Aug 02 2019

It’s Summer!

It’s just a regular sunny summer morning as I head to the farmyard to clean out the stables, worm the donkeys, pick out their feet and check them all, once more, for lice. We’ve never had lice before but new boy, Christos, is very good at offering them a home!

I give all donkeys a brush, a cuddle and, of course, a treat, before letting them out to graze on the indifferent,  July-dry summer grass in Sunday Orchard .

Next the cockerel and chickens have to be caught before they go walkabout, easier said than done! We must check for scaly leg mites, another summer hazard. Poor old Claude finds the whole thing terrifying and shouts his head off. “Just a little Vaseline on your legs” I tell him as he squawks in protest, warning his ladies of the terrible danger ahead! Once done, off they go too, these feral birds, to take their chance in farmyard and field.
Then it’s up the hill to the top fields to check ewes and lambs. But just as Millie and I round the corner on the steep track up to the top barn I spot the twins. How have they got out? I recognise them at once. They are smaller than the rest having been partially bottle fed by me from birth. Their mother had very little milk so I topped them up for her until her milk came in. They are quite independent and stick together apart from the flock, frequently exploring pastures new, under a gate here, through a hedge there. They make me smile; so different from the rest. Quietly Millie and I walk up behind them and they scuttle back from whence they came. Time to move everyone to pastures new, I think.
It’s been a summer of extremes. May was so dry, the wind so cold, even a severe frost on May 5th, so rare in Devon. Beans and courgettes fell victim. The beech hedge was crowned with crisp brown leaves, wisteria ravaged, and the fig trees looked dead. More and more damage became visible as the weeks followed. Then suddenly June and flood warnings rang out all over Britain: helicopters rescues, trains halted, passengers stranded. Spectacular photos of a thousand lightning strikes illuminating the skies of South East England crowd the media. Homes without power, weather warnings nationwide and still it rained. How, then, were we so fortunate to have three dry afternoons to open our garden for the National Garden Scheme? We even had some sun and a stream of smiling visitors
In came July and it wasn’t long before we remembered the old saying “ be careful what you pray for” as the fields turned brown, the grass stopped growing and drought was the word on everybody’s lips. The rain simply stopped.
But it didn’t stop people flocking to visit the tiny hamlet of East Cornworthy. Five lovely gardens opened their gates for the National Garden Scheme Nursing Charities for the first time. After much hard work, organisation and no small amount of anxiety the weekend was upon us! Would anyone come? We were all overwhelmed at the response! Over two afternoons we greeted nearly three hundred delightful, interested, interesting people. The car park filled, queues formed. I dashed to the shop to buy more clotted cream, more strawberry jam. By Sunday afternoon we even ran out of the wonderful scones donated by Dan at Garden Time, our local garden centre. He has made far too many, I thought quietly to myself as I collected them, we’ll never get through all these. Thank you Dan, how wrong I was!
As the visitors drifted away on Sunday evening, garden owners walked quietly round each other’s gardens. Still slightly stunned we finally celebrated with a welcome glass of wine. We looked at each other in amazement. In just two short afternoons they had raised an extraordinary £ 2,500 for the charity: a record indeed!
A little rain has fallen since, tiny signs of green creep across the top fields, grass growing a little at last. The garden is beginning to have that battered late summer look. Buzzards are already beginning to wheel and play on the thermals; I feel a shadow of autumn approaching. I do so hope all our summer visitors will enjoy some sun; I hope the traditional August rain will not spoil their holiday!

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Jul 03 2019

BT june 2019 from Paul Vincent on Vimeo.

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May 31 2019

Bramble Torre, Then and Now

Bramble Torre then and now from Paul Vincent on Vimeo.

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Apr 23 2019

Lambing Days are Done……!

Lambing Days are Done……!

