A Brief History of Devington Park

The Mansion House

Built in the mid 1850’s, and originally known as the Devon County Lunatic Asylum, Devington Park as it’s now called was designed by architect Charles Fowler, responsible for many other sites around Britain including Covent Garden.

The Church come private school

Gates to The Avenue

           

The hospital was self-contained, with its own farm to grow crops, raise pigs and cattle, and its own water supply from a nearby well. The long driveway leading up to it, now known as The Avenue, opens at the bottom with two huge wrought iron gates (the kind you see in creepy films about orphanages) which are flanked by two gate-keepers cottages, responsible for security and keeping the keys, and are now residential dwellings. The hospital had its own chapel on The Avenue, now a private school, where little children enjoy playtimes frolicking amongst Douglas Firs wearing blazers and ties and funny little hats. To the side of the main site is a building now known as Exminster house, which was a residence hall for nurses of the hospital, that have recently been converted to apartments.

During both world wars, the hospital housed wounded soldiers and those suffering from shell shock, particularly during the evacuation of Dunkirk. The site was bombed during World War II, killing and injuring patients and staff and destroying five wards.

            The hospital was not only a place for the mentally ill, but also the elderly, a refuge for women escaping domestic violence, and a home for young women who’d become pregnant ‘out of wedlock’.

            There was a ballroom for ‘residents’, in an effort to provide therapeutic activities away from the rest of society. This is now called ‘The Orangery’. It sits within a semi-circular tiered section in the centre of the site, which resembles something you’d find surrounding an Italian piazza, now named ‘The Cloisters’. Also within this space is an octagonal building where the kitchens once were, now a private dwelling called ‘The Priory’. The imposing main house just inside the gates that we know as ‘The Mansion’ was once the administrational centre for the site. Built to provide patients with a therapeutic environment, where social care was considered just as important as more conventional treatments, the hospital enjoyed far reaching views of the Devonshire Countryside.

        The Devon County Lunatic Asylum originally held capacity for 800 beds, but by the 1970’s this had risen to around 1700, due to all the extension over the years. It was eventually closed in the mid 1980’s and left empty, becoming derelict.

            In the 1990’s, Devington Homes Ltd acquired the 11 acre site and construction began to restore the buildings and re-develop them into apartments and townhouses. During construction cellars were uncovered with rings bolted to the walls, and we can only imagine the suffering that took place in these spaces.  The Sebastian Faulks novel ‘Human Traces’ tells of the grim reality of life in institutions such as this one at the time. 

            The whole building is now Grade II listed with English Heritage, and contains 118 apartments.

The Gazebo by the Pond

In more recent history, on Friday 21st April 2017, a family with mixed roots that went by the name of Grubs turned up in a Zafira packed to its roof with a metal framed bunk bed and quite a lot of luggage, and moved into a small apartment on one of the Walks. Although it wasn’t a patch on Apple Tree Cottage, they were delighted with the fresh carpets and newly painted walls, as they’d looked round some god forsaken places up in the previous weeks. They held the impression that it was spacious too, that is until their boxes arrived from across the miles two weeks later, and it appeared that their bedroom furniture had doubled in size in transit.

Noah at 'The Wooden Park'

            They employed the help of some unsuspecting relatives to help with the move, namely to offer some basic pre-loved essentials like plates and cups and a cutlery set, along with a saucepan stand (which came in very handy when it was discovered that most of the ‘cupboard space’ in the kitchen was actually housing a boiler and other contraptions), some dusting cloths, towels and an unwanted George Foreman grill, as well as a good old boiler for making some tea in the kettle-less, windowless, hardly-any-cupboard space cave of a kitchen. And that boiler would have been even handier, had the kitchen come stocked with some tea bags and milk, which it didn’t. Luckily, in the village, there was a little store (for romantical purposes we’ll pretend it was not a Tesco Express), and that saved the day as far as revitalising cuppas and ham and cheese sandwiches went.

The Squatter's Quarters

            Unfortunately there was nowhere to sit, except for a fold out picnic table with benches, which for one of the unsuspecting relatives proved far too unstable for a man of his size, but thankfully the family had been to the camping store the day before (because the husband is well into that type of stuff) and stocked up on reclining camping chairs and a thing that inflates to the shape of a banana when you swish the open end of it through the air and quickly shut it in with velcro. You can lie in it, much like a hammock, a bright green one at that, and the husband has enjoyed this invention very much in the front garden on some lovely sunny days.

The infamous bed and mattress

            The said unsuspecting relative was then tricked into assembling the much mentioned metal framed bunk bed, and the once stinky mattress which now had a vague scent of fabric conditioner (sea breeze with a hint of musty-funk?) was finally put to its intended use.

            At the end of the day, the family thanked the unsuspecting relatives, because without them they’d have nothing to put their dinner on, or dry up the plates with, and waved them goodbye until next time.

Seriously now! It’s been a great place for a new start. The village (which is probably now more commonly known as a ‘housing estate’ due its growth in recent years) has some great amenities, especially for families. A skate park, a MUGA (multi use games arena - took me a while to figure that one out), tennis courts, garden allotments, three playgrounds (two with zip-lines), loads of green space, a doctors, a dentists, a pharmacy, a hairdresser/beautician, a post office, a cute village hall (pilates-for-the-ladies on Tuesdays and ‘fat club’ on Fridays - not my words), a community cafe, a nice little deli selling organic homemade treats (and milk and eggs from the farm if you feel like boycotting the Tesco Express), a football club, a community centre with many and varied activities including a gym and another cafe, a 14th century parish church from which we often hear bells, and frequent buses to the city centre.

