorian schoolhouse is now a café and restaurant and nine of the old cottages are leased as holiday lets. We’re sure there’s no shortage of takers.

We came away from this visit impressed by the achievements of respective generations of one family in creating a fascinating multi-layered garden complex here at the centre of their estate. A sustained and sustaining private passion where visitors are made welcome to explore and immerse themselves in.

Mothecombe House, Holbeton, Devon PL8 1JZ

A RHS partner garden and open every Tuesday 10-4 from 1st April – 30 Sept. Admission £6

more at: www.flete.co.uk

‘The most rebellious town in Devon’. That’s the defiant legend of Colyton in East Devon. One of the first Saxon settlements in the county, the town’s street patterns reflect that period but sadly we’d little time today for further exploration as our friends, with whom we were staying in nearby Lyme Regis,  were taking us for a ride. Literally. But first, a bit more about that proud boast…

Charles Stuart was already father to a two year old boy when he turned up at Boscobel on the run after his army’s defeat at Worcester in 1651, the incident I wrote about in the last but one country diary. That child, James, that the teenage prince had by his first known mistress Lucy Palmer, would be the eldest of fourteen illegitimate children the ‘Merry Monarch’ would father in his lifetime. Following Charles II’s restoration to the throne, the thirteen year old was given the title of Duke of Monmouth. Later that same year, 1662, he was married to Anne Scott, 4th Countess of Buccleuch, taking her last name and additional title of Duke of Buccleuch. He then had a successful military career, winning key battles and becoming the poster boy for protestant populism. (Interestingly his Buccleuch descendants are one of the richest aristocratic landowning families in Britain today).

Touted as Charles II’s protestant successor, Monmouth attempted on Charles’ death in 1685 to wrest the throne from his catholic uncle James, duke of York. Landing at Lyme, Monmouth issued a declaration accusing James II of poisoning his father, usurping the throne and ruling against the law. The West Country, with its strong protestant sympathies caused many to flock to his colours. Colyton excelled itself in contributing 105 men to the righteous cause, more than any other town in the region, hence the soubriquet.

The Monmouth rebellion came to a tragic end when James II’s professional army ruthlessly crushed the largely untrained yeomen insurgents at Sedgemoor on the Somerset levels – the last full scale battle fought on English soil. Monmouth fled the bloody scene, but unlike his father before him, failed to secure help in escaping to safety abroad. Apprehended by pursuers in the New Forest just days later, Uncle James showed no clemency and Monmouth was publicly executed for treason in London. (An awful botched job, taking five attempts by the executioner to part head from body)

The ‘bloody assizes’ held in towns across the western counties in the wake of the failed uprising was presided over by the infamously sadistic Judge Jeffries. He sentenced hundreds of wounded and captured rebels to be hanged and hundreds more to be transported for life to the plantations of the West Indies, and many unfortunate Colyton men were amongst those so punished. Three years later the ‘Glorious Revolution’ led to Protestantism’s new aristocratic champion William of Orange overthrowing his father-in-law James II, who subsequently fled into permanent continental exile.

Nearly 330 years later we are amongst the thousands of visitors who associate this area less with tragic rebellion and more with fun rail trips on heritage trams. The Seaton tramway runs along narrow gauge lines for over three miles through the lower Axe river valley, from Colyton to the seaside resort of Seaton on the UNESCO designated Jurassic Coast.  On the way the track crosses a busy road and passes two nature reserves, home to many species of wading birds.

The colourful, immaculately preserved collection of heritage trams was started in 1949 by engineering entrepreneur Claude Lane. Previously run as seaside attractions in North Wales and Eastbourne the trams found a permanent home here on the former rail branch line. Closed under the Beeching cuts in 1967 it reopened as a tramway in 1970, and has gone from strength to strength ever since.

