Up the Ben and Down the Boozer

the Holly and the Ivy

Devon, November, 2008

The Holly and the Ivy Caper YouTube

Joan loves throwing parties.  Handing us a pair of garden shears and a large black plastic bin bag, we are sent off to gather sprays of ivy and holly for the holiday table. "Big, glossy leaves like these mind you!' she tells our retreating backs as she holds a shiny rhodendron branch over her head.  It's not raining-yet.  There's a back path, a bit overgrown but navigable that leads behind Warfleet inlet  up to Gallant's Bower and the circular walk via Little Dartmouth and back by the sea leg of the South West Coastal path to Dartmouth. Feeling uneasy about "borrowing" bits of greenery from the National Trust woods we decide to get the  sneaky work  done first and  then enjoy the walk. 

I get stuck (literally)  in the undergrowth and thick leaves of yesteryear, trying to go more deeply into the steep hillside forest to snare ropes of green.  The wood is ivy thick  and I imagine that the trees we are gently and only very partly freeing from their tendrils, are taking a gratefully deep breath.  Tom snips the twined bouquets from theeir higher branches.  Pretty soon we have what Tom considers to be more than enough greenery.  He throws the bag over his shoulder Claus-like and we walk up the rest of the path, through the ancient fort, past the bluebell wood (it's not May so no need to linger) to the view just below the Coast Guard cottages which encompasses all of the harbor, the River Dart exiting to the sea and the opposite shore where the coastal path wanders on, requiring the Lower Ferry to get there from here. 

Reaching the muddy  farm lane, stirred up by huge tractor tires ,and lined by  tall hedges which will be full of birds and flowers and wild garlic when it is not November, we reach the gate of Little Dartmouth.   There are changes going on here--an old barn gone, two new ones erected and the planning permission and scope charts posted for us to comment on, so we do-- reassured that the meticulously layered stone barn remains, apparently useful only as an office as it is no longer large enough to house that huge tractor and the other mid- western lookalike farm machinery. This place used to have a spitting llama in the near field with the lambs and a donkey, but maybe its absence is also a sign of the times. The near field is, according to plan, now a barn.

Little Dartmouth is National Trust land and as we let ourselves through the gate into the home fields with the home cows and the  enormous round bales of home hay, we feel particularly conspicuous wearing a big plastic bag on our backs (we keep trading off).  A modestly popular spot for weekend walkers, we're getting some pretty odd looks from a couple with matching jackets and the young woman who works at the pub we were at last night. Her dog races over to give us the kind of  serious  sniff that accuses us of  a poacher's haul-- at least three  rabbits and a brace of pheasant. Hiking it higher in an attempt to look casual, the bag splits a little and a holly arm boings out in a last desperate attempt to scream a botanical cry --murderers, kidnappers, help. I think for a moment that it would be nicer to wear this bag over my head than on my back, so I tell Tom it's his turn to carry it.

We're walking more purposefully now,  with an eye to putting at least a field's distance between us and the rest of the world.  Tom  takes the loot for a detour to the cliff bushes thinking he looks like a casual walker and nods at me to get a move on.  I try to but  I have to ask those two young women who keep stopping to kneel what the little white things are they are collecting from the cow grass into  small waist bags. They look at me in that special way people who know a lot about something have for people who know very little, and inform me of its  Latin name which I assume, means mushroom.  I collect some too, but forget they are in my pocket until we are back in Massachusetts where they look  and smell more like gorgonzola crumble than a fungus delicacy.

Here's where the path splits. It goes up and back to the lane  or down the kind of steep  down where you have to hand hold small tree branches and negotiate mud in order to reach the sea. The South West Coastal Path goes this way, under the cliff and over the tide -filled  gorge by footbridge and we go with it. Ordinarily we might go down to the sea rocks here but the flapping black bag does not make for surefootedness on slippery boulders. Once the trail curves back up and past the odd  little cave with a bench tucked into it for windy picnics, we're on the home stretch.

Hungry and thirsty-- Dartmouth Castle and a cup of tea next stop.  Our eery  tramp through slippery oak leaved trail to the river's rocky promontory, leads to the Castle cafe--- which has  just closed.  It is raining.  I am carrying the sack now and all I can think of is ditching it.  We head down the lane, up the drive to the house, toss the  bag in the door and jog into the village. The crab sandwich shop is also closed, but the sort of lonesome pub Tom likes because it has Old Speckled Hen on draught, lets us bring in warm  Cornish pasties from next door which we eat by the gas fire, watching the rain and the wind blow over the harbor while the boy at the bar plays video games on the pub's computer.

When  we get back it is  nearly party time.  Joan, pleased with our stash, has arranged the greenery stylishly in the center of the long white clothed table  which is much admired by the guests who arrive and are handed a glass of fizz. Dinner is a huge success with much  laughter, rich conversation and  great food.  Serendipitously, no one lights fire to the centerpiece like we sometimes do at home, and Joan promises to set it free when we're done.

