Silver ribbons/gimme shelter
It was a pleasant dream (even though I can't remember what it was about), and I was sad to let it go.
But in the real world someone was calling insistently; I opened my eyes and looked up.
From the floor of the dining room.
Oops.
Ah well, was only out for 30 seconds.
Days earlier, the weather forecast had been looking interesting. But gales and heavy rain are more fun than being plain cold, and being head-on to the weather made things even better.
So it passed soon enough, and by Dulverton and the fringes of Exmoor I had pieces of blue sky, 2 hours to sunset and a full tank to stitch into some kind of a pattern.
The high road then. No-one around, no-one to see. Jekyll and Hyde, time to let Mr. Naughty off the leash.
Backed off for Simonsbath, and just couldn't recapture the dance after - over the highest part of the moor the wind was thumping 400 kilos of motorbike and rider with force enough to wipe the smile off my face.
Yet it was soon back, Devon's way of going quiet when you drop into a valley does that to me. Trailing down the final 1-in-4 on a closed throttle I could see the rain hadn't been so hard after all, the East Lyn river not even risen.
Checked in, walked out to grab some more of the day.
Struck off upriver but out of the valley in case sunset beat me (hard to get lost that way, even in the dark it'd be just follow the river downstream to the inn). The wild ponies seem tamer than ever.
Next morning, a particular walk. I did wonder if it was wise - the guidebooks advice ranged from "very hazardous but doable" to "don't even think about it". So I walked the ridge top first, around 1000ft above the Atlantic, and peered down. Damn steep, yet the path not even being visible from up there was the gauntlet thrown down.
But it wasn't so hard, and it's easy to take care where your foot falls crossing scree above a cliff edge. Pausing to admire the view was a mistake, vertigo scrabbled excitedly in the wings.
Cow Dow, I think it's called. A wide angle of the Atlantic clear to America, and that rock below is damn near vertical. Safe enough to look over, I'd rounded the Foreland enough the wind had dropped and I could hold a camera again.
Yes, those are sheep down there.
Same rock, same sheep, magnified by telephoto.
A few miles east, looking back. The 'path' runs around it, about half-way up.
Much later, I realised the people catcalling from the lighthouse must not have known about the path, and been unable to see it from below (since all the lighthouses were automated, the keepers houses are available for hire...seems a good place to party).
The other side of the foreland is maybe less rugged, but not for nothing does the coast there sport names like 'Desolation Point' and 'Giants Rib'.
Back in the village, the talk was of hunting and fishing and shooting, and of what they killed tasted like (the last I couldn't help but mentally compare to those who squeal when reminded what steak, or lamb, or chicken McNuggets, are).
No cell phones (no signal), no ADSL (probably - I didn't ask) and TV held no interest bar the weather. The forecasters got it right, the hail rattling against walls 2 feet thick was mostly over by morning.
What was left melted early and the following gales barely a breeze deep in the valley. So a relative stroll downstream to Watersmeet, alongside a river that was just right.
The descent from Exmoor to the sea is steep enough that the barest pause in the rivers and streams downward rush gets called a pool.
But Crook Pool does deserve the name. Clear as Devon water might be, it's still a well of inky darkness. Seems I have an inner magpie though, drawn to pebbles in the shallows.
Afterwards (and following an ill-advised scramble up Trilly Ridge) I was looking forward to dinner: Gamekeepers Pate followed by Poachers Casserole. The pate went down well, but the world wasn't feeling right; stood to leave, and that's when the light went out.
Though not for long (yet long enough to dream). Swooning like some victorian maiden is just so not me, and next morning felt like I normally do after a bike crash (later explained by a bruise pattern matching the oaken dining furniture).
So I didn't go finding any dodgy cliffs to walk along, or rivers to ford, or waves to chance, for a full day and a half (even going so far as to take my baths shallow for fear of drowning in 6" of water).
By the time I was right enough to ride again, it was time to leave.
The wind and rain were ahead of schedule, and had cleared away by the time the bike was pointing inland.