I was impressed by the purpose built modern terminus at Seaton as well as the modernised 1868 original railway station outside Colyton, at the other end, where we enjoyed lunch on the platform. The joy of this sunny afternoon outing was the fab half hour ride on the top deck down to Seaton. Wonderful all round uninterrupted views you only get seated on the open deck, with the return leg a sheltered more sedate experience on the lower deck.

Viewing trams approach on the other line, watching the freshwater river merge into its tidal estuary on one side and taking in the marshland nature reserve with its hides, wooden walkways, reedbed marshes and shallow lagoons on the other. Another West Country attraction experienced. Long may it continue to bring smiles to the faces of all who travel on these beautiful engines, young or old.

Footnote: The Monmouth Rebellion had been my chosen subject back in 1990 when I was recovering from industrial injuries sustained on a theatre tour and decided to fill in the time by applying to compete in the next season of ‘Mastermind’ on TV. The BBC production team said there wasn’t enough information on this topic for their QMs to set questions so I was reluctantly persuaded to drop it. They used the same argument about my subsequent choice of ‘Dartmoor and its Environs’ but I stood my ground and they gave way…A successful rebellion, as I went on to win that round of the competition.

High on a wooded Cotswold escarpment, commanding extensive views southwards across Gloucestershire to the Bristol Channel, sits a former Tudor hunting lodge transformed into a Georgian country house, complete with 750 acres of gardens and parkland. Another fine rural rest point on our journey south, this time courtesy of the National Trust.

Newark (‘New Work’) was originally built by Sir Nicolas Poynz. Important enough to be painted by Hans Holbein, he was one of those hardnosed courtiers who benefitted hugely from the reformation wrought by their all powerful patron Henry VIII. A novel building, designed to show off his newly acquired wealth and hunting domain, this original section was built with dressed stones from Kingswood monastery, an asset stripping process overseen by Poyntz as High Sheriff of Gloucestershire.

Over two centuries later, in the 1790’s, the Clutterbuck family added their bit of new work, a cleverly designed harmonious extension, complete with false windows to retain symmetry. They also landscaped the gardens and approach road in the fashionable romantic style of the day. Of exiled protestant Huguenot stock the Clutterbucks also added the huge mullioned window that floods the main staircase with light, emphasising elegant heraldic decoration in the process.

We had tea on the garden terrace, taking in the vista of rolling pastoral greenery, soaking up the sunshine while it lasted.  Amusing to see and hear the resident peacocks wafting at will about the place, to everyone’s delight. Heading indoors we enjoyed an unhurried wander through the intriguing layers of Newark’s architectural evolution. It also reveals a comfortable modern domesticity, with eclectic art and ceramic collections filling the downstairs living rooms.

This element is the legacy of Texas architect Bob Parsons, who had served as a soldier in Europe during WW2. He fell in love with what had become a dilapidated unloved place inherited by the Trust in 1949 and in return for a peppercorn rent, he and his male partner cleverly restored the building to life during the last 30 years of the last century. As is so often the case in conservation matters our country owes a debt to enlightened foreigners who love and care for our neglected heritage more often than we sometimes do.

A leisurely amble down through the woodland garden and paths, viewing the imposing house on the ridge from a different angle, rounded off our visit.

A 20’ drive from the M5, Newark is clearly ‘a happy place’, well worth discovering for its restful elegant features, indoors and out.

https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/gloucestershire-cotswolds/newark-park

‘….only one way to pass the next day….to get up into a greate oak in a pretty plain place, where we might see round us…(it) had been lop’t (pollarded) some 3 or 4 years before and being growne out again very bushy and thick, could not be seen through.’ Charles II, describing how he hid in an oak tree at Boscobel in 1651

It’s a long, long drive from the north east corner of England to the far south-west. Breaking up the many miles with rests and stopovers makes a big difference to the experience. Doing the research I thought Boscobel House, a short drive west off the A5 from its junction with the M6 near Wolverhampton, might be a good place to meet the first of those requirements on day one of our recent travel south.