Feeding

…..or are they! As I brought in a set of beautiful twins with their mother from the field yesterday afternoon, I pondered on the final lady; just one ewe still left to lamb but still no sign of milk. Will she, won’t she, we wonder, we’ll see, maybe we have indeed finished!

The last twins

Lambing began with a difference this year. “I’m away at the beginning of March” said Paul way back in October “So I’ll put our ram in later than usual so you won’t be lambing alone!” Good idea, I thought, as Millie and I walked up to the top fields, our daily routine, to check the ewes. Almost at once I found myself face to face with a beautiful Suffolk ram! “Hello. Who are you…..oh dear!”

Our neighbour came at once to retrieve his handsome boy but not before the fellow had given us some truly wonderful, strapping Whiteface/Suffolk lambs: an unusual addition to our pedigree flock!

Our beautiful Suffolk surprises!

Now at last, weeks later, tired and happy, we can dare to begin to relax. Strange though it seems, lambing routine doesn’t change, regardless of numbers. Even though we have reduced our flock considerably, we must still be as vigilant as ever. Be it with just thirty girls or a hundred and thirty or two hundred plus, the routine is the same. Up at dawn, down at midnight!  And, of course, the usual daily rota of chores continues.

Moving to pastures new
Out at Last

Each morning the alarm goes before dawn, Paul climbs out of bed, feeds yawning dogs and makes his way to the yard, wondering what will greet him:  a ewe in labour or newly born babies, maybe. Any ewes with new lambs will be penned up in the big barn for the first few days after birth. This gives us time to make sure the lambs are feeding well and mother and baby are thriving.  They must have ear tags attached in each ear according to MAFF regulations, navels sprayed with antiseptic spray and ewes feet trimmed.

Time for a manicure

The remaining Ladies in Waiting go out for the day into the big field near the yard we call Sunday Orchard. Whiteface Dartmoor’s’ are robust, strong ewes and excellent mothers. Rarely do we have a problem. This year we are feeding just one set of twins for a mother who suffered mastitis and had insufficient milk. A visit from the vet and several injections later and she is recovering, but the babies still need a twice daily top up from the bottle.

A little extra to help mother!

Once sheep and lambs are fed, donkeys let out into their paddock for the day and the chicken house opened, it is time for breakfast. Then it’s back to the yard for the daily routine of mucking out, scraping the yard and gradually moving lambs and ewes from the barn up the hill to the top fields onto fresh grass. Dogs and I walk up the hill and feed mothers and children every day. We feed the yearlings too, that is to say last year’s ewe lambs, grazing in an adjoining field. Some of them will join our flock in the autumn and lamb next year. Others will be sold at the big Whiteface Dartmoor sheep sale in August, joining other flocks to improve the blood line.

Yearlings coming for tea!

Then it’s back for a lunchtime snack and time to catch up on paperwork: birthing records, ear tag numbers etc. Late afternoon and back we go to bottle feed lambs and check the ewes in Sunday Orchard again. Any new mothers are brought into the barn with their babies as soon as possible. The corvids: crows, magpies and ravens, are our biggest threat. They will attack a new born lamb and even sometimes, the ewe too.

Next we feed all the ewes in the barn with sugar beet and oats, hay and fresh water. We check all lambs are feeding well and ear tag any new babies.

Nutmeg Christos and Tiny Freddie

In come the donkeys and while they eat their tea I fill their rack with hay and shut their barn door for the night. These desert animals are not waterproof like horses and too much rich, sugary grass will lead to laminitis. They are as greedy as our Labradors so caution is best!

By the time we have filled the sheep troughs in the yard, the Ladies in Waiting are queuing at the gate baaing loudly for tea! Once in they will stay in the yard and sheep barn for the night away from night time predators.

Time for bed

Time now to shut up chickens for the night, collect eggs, water the greenhouses and sit down at dusk with a glass of wine!

Supper and a little tele and then it’s back to the yard to check everyone, deal with any new births, bottle feed any lambs and come home to bed!