Leaving me nothing but a road fresh-washed and a heart to sing at its sight.
But in the real world someone was calling insistently; I opened my eyes and looked up.
From the floor of the dining room.
Oops.
Ah well, was only out for 30 seconds.
Days earlier, the weather forecast had been looking interesting. But gales and heavy rain are more fun than being plain cold, and being head-on to the weather made things even better.
So it passed soon enough, and by Dulverton and the fringes of Exmoor I had pieces of blue sky, 2 hours to sunset and a full tank to stitch into some kind of a pattern.
The high road then. No-one around, no-one to see. Jekyll and Hyde, time to let Mr. Naughty off the leash.
Backed off for Simonsbath, and just couldn't recapture the dance after - over the highest part of the moor the wind was thumping 400 kilos of motorbike and rider with force enough to wipe the smile off my face.
Yet it was soon back, Devon's way of going quiet when you drop into a valley does that to me. Trailing down the final 1-in-4 on a closed throttle I could see the rain hadn't been so hard after all, the East Lyn river not even risen.
Checked in, walked out to grab some more of the day.
Struck off upriver but out of the valley in case sunset beat me (hard to get lost that way, even in the dark it'd be just follow the river downstream to the inn). The wild ponies seem tamer than ever.
Next morning, a particular walk. I did wonder if it was wise - the guidebooks advice ranged from "very hazardous but doable" to "don't even think about it". So I walked the ridge top first, around 1000ft above the Atlantic, and peered down. Damn steep, yet the path not even being visible from up there was the gauntlet thrown down.
But it wasn't so hard, and it's easy to take care where your foot falls crossing scree above a cliff edge. Pausing to admire the view was a mistake, vertigo scrabbled excitedly in the wings.
Cow Dow, I think it's called. A wide angle of the Atlantic clear to America, and that rock below is damn near vertical. Safe enough to look over, I'd rounded the Foreland enough the wind had dropped and I could hold a camera again.
Yes, those are sheep down there.
Same rock, same sheep, magnified by telephoto.
A few miles east, looking back. The 'path' runs around it, about half-way up.
Much later, I realised the people catcalling from the lighthouse must not have known about the path, and been unable to see it from below (since all the lighthouses were automated, the keepers houses are available for hire...seems a good place to party).
The other side of the foreland is maybe less rugged, but not for nothing does the coast there sport names like 'Desolation Point' and 'Giants Rib'.
Back in the village, the talk was of hunting and fishing and shooting, and of what they killed tasted like (the last I couldn't help but mentally compare to those who squeal when reminded what steak, or lamb, or chicken McNuggets, are).
No cell phones (no signal), no ADSL (probably - I didn't ask) and TV held no interest bar the weather. The forecasters got it right, the hail rattling against walls 2 feet thick was mostly over by morning.
What was left melted early and the following gales barely a breeze deep in the valley. So a relative stroll downstream to Watersmeet, alongside a river that was just right.
The descent from Exmoor to the sea is steep enough that the barest pause in the rivers and streams downward rush gets called a pool.
But Crook Pool does deserve the name. Clear as Devon water might be, it's still a well of inky darkness. Seems I have an inner magpie though, drawn to pebbles in the shallows.
Afterwards (and following an ill-advised scramble up Trilly Ridge) I was looking forward to dinner: Gamekeepers Pate followed by Poachers Casserole. The pate went down well, but the world wasn't feeling right; stood to leave, and that's when the light went out.
Though not for long (yet long enough to dream). Swooning like some victorian maiden is just so not me, and next morning felt like I normally do after a bike crash (later explained by a bruise pattern matching the oaken dining furniture).
So I didn't go finding any dodgy cliffs to walk along, or rivers to ford, or waves to chance, for a full day and a half (even going so far as to take my baths shallow for fear of drowning in 6" of water).
By the time I was right enough to ride again, it was time to leave.
The wind and rain were ahead of schedule, and had cleared away by the time the bike was pointing inland.
Leaving me nothing but a road fresh-washed and a heart to sing at its sight.