On September 3rd 1651 Charles Stuart fled the bloody scene of his army’s disastrous defeat by Cromwell’s Ironsides at the battle of Worcester. The demoralised prince and a handful of associates, now with a huge price on their heads, found refuge at this isolated hunting lodge in the early stages of their escape. Built in the previous century, in the midst of managed woodlands, its name means ‘beautiful wood.’ The property of recusant local landowners, the Gifford family, Boscobel had form as a ‘safe house’, used previously to hide the banned itinerate catholic priests who ministered to them. Their loyal tenants, the Penderels, took in the royal fugitive at great personal risk to themselves. They sheltered, fed and re-clothed the party, who continued their way disguised as servants and labourers, to be aided and guided by other royalist sympathisers, eventually taking ship at Shoreham into exile at the French royal court.

The dramatic story of Charles’ adventures was retold by the then King in 1680 to Samuel Pepys, augmenting earlier eyewitness accounts. The saga’s most famous episode had taken place at Boscobel when the fugitive monarch hid in an oak tree in the grounds while parliamentary troopers scoured the land below and house beyond. So popular was the tale that 29^th May (Charles II’s 30th birthday and date of his restoration) became a national public holiday from 1660 to 1859. Public houses were named or renamed ‘The Royal Oak’ while at Boscobel itself sightseers came in their droves, taking away branches and twigs as souvenirs. An encasing brick wall was built to protect the tree from further diminution but that only seems to have hastened its demise by damaging the roots. 

An acorn from the original took root in the early C18th alongside and that’s the tree you view today behind its railings. A lightening strike in 2000 destroyed one half of the canopy and straps now bound the trunk to stop it splitting. To mark the 350^th anniversary of Charles’ stay, his namesake, the then Prince now King Charles III planted another successor oak nearby, which appears to be thriving. What impressed us most though, as we strolled through the rippling meadow, was that part of the ‘beautiful wood’, later cleared for agriculture, has been replanted in our century with native trees, including those propagated from the famous oak.  It also reminded me of what happened closer to home last year at Sycamore Gap and how that singular tragic act of vandalism created a greater awareness and debate about the importance of native trees in the landscape that will – hopefully – result in new woodlands being planted in the right places as investment in natural capital to benefit us all, wherever we live. 

We were fascinated as much by Boscobel’s complex structure as a building, as by its part in history. Arriving upstairs to view the priest hole under floorboards where the prince spent an uncomfortable night and the attic room where he scanned the countryside for pursuers conveyed a strong sense of living history.  It’s a small miracle Boscobel House and farm has survived relatively intact for the public to enjoy today and that is partly due to the Evans family, wealthy Midlands industrialists, who bought the place in 1812 and in the romantic spirit of the age set about restoring the place to what they perceived it to be in the 17^th century.

The Victorian farmyard we really took to. A prosperous working farm up until 1967, its planned set of interlinked stables and barns invite the visitor to explore a fabric of worked surfaces softly lit by diffused sunlight the quiet midweek day we visited. The oldest part of the site, the late Tudor north range (below), remodelled as a dairy in Victorian times, boasts an impressive hall roof structure.

Now in the care of English Heritage, Boscobel had a major upgrade between 2019 – 20. With a reception area and café in converted outbuildings together with regional heritage breeds – Tamworth pigs, Shropshire and Ryeland sheep, Sebright and Dorking chickens – all add to the place’s agrarian attractiveness.

The famous historic episode set against the vernacular architecture of venerable timber frame house, farmyard brick buildings and restored gardens make for an enjoyable immersive experience. A restful welcome break on our own modest more comfortable royal progress across the country.