Time to Relax

So,  happy at last, with our beautiful new flock safely up on our top fields overlooking the river Dart and Dartmoor in the distance,  we can look forward to a long night’s sleep!

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Mar 10 2019

Goodbye February!

Gale force winds, torrential rain, mud and still more rain chased us through February taunting us, every now and then, with bursts of brilliant sunshine!  The north wind ripped across the hills driving south from distant Dartmoor. Sometimes I found it almost impossible to stay on my feet as I struggled to fill troughs for hungry sheep. I was so pleased with my old wonder-waterproofs to keep me warm and dry in the deluge!

And now suddenly everything has changed. The hills are turning green at last, as grass begins to grow. The valley is awash with flowers. Daffodils, primroses, hellebores, leucojum, celandine all carpet the hillside. Camellias just go from strength to strength, the best for years.

Birds are in full throttle, shouting above the wind, as they race skywards through the swelling branches going about their business. But rain, sunshine, strong winds and an erratic weather forecast keep us on our toes. As we are greeted with this milder weather, memories of last year’s March snow make us all more than a little wary.  Will this sun stay with us or will everything be knocked back again once more?

We put our ram in with our pedigree Whiteface ewes later than usual last autumn, intending to lamb at the end of March. But, alas, our neighbour’s big boy climbed a huge fence and a very thick hedge to admire our girls. And, although his stay was very brief, we wonder now what to expect as we wait anxiously for early lambs of uncertain parentage!

The wet winter has taken its toll on the donkey’s feet. These desert animals are not cut out for mud. Their feet are porous and old Nutmeg, in particular, has suffered badly. Keeping them all in their big barn has been the only option. But at last, as the ground begins to drain and firm up, they are thrilled to go out to stretch their legs even if this does mean a regular evening pedicure!

It was time for the equine dentist visit in February. Gemma comes once a year to do a dental check and clean and file down rough teeth where necessary, particularly important with older donkeys. Last summer she arrived as planned only to find me standing in the yard in shock having just found my dear old Luke dead in the barn with a bemused Nutmeg standing beside him. We cancelled all thoughts of dentistry and concentrated on caring for Nutmeg hoping she would not go into shock too, which in donkeys, can cause hyperlipaemia, a fatal condition. The vet’s verdict on cause of Luke’s death was old age. But it was so sudden we were all taken by surprise. He was such a gentle, stoical, funny old boy.

So six months on it was time to check Nutmeg’s teeth and give the new boys a once over too. Christof was good as gold but Tiny Freddie wasn’t so keen. He doesn’t like the farrier much either, or the vet or even wearing a head collar at all: a bit of a handful despite being a sweet gentle chap the rest of the time! But all was well and teeth are good for another year.

The equine ‘flu epidemic has brought a visit from the vet recently too. We don’t see many other equines here but the virus is air born so we must be vigilant and make sure they all have vaccine boosters for protection.

So it’s up to the yard again now to bring in the Ladies in Waiting for the night and give them tea. The donkeys will have their feet cleaned and eat their bowl of Mollychaff and I daresay I will have to search for a wayward chicken or two after our recent visit from a fox. We found two piles of feathers recently: food for early cubs maybe or just a hungry loner. Sad though it was, we must share the valley.

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Jan 10 2019

January 2019 Arrives!

January 2019 arrives………….

……………….and the Boxing Day snowdrops did not disappoint!

White camellias, delicate winter cherry blossom, tiny hellebores all swiftly followed, each opening coyly beneath a leaden sky; surely a sign that spring will return once more. As I trudged through the December mud, head down in the relentless rain, I was in danger of losing the faith! But just as the New Year has dawned so the rain has stopped. The sun returns, the hillside slowly drains, grass begins to grow and gradually the daylight hours lengthen minute by minute.

The ewes graze quietly on the hilltop, Dartmoor misty in the distance, the River Dart drifting by quietly beneath them. We hope young Hercules has done his duty and in time strong, healthy lambs will be greeted by spring sunshine.