Cautley Spout

June, 2007 Sedburgh, West Yorkshire

Even though we  have had a wonderful stay at Cumbria's Cross Keys Temperance Inn I've probably ruined any chance of our being welcomed back.   Ever.   It's not really my fault.  The traveling sisterhood will understand the demons that visit when it's been raining for hours and you've read all the books, eaten the last KitKat and sort of extemporaneously decide to cut off your hair. I didn't mean to dump it all in the definitely non 21st century toilet when I mindlessly hit plunge.  It just happened. 

We've been on our way "north" from weeks spent "south" and a few days stop in the Lake District where we've booked at Sedburgh's  Cross Keys Temperance Inn  in West Yorkshire's Howgill hills.   The driving rain which has hounded Yorkshire all summer has pushed us up the hills and along the A-66 past tanks and troops who are ready for flood assistance.

It's rained and rained-- and rained.  No, really, it's amazing--as though those deepest lakes of  Coniston and Windermere have sprung enormous leaks and geysered their waters heavenward.  Not good driving weather we nearly miss the Cross Keys and when we pull into the small parking lot ours is the only car. The Inn isn't really much as size goes with only the two rooms but opens for meals at lunch five  days a week and dinner on weekends.  Our confirmation e-mail warned us not to arrive when we have as no one will be here,  but  it's raining, and the door is open.

A fire in the downstairs library is old but still warm. We peerinto the dining room and nose around a little until we hear jangling pots and pans and voices laughing in the kitchen where two women  cooking our dinner tell us just to go on up and choose a room as we will be the only guests on this wet night.  The narrow little  staircase takes us up to another cozy  library with a bedroom at either end and we choose the cheery pink flowers , double bed and deep bath with a window that looks over the farm next door on one side and the  rain slick A683 on the other.

I have a core need born of  Yankee life  in a cold climate that drives me to take  full advantage of a deep, hot bath when on offer  and when I emerge it has stopped raining.  Tom and I look at each other, grab our shoes (and my clothes) and sprint outside because as lovely as the Cross Keys is, what we have come to see is Cautley Spout .  Sliding down a small bank and over an even smaller footbridge--there it is.  A spout is a thin, powerfully long waterfall and this one, the longest in England, drops magnificently as the  Dales- driven River Rawthey falls 200 meters to the plain where it  regroups as river and rushes between pasture banks to meet us. 

We walk as far as we can in the evening dusk knowing we have no chance of climbing  the  ridge of the Spout which is  part of the Coast to Coast Path before nightfall.  Accompanied by  wanderingly friendly, hairy black Fell ponies as night falls, we  walk back. 

Our meal at the Cross Keys is wonderful (we are one of three tables and I have the recommended buck shot -free rabbit pie) and as a National Trust- owned historical Quaker temperance inn we are, in these liberal times, allowed to provide our own wine.  When they tell us we are the only ones staying here, they really mean it. The rain starts again as we climb back to our room, the lights downstairs go out, the key turns in the lock and the last car edges wetly onto the road-- leaving us both guest and landlord of ourselves.

 We sit in the library reading from its eclectic offerings and savouring the sense of  being alone in a wild  storm in a  sixteenth century inn.  I find a book about William Penn's journey through Yorkshire in 1684 when he stayed here--back when it was a hotbed of radical Quakerism.  Too early for bed, I watch the rain for a while,  take another bath and cut off my hair.  If there are any ghosts they are  thoughtful  in a Quakerly  way and allow us to  sleep easily to the sound of  steady rain.

It is still raining the next morning but we can see  the Cautley from the breakfast room window even if we can't climb it.  I guiltily thank the nice woman bringing us our food who is also our host and full of stories about climbing and riding up over the Spout and the generations of locals who come to the Cross Keys for its famous green eggs and ham and don't own up to the hair fiasco even though Tom thinks that all plumbing is in working order.  I take my oddly  lightened shorn head to our next stop and a wet  walk  along part of Hadrian's Wall Path where any ghosts foolish enough to be out and about will  be those of  second century Roman soldiers miserably yearning for sun and warmth.

 

Okay-- how'd this ticket to New Zealand get in here?

 When the kids announced they were moving to New Zealand for a year everyone said "Ooh we'll come visit!" I figured that would be about as likely as the million people telling us  the same thing when we lived last year in the UK.  The only transatlantic visitors hearty enough to join us were Tom's sister and his 88 year old mother. I told the kids not to bother renting a place with an extra bedroom. So they didn't.

Which is why I am scratching my head looking at this e-ticket that clearly indicates that a: it is my passport to Auckland next month and b: I have done it again.

 I am  bizarrely  looking forward to 24 hours in the air (think  how many books you can read in a day when it's impossible to sleep, there's nowhere to walk, the phone and internet are off  and someone brings you food on a regular basis) and a week on the ground so that I can do it all over again, but am startled at its actuality.  The kids and I  had talked about our visiting them but not in precise terms and delightful as they are we rather thought we'd wait until at least one more of them was out of diapers. 

Tom and I talked--could we bear to exchange our summer's plans for backpacking in the Highlands for winter in New Zealand? Could we bear not to?  We agreed to forego a week at the Cape, the Scottish sojourn and all that summer New England offers  for three weeks in July to see the littles who Tom seriously worries will not be allowed to return home once the New Zealand rugby team the All Blacks get a look at baby  Lewis' solid thighs and prodigal walking.  Replete with well earned air miles we figured a trip down under would be "free".