Plan your own visit by visiting: https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/boscobel-house-and-the-royal-oak/

Following on from my last blog about hedgehog hibernating in the shelter I went down to the bottom of the garden at dusk to check for occupant activity. I was regaled with a fearsome snorting and eventually found the source in the undergrowth, a male hog foraging outside the shelter I’d set up a few years back.  If the source of the grunting wasn’t known I’d have felt fear in my bones as it had a positively ghost like disembodied quality. On the way back to the house, going round a corner into spilt light from a window, the form of another hedgehog came into view. Wow! two sightings in one night. This one appears slightly smaller than the first. A female, I wondered? Is there a possible mating scenario in progress? Who knows, am just happy to have helped provide a home for these endearing and endangered species.

They’re back. The first swallows have arrived, or rather we made our first positive identification, on Tuesday 23^rd.  That’s earlier by a week than last year. There has been aerial aggro since as rival pairs clash in the course of scoping the best nesting sites under our roofed deck. Earlier this year we took down the last nest built for a late brood outside the main house entrance on the yard side. The parents took flight every time anyone entered or left with a noisy flurry of cheeps. Their mud and grasses stick on structures are things of beauty. We want the adult birds to set up their summer homes instead in the usual sites they normally favour, time honoured spots under the deck eaves or high in the old railway goods carriage that serves as our garden hut.

Discovering old nests in the garden long after being abandoned is always a delight. The James Grieve apple espalier has become such a spreader over the south wall of the house that its summer foliage effectively disguised the presence for the first time of a blackbird’s nest, its rough weave now gradually unravelling.

In a nearby apple tree, whose branches hang over the roadside, a pair of garden birds (possibly goldfinches) had fabricated a delicate looking but stubbornly resilient nest of grasses and moss secured with spiders webs in the branch fork.

This season a male wren has taken possession of an open sided box under the eaves of the garage/workshop, stuffing it chock full of moss. The cock bird will make a number of nests in various locations and his jenny will make her choice of the most suitable in which to lay her clutch of eggs. Haven’t spotted any other would be homes yet so hope this might be the des res decided on so we can watch their progress from a distance.

Footnote. For someone not over endowed with higher level technical skills I am rendered content by slowly getting simple rustic constructions in place outdoors. Selecting and lashing together coppiced branches for the beans and peas gives a small satisfying feeling at the end of an afternoon’s work in the garden.

Two recent roadside artistic interventions between home and village caused some reflection. One – a pair of lost child’s woollen gloves displayed hands up at twigs end – has wit and style. The other hasn’t. Clearly a tall person altered the road sign lettering, or carried a stepladder in their vehicle to do so.

I take stock of activity down on the ponds most days. Delighted to see the water skaters are back. They like to park up on the oval leaves of the water hawthorn, like taxicabs in the rank, waiting to skate away at a moment’s notice across the viscous surface in search of sustenance. Of three pairs of legs each insect has, the middle ones are for rowing while rear and front pairs do the steering. Thick pads of hair repel water, preventing it from sinking while the tips of the steering legs detect tiny vibrations emitted by its even smaller insect prey.

The meadow next to home is slowly filling up with this year’s lambs and unsurprisingly they look a lot happier and healthier as the weather finally perks up. The ewes have been shielding their vulnerable offspring from the deprivations of cold wind and incessant rain. Last week the lambs with their thin fleeces shivering and subdued were seeking shelter with their anxious dams against our garden wall. Our farming neighbours despair at the knock on effects of this wettest of springs.

One long section of our field wall we had rebuilt three years ago. (See ‘A Wall Between Us’ December 2021). That upkeep of that long stretch of meandering stonework is our responsibility, not the farming neighbour’s, so needs keeping a watchful eye on. I’ve plugged gaps in sections by retrieving fallen or buried stones. Here’s a sandstone slab covered in grass and moss dug up and slotted in between the original capstones, well encrusted with colonising lichen.

Spring is synonymous with blossom of course and I have a special affection for the dense exuberance of mazzard (cherry) blossom that sets its heartlands in the north Devon countryside ablaze. Here at home I admire the delicate display our eight years old damson gives out. A robust small tree, it grows surprisingly well considering the exposed location. This variety, Shropshire prune, reminds me of the many damsons that will now be blooming en masse in the Lyth valley, south Lakeland.