Meanwhile right now the yearlings, feisty youngsters, are intent on eating anything just out of reach through their boundary fence, despite having plenty of grass in their own field.  Sweet blackberry leaves seem favourite. Time after time, in the last two days, Milly and I have found a little girl with her head firmly stuck through the stock wire as she tries to reach that tasty morsel.  Panicking as she finds herself trapped, she pushes back and forth dancing manically.  We must look a funny sight as I straddle her back in an effort to hold her still between my knees, then push her nose up and tip her head back through the wire to freedom. She gives herself a big shake then bounces back to her pals as I stand panting looking round for Milly. I spot her a few yards away sitting very still watching me intently with her head on one side in that particular Labrador pose which seems to say “What’s up?”  “It’s OK, Mill,” I gasp as I stagger on across the fields!

This New Year brings with it other things too, global anxieties, uncertainty across the world. Here in the UK we are totally consumed with Brexit and our future relationship with Europe. We all have our view; we are all bombarded by Press speculation and opinion. But none of us can do anything but wait for our politicians to stop squabbling and come to some sort of consensus that is truly in our countries interest with, hopefully, Europe in support of their decision. Meanwhile Mrs May soldiers on. We, the public, seem strangely powerless within our own democracy.

Across the ocean Mr Trump is intent on having his own way too, shutting down the US government as he demands funding for his Wall and withdrawing troops needed to promote peace across the world: all is turmoil and chaos.

Feeling helpless in this global mayhem we walk across the hills with our dogs, tend our sheep, enjoy dear funny donkeys.


We prepare for lambing, sweep the yard, mend fences, cut hedges, clean out sheds, service tractors. We plant seed, take cuttings, make plans for the charity summer garden openings. We prune and tidy, sweep and clean.

We rejoice in our dear family and many , many friends and try to hold the faith that some sort of world sanity will eventually return!

Let us hope 2019 will be better than we fear!

Happy New Year from Christos & Tiny Freddy

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Nov 07 2018

A Week Away

A Week Away

Definition: Refugee – Chambers English Dictionary: one who flees for refuge to another country, esp. (sic) from religious or political persecution  [ Fr- L refugium-fugere to flee : C17th : refugie]

A recent week in La Rochelle and the Ile de Re, C17th protestant stronghold of France, and a local history lesson of the region reveals I am a descendant of one of the largest number of “Refugie” to ever enter this country! Indeed the very word comes from our arrival in Britain : somewhere between 20 to 50,000 of us! And  in 1700 the population of England was just 5.1million.

Oh my, in these Brexit riven days, what would we make of those numbers now flooding in from just across the water?! How welcome would my forbears be today, I wonder!!

The Huguenot Henry of Navarre, later to become the Catholic Henry IV, did his very best to bring religious tolerance to France in 1598 but, alas , his grandson, Louis XIV, revoked the Edict of Nantes in 1685 replacing it with the Edict of Fontainebleau and my forbears were forced to flee or face certain death. Sound familiar?!

My maternal grandmother, Alice Margaret Teulon’s ancestor Antoine Teulon did just that aged 20 in 1689. He came to Greenwich and set himself up as a successful hatter and felt maker. He was naturalised British in 1708 and married Ann Defaux. Some ten generations later I read about Teulons who became printers, preachers, architects, engineers, booksellers and, intriguingly, adventurers; must find out more!

As I gaze at the beautiful harbour at La Rochelle it is hard to imagine the terrible siege and sea battles fought all those years ago.

On a happier note we visit the pretty town of La Flotte on the Ile de Re, sit with our old friends by the water’s edge drinking a glass of wine in the setting sun.

We visit the market and once again I ponder why our local markets are so lack lustre compared to France. And of course we eat delicious food day after day; oysters, moules, great big crevette and so much more.