So where did this February ticket come from?

I put it down to the three I's:  Impulse, Internet, Ice. The first two are not surprisingly, interconnected.  Air New Zealand runs one of those websites with fare names like "Sweet Dreams" which dangle enticing prices for long journies with "free" stops in places like Papeete and Nadi only to snatch them back if you dawdle.  I spent most of one cold Sunday trolling the competition, going back and forth to my calendar and my checkboook, adding in the number of lovely airmiles accumulated by traveling to the other side of the planet and back and daydreaming about a world which the kids reported was "too hot".    The too hot may have been the clincher as it always is for those of us who have just shoveled another fifteen inches of snow and refilled the wood stove for the third time in four hours.

I  call Air New Zealand whose 800 number rings you right through to Auckland where you get to talk to an enthusaistic agent who talks funny and complains about the heat-- and put a ticket on hold.  That service costs more than the web but gives you time to come back to your senses.  I have a cup of tea, take a walk in the snow, do some "real" work, come back, open the  Air New Zealand page--and punch in the million numbers  it takes to spend close to  four figures.   My gamble costs me missed opportunities for cheaper connections to Los Angeles but I am non refundably going to New Zealand in four weeks and already imagining hugging those babies, turning pages, and  looking out the plane window at the Big Dipper hanging upside down.

Cotswold Mud

January

It's nearly night but the wind has lulled to a dusky stillness and I say to Tom, let's take a walk.  Just a little one as we spent the day in the wind walking  the Cotswold Way up to Broadway Tower and down through woods  and meadows but our rain gear has satisfactorily dried by the cottage fire and the air smells lovely.

We agree we'll just mosey down the lane a bit past the pub which is not yet open but Tom brings map and torch anyway because we have now agreed that map and torch go together like boots and coat-we shouldn't leave home without them.

My boots  (high top cozy green hunter wellies same as the queen--so they say-- wears to walk the corgis) are good. My  rain coat is a  foil to the fleece that is my must layer in an English January and I throw on a waterproof cap with visor--just in case.

The lane leads to a gate. The gate leads to a trail. We look at each other,shrug and go through over the bridge down the path. Tom stops to look at his map. There is a circular  walk we might just squeeze in before real night, the air is still soft and the  brook lined path ahead inviting. Why not?

Soon we meet mud. The cow trodden farm hillside we are climbing is so slick that I  telemark vertically up the slippery  slope.  The farm itself sits comfortably mid hill surrounded by ancient outbuildings, fragrant smoke issuing from its several chimneys, lights softly glowing from its low windows. The trail circles above the farm's yard on a single track lane as we cross the top of the hill in what the Scots call the  gloaming--a blue twilight whose rich deepness yields an equally deep pleasure at our being here in this place at this time.  We see the lights of the village we've walked from blink on across the hills. They seem surprisingly far away.

Does the circular track start here? Or over there? Tom gets out the map and the torch, carefully studies it and leads us down a fenced perimeter--into the  deep--dark--woods.  Like a shade pulled against the sun, the thick trees, even in leafless winter, eclipse the light and we are blinded by the dark.  My eyes have trouble making the transition  and the trail having turned again to that slick muddy slide,  I do the sensible thing and grab Tom's arm for balance.  Okay, okay I admit I also grab it because the trees are really enormous and it is really dark and there are some odd little  crunchy noises coming from that  shadowy patch below us. 

Tom balances me, the map, the torch and himself as we negotiate the hairpin turns pocked with tricky holes that make our boots squelch and slide. The teeny torch does nothing more than show us  feet and as it is in Tom's hand it is his feet we are staring at.  The crunching noises have ominously stilled when suddenly a violent gust blows in rain and all of the tree tops above us become huge winged creatures who rise up angry, flapping and screeching and way too close. My feet shoot out from under me, I grab Tom harder--AND HE LETS GO. I shoot down the slope  sure that I'm about to be monster dinner and stop only when the mud grabs hold and leaves me sitting in its slimy tentacles.

"YOU dropped me!" I yell at Tom even though he  helps me up and does the best he can to not laugh and says that he didn't mean to drop me but the good news is that he saved  his map and glasses and they are not muddy at all.

I am so mad that I stalk off dripping mud and leaves and tears and even though the rain increases with my foul mood it does little to hose me off. I slog up the long hill until finally reaching the village road, tramp down  it in what is now a full tempest arriving at the cottage well ahead of Tom but have to wait to get in because he has the key. We do not talk for the whole hour it takes me to try to wash mud from my hair, my face, my boots, my trousers and my jacket.   Realizing that this is the best I can do in this trying situation I allow Tom to join me at the pub's fire where he placates me with scampi,  a hot baked potato and a large Chardonnay.

It isn't until we are ready to leave for the airport two days later and I catch site of the back of my jacket that I come to a fuller comprehension of the tenacity of Cotswoldian elements. I will fly back across the Atlantic Ocean branded by streaks of what I can only hope my fellow passengers know is just mud.