If I were a flying insect in our garden though – like this red tailed bumblebee – my blossom favourite would have to be the Skimmia under the kitchen window. This bush’s powerfully enticing aroma gets a host of bees and flies of all types topped up on nectar.

Impressed that the apple mint, planted in error free of its containing pot years back is now escaping garden confinement through fencing into the field beyond. Our neighbours’ Texel tups spend the summer grazing here so they will surely sample it. Mutton and mint. The perfect combo.

The inclement weather has delayed first cutting of garden grass this year. April 16^th proved dry, calm and sunny enough to risk firing up the mower to do the first trim.

Looking like dead slugs, the half dozen or so black faeces spied on the lower grass area tells me the hedgehog –in- residence is no longer hibernating but is up and about again in the evenings.

 The satisfaction of doing the first mow is to frame the garden’s features – beds, orchard, meadow, ponds, copses, paths et al. The smaller birds, like dunnock and robin seem to appreciate that a slightly shorter sward is easier to quarter in search of worms and insects. The garden now looks refreshed and whole. With more sunshine bathing it in golden light at day’s end our patch presents as near perfect a scene as one could wish for at this turning point in the year.

A linear ramble on Sunday along a nearby burn was long overdue. Starting with a mooch around a distinctive abandoned farmhouse and outbuildings, more ruinous as each year passes, teetering on the cliff edge above the burn below.

Descended to cross the river via a wooden footbridge, the land opened up again, and we’re at the melancholy ruined cottage overlooking a deep pool. In summer the bracken here is waist high but now the path is bare and muddy. The cottage garden has stands of gleaming hazel, once coppiced but no longer. A magnificent holly tree stands guard over the ruins.

Inside the shell of the roofless building sycamores and a handful of tall pines also grow unhindered. Kielder forest is estimated to be home to half of England’s endangered red squirrel population and we saw evidence of their dining on a fallen stone, re-used as their dining table. The pinecones they feast upon easily sourced from the trees above.

We ascended the fell side, following a thin path, little more than a sheep trod, through swathes of bleached grasses, over boggy patches where rivulets drain to the burn below. We paused at a large rectangular stell, or sheep pen. Seemingly no longer used, its dry stone walls still in good order, strands of barbed wire across the entrance.

Later we admired a fine stand of oaks bordered on the far side by river gorge and on ours by a dry stone wall, mossed over and tumbled down. The grove must have been planted at least a century or so ago, securing it from disturbance. 

A trio of exuberant metal strap structures we encountered were fascinating. Can’t make up my mind whether they were improvised ring feeders, where hay is dropped for stock, or an elaborate protection for growing saplings to save them being grazed by deer, sheep or cattle.

When our path joined the Pennine Way, we followed the broader track back down into the sandstone gorge to cross the fierce flowing peaty waters once again. The valley’s steep sides retain great value as vertical nature reserves, sustaining mature trees and shrubs, refuges for wildlife from bad weather and sheep grazing.

Here in the valley bottom three years ago we talked with the farmer and his brother-in-law who were planting and staking rowan, oak and hazel as part of their higher stewardship commitment. Those trees are now well established and growing on well. Very satisfying to see the woodland extended and welcomed back into the valley like this. All credit to them for the work. This time around we met and chatted with a lone walker of similar vintage to ourselves, coming up at pace behind as we slowly climbed the bank. Turned out he had motor biked it over from home near Chorley in Lancashire that morning, parked up at Housesteads fort on the Roman Wall and was doing a ten mile circular walk before heading home again.

Anyone who has walked or run the trail at this point knows about the ‘pitstop’ at the farm here that overlooks the gorge (site of a listed 16^th century bastle or fortified house). This extraordinary help yourself  ‘service station’ in the barn is open 24 hours.

A godsend for many a weary long distance wayfarer. I’ve also written about it in an earlier diary; ‘Pitstop’ January 19^th 2023.