But of course the highlight of my stay was none of these things. The Ile de Re is the home of the Poitu donkey : great big scruffy fellows with huge ears and traditional long matted coats or “cadanette. The males or baudet, pronounced “bo-day”, are one of the biggest breed of donkeys reaching up to fifteen hands: the mares or anesse, just a hand smaller. I jump from the car and race across a busy main road dodging the traffic to try to capture a large group of them with my camera as they stand in a huge circle eating hay on rough ground outside the C 17th fortifications of St Martin-de-Re.

For hundreds of years these beautiful fellows were bred for mule breeding some three hundred miles south west of Paris, not always with the best care. Locally they are still famous for their work on the salt marshes on the Ile de Re hauling huge carts of the famous Sel de Mer from the water’s edge, their legs protected from the salt by strange baggy stripped leggings.

By 1717 an advisor to King Louis XV is said to have described them thus:

“There is found, in northern Poitou, donkeys which are as tall as large mules. They are almost completely covered in hair a half-foot long with legs and joints as large as those of a carriage horse.”

They were exported to many countries and the mules bought by armies across Europe to pull guns carriages, move supplies and transport troops.

But, alas, by the 1950 the breed had all but died out. Mechanization had rendered them redundant. They were replaced on the salt marshes by tractors and by tanks and lorries on the battlefield. Herds were sold or killed; they became seriously endangered. Between 1949-1977 their numbers had fallen from 281 to just 12.

And then in 1988 things began to change. Jaques Fouchier, former Minister for Agriculture set up SA-BUAD to save the breed from certain extinction. He was joined by the Parc Naturel, breeders, national studs, research scientists and by Elisabeth Svenson founder of our own Donkey Sanctuary in Sidmouth, Devon. Thanks to them a wonderful breed has been saved.

As I look at my own new boys from the Sanctuary I cannot but wonder if big Christos may have just a touch of Poitu blood. Look at those huge ears!

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Aug 28 2018

Summer’s End

Rain!

Be careful what you pray for!

I watch in fascination as a high wind drives sheets of rain horizontally across the valley. Trees bend double. Then suddenly the wind drops and thundery rain threatens to engulf me. Encased in my winter waterproofs, hood pulled down over eyes, I struggle with Millie up to the yard on this wild, wet, windy August Sunday morning to feed animals before church.

The chickens will have to stay in their shed. Their run is already beginning to turn to a mud slide. Good thing I saved all sorts of old deliciousness for them when I cleaned out the deepfreeze earlier this week! It is nearly time to move them back to their winter quarters in the farmyard where they can spend their days roaming free in the fields, provided of course, that M. Reynard has moved on to pastures new.

New house!

I must give the donkeys plenty of straw and shut them in their big barn out of the torrent. These desert animals are not waterproof like their equine cousins and their feet soak up moisture like sponges.

I fill their trough with straw and they nuzzle me gratefully before tucking in. The new boys have settled in now and dear old Nutmeg has taken on a new lease of life with her feisty, affectionate new companions.

Christos & Tiny Freddie

Millie and I return to the house soaking wet and covered in straw! Summer seems to have come to an abrupt end but the harvest continues. Dittisham plumbs came and went very fast. A mixture of extreme heat and sudden light showers caused them to rot on the trees. But a row of plum jam sits in the larder and a few bags are stashed away in the freezer for winter crumbles and plum tart.

Dittisham Plums

It is the figs that are beating me right now. No sooner had I poached a batch in syrup than another crop appeared: great big fat Brown Turkey’s, quite delicious and a special treat. Thank goodness they freeze so well!

Brown Turkey

Beans are already over. It was a race to pick and freeze as the prolonged summer drought accelerated their demise. And courgettes turned into giant marrows overnight in the searing heat; a bonus now for hungry chickens. But despite this, a good crop of little fellows found their way in to many meals and, of course, the deep freeze too.

