good­bye Devon

Hel­lo, Lon­don, and good­bye misty, fog­gy, sweet­est Devon. A week of total iso­la­tion in a cot­tage of stone, sur­round­ed by the wildest and most cul­ti­vat­ed of ancient plants, per­me­at­ed with dusky smoke from a cozy fire­place, fed with roast chick­en, moz­zarel­la-stuffed meat­balls, pork medal­lions in a creamy sage and mush­room sauce (even if we could­n’t see a bite of THAT din­ner because the moon did not rise quite high enough!). Avery read twen­ty-five books, John took naps, I… did the dish­es! A sus­tain­ing, chat­ty, sleepy week was had by all, punc­tu­at­ed by otters and wild ponies, a high tea worth remem­ber­ing, cas­tle tours and more than we ever want­ed to know about a cer­tain Admi­ral Drake! “He’s stalk­ing me…” Avery moaned.

More on all this very soon, but tonight cel­e­brat­ing a reunion with my dar­ling friend Sam, who upon retir­ing has dis­cov­ered what it means to share his bath­room with the wash­ing machine. Moun­tains, my dears, moun­tains of dirty laun­dry. I’ve col­lapsed with an Arma­gnac and a good book and shall be back in the sad­dle tomor­row. I’ll be ready to tell you all you need to know about a cer­tain lit­tle pock­et of Devon, Dart­moor, and a fam­i­ly hol­i­day. Nighty-night.