Tomatoes continue to amaze! Such a fantastic crop this year, and all tasting quite sublime as they gloried in the extreme greenhouse temperatures. One huge “Orange Wellington” will make a lunch for two topped with chopped basil, salt and pepper, a touch of Virgin Olive Oil and a slice of “Almond Thief” sour dough bread from the bakery in Dartington or Sally’s Deli in Dartmouth; delicious! And the little Sun Cherry chaps make a wonderful salad. Even the strange “Indigo Blue” improved as they ripened.

Indigo Blue

Kings of Colour, Green Zebra and still more Orange Wellington go into the oven with courgettes, onions, shallots and garlic. Cooked gently till soft I let them cool then freeze them  for a myriad of winter meals. They will become lunchtime soups, sauce for pasta suppers, an accompaniment to quickly fried fish. They will enrich stews instead of the ubiquitous tinned- toms, cheer up sausage and mash on a cold November evening and join those frozen beans to accompany some of our own Whiteface Dartmoor lamb: no end of possibilities!

Five wethers went off to the butcher recently. I wondered whether my regular customers would still be interested in these vegan, vegetarian fuelled times. But within an hour on the phone my fears were unfounded and I almost forgot to save enough for ourselves! It seems that people do still put huge store by the provenance of their food despite all that we read in the press. And I do have to say that Whiteface hogget, properly bred, fed, butchered and cooked is not called Angel Meat on its native Dartmoor for nothing, provided, of course, you are a meat eater!

Lambs in Pastures New!

All the fields are topped at last and swathes of rich green grass are revealed as the drought burnt sward is cut away. Ewes and their newly shorn lambs race through gates to get to lush pastures new at last. We can almost see the grass grow in the warm rain, so good after weeks and weeks of staring helplessly at a brown parched landscape.

Mothers relax

As I climb the hill I turn my face to the sky and feel the warm stinging raindrops run down my neck; a strangely wonderful sensation! Relief floods over me as I look across the greening valley, Dartmoor in the distance, all restored once more. Sheep and cows graze contentedly on the hills all about me, house martins swirl around above my head feeding on a host of insects and preparing for their long journey south. Buzzards cry as they ride the thermals over the hills. All is a reminder, once again, to trust in the healing power of nature

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Jul 29 2018

Gardens Drought and Donkeys


This very strange year continues: snow in March, torrential spring rain and now soaring temperatures and the most severe summer drought for nearly fifty years. It’s as if we dreamt of our tractor stuck in snow drift, wellies coming off in the mud, water draining off the fields, the stream overflowing its banks and roaring through the valley. And now this: no rain for weeks, a parched brown landscape, no grass, nothing green at all. Straw and hay prices rocket; farmers feed next winters’ forage to livestock. The stream is drying up. How long, I wonder, will it be before the spring water feeding our troughs in the fields runs dry?


Each day Millie and I climb the hill to the top fields searching for dusty hot sheep and fat unshorn lambs. In the day they lie huddled in the shade of the hedgerow around the water troughs trying to keep cool.

They creep out at dusk to munch the dry chaff left on the fields in the cool of the night. I try to tell them the rain will return. Millie races across the fields chasing imaginary rabbits. They are gone; the fox was there first. I watched him pacing the parched landscape in the heat of the day. He’s hungry too I warn the chickens.


It was four weeks ago today that I went up to the yard as usual on a Saturday morning to see my two donkeys. They too had been grazing at night and spending the day in the cool of the big barn. Gemma, the equine dentist, was due to arrive at 9.30. I walked into the barn and saw a forlorn little Nutmeg. There beside her lay dear old Luke, dead in the straw. No warning, no sign of illness; just a very old boy who left us suddenly in the night: peaceful for him, shocking for me.
Donkeys are prone to hyperlipaemia when a companion of many years dies so it was important to leave her with Luke until we could arrange for him to be taken away on Monday. I spent the weekend back and forth to the yard checking her by the hour and on the phone to the Donkey Sanctuary. Ten days later a horse box rolled into the yard and my new boys arrived!


Nutmeg wasn’t sure; at first she eyed them suspiciously. But curiosity got the better of her. Her ears pricked up again at last, she tossed her head and cantered across the field with them. I held my breath but all was well. Then, for a week or so, she kept her distance eyeing them from afar. But bit by bit she moved in to have a closer look.


Slowly she is bonding with Christos and Tiny Freddie, two big gentle youngsters. A new era has begun.

Meanwhile as donkeys settled in together the days flew by to our Village Open Garden Weekend in aid of the National Garden Scheme Nursing Charities. The Community Bus was booked, the volunteer drivers recruited. The local garden centre, Garden Time, donated the scones. The Dartmouth Dairy gave us kilos of clotted cream and gallons of milk once more. Tea would be served in the Village Hall. Friends rallied round to serve and wash up and we were even lent a field as an extra carpark.


And of course the gardeners were the heroes of the hour. Without exception they had been working towards this moment for months through all the vagaries of this year’s extraordinary weather conditions: a challenge indeed!
Eight glorious village gardens, each with stunning river views and all quite different from one another, opened their gates to visitors from all over the country. And the people did indeed flock in. They came from far and wide clutching the NGS Yellow Book. We had nearly two hundred visitors and raised well over £3000, an astonishing amount of money for charity in the two afternoons; altogether a huge success.


It is said one should be careful what one wishes for: today, suddenly torrential rain glides sideways across the parched valley!

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May 25 2018

Then and Now

Bramble Torre 1982-2018

What a strange year it has been: March gave us snow…… in Devon! April followed with bitter north winds and plummeting night time temperatures tempered with occasional bursts of uplifting sun. Now at last May slowly warms us. The valley is exploding into colour, everything coming out at once, all rushing to catch up. Birds are shouting as they build their nests, chickens have gone feral, wandering nonchalantly through fields oblivious to the danger of becoming Reynard’s tea. Donkeys canter off delinquently across Sunday Orchard kicking their heels and eeyoring delightedly. Lambs are getting tubby feeding greedily on lush new grass, suddenly greening up at last.
At last, at last everything seems to be catching up. As a strange cold, wet spring edges us towards summer I find myself looking anxiously at the garden. In a few weeks’ time we will be opening for our tenth year in aid of the National Garden Scheme Nursing Charities. What will still be in flower, I wonder, looking at the chaotic cacophony of colour this strange year has already yielded; what will June bring?
Pausing for a few moments between liberating pelargoniums from the greenhouse at last and bravely planting out beans and dahlias, praying the while that all frost is indeed behind us, I found some old photographs: a sharp reminder of how things were when we arrived in the valley in 1982. How the garden has evolved over the years.
First, of course, we mended the house, next it was time for garden restoration. As we cleared and dug, chopped and cleared, the basic structure, long forgotten, began to re-emerge. Someone at some time had cherished it. But, by the time we arrived it had been unloved for many years. Farming had taken precedence.
As we worked, down fell the derelict old green houses, broken glass threatening to chop off our heads. Down came the great tin tractor shed, in went the pond, out went the fencing made of gas stove and corrugated tin. In went banks of shrubs, out went broken outhouses and bindweed and dead trees. In went roses and camellias, beech hedges. Up popped swathes of bulbs and wild flowers. Stifled for years beneath the undergrowth, they took their chance to break free at last.
Slowly, slowly a garden began to return once more to the valley. As we worked so a framework seemed to appear. We tried to follow its pattern. We planted trees, built retaining walls, levelled lawns, restored the barns and made a vegetable garden. Over the years it has evolved, grown and matured.
One day, some ten years ago now, the Devon County Organiser of National Garden Scheme came to tea with a friend of mine. She suggested we might like to open the garden for charity. But “Weed, weed, weed” she said and I’ve been weeding ever since……..

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