            A & N enjoy the acres of gardens to play in. Across the drive from our place is a pond full of fish and a gazebo to sit under. We’ve enjoyed many of these long spring/summer evenings playing badminton on the grassed area to the side of our place. I’ve done yoga out front, committing to it before considering the view I would be offering to passengers minding their own business on the top deck of the double decker that goes by every half hour.

Rabbits on the old bowling green, with football club in the distance

There’s a ‘secret passage’ through a small bit of woodland, great for squirrel watching, David Attenborough style. The Cloisters and Orangery and Priory can be accessed via a small flight of stairs and a door and the kids call it ‘The Secret World’ which is cool. The bus stop is right outside. Across the road is a flat rectangular, hedged and gated patch of grass which I’m told once served as a bowling green for residents of the hospital, and is now home to loads of bouncing rabbits. The Avenue is lined with big Sycamores and grey squirrels dart to and fro. So needless to say, it’s quite nice!

Devington Park behind

View from the MUGA

Skate park and MUGA

Maciek is now coach of the Exminster St Martin’s under 9’s football team. He was casually enquiring at the club in the days after moving about a team for Noah to join, and found out there was a team for every other age group but that one, for lack of a willing Dad to manage it, and would he be interested in doing so? And he was. So he is. The coach. Of a team of 12 boys, along with two assistant Dads who tagged themselves in once the word got around. He was famous within a week. The Polish Australian no-coaching-qualification-or experience soccer ... oops, I mean football Dad/coach person! A bit reminiscent of the ‘lederhosen’ gig at Kaiserfels Hotel in Austria (see previous blog!) He’s held two sessions already, the kids and parents love it so far. There aren’t enough balls to go around, but at least he’s even been given a whistle. And voila, a ready-made team for Noah!

A spot of badminton anyone?

Yes, it’s a good place to start for this crazy family!

Apart from school, but that’s another story altogether ...

Moors, Tors, The Tale of a Mattress and a Lidl Bit of Shopping

View from our bedroom window

Apple Tree Cottage seems so far away to us now, the three weeks since we left it feeling more like months. That was when everything was still new and exciting in the sense that we didn’t know where we’d be living or what school the kids would be going to, and we were still in exploration mode with a semi-holiday-mindset.  And it was a gorgeous start to our adventure.

Cottage from back garden

            Apple Tree Cottage was part of a row of what used to be agricultural labourers cottages attached to a main farmhouse, all of them sharing the same thatch. The oldest part of ours dated back to the 17th century, and this area definitely had a different energy to it, and if I’m honest felt a bit creepy until we got used to it, especially coming down the stairs during the night for the loo! The house was set down on a hillside and surrounded by a maze of terraced gardens, with no room to stand far enough back to take a decent photo of the whole building, hence the pics from the inside, through the windows to the fabulous views beyond. It took some careful negotiation of narrow winding lanes and a 7-point turn to actually get into its driveway, and another 3-point turn to finally park at the back of it, which I only attempted twice (those scratches along the side of the car were already there weren’t they?!). Just outside of the village of Bovey Tracey, on the edge of Dartmoor National Park, this was our base for exploring touristy attractions like the House of Marbles, Becky Falls, and the moors with its tors.

Side view of cottage

            The largest concentration of Bronze Age remains can be found in Dartmoor National Park including standing stones, cairns and stone circles and longhouse remnants. It’s a place where wild ponies roam and streams babble down into rivers in the valley. Tors are hills topped with large bedrock formations, smooth granite boulders excellent for climbing and exploring, although not all ‘Tors’ are rock-topped. It is also steeped in myth and legend which I’m keen to explore when there’s more time. One I’ve read about is Jay’s Grave, which is a tombstone standing at a cross roads, and is said to be where Kitty Jay is buried, a young women who fell pregnant and found herself homeless and eventually took her own life. She was buried at a crossroads, so that her spirit would not bother the living. Apparently fresh flowers are left there each day, although no-one knows by whom. We’ve no photos of it, because we haven’t been there yet, but it’s on the list of to-do!

Hay Tor from below

We made it to the top!

            Our first Tor visit was to Hay Tor, and we’d been told about the windy conditions of the moors but it was such a beautiful sunny day in our garden of tulips and roses, so off we went in our t-shirts (Noah in his football shorts!). It quickly became apparent as we pulled up in the car and saw what all the other walkers were wearing - dressed to the max in puffy jackets - as well as the state of their hair, being blown in all directions in the car park, that we’d come slightly under prepared! Luckily (due to Maciek’s planning and obsession with efficiency) we had fleeces and raincoats in the boot, which served to protect us a little bit, not that it was much help to Noah’s little goose pimpled legs, as there were no secretly stashed trousers down the side of his seat. But, we got on with it, and the kids made it to the top way before we did, and took off exploring the rocks. The objective eventually became finding a calm spot for our picnic (ham sandwiches, Hoola Hoops, and a flask of tea), which we did eventually, albeit with a tinge of horse poo in the air!

Getting our wigs blown off at the top of Hay Tor!

            We were better prepared on our next visit to Hound Tor, which is where we found the remains of a medieval village mentioned in the previous post. That was the day we visited Widecombe-in-the-Moor with its still working 300 year old forge , and got stuck in ‘cattle traffic’ on the way.

            Apple Tree Cottage was also the base from which we looked for a village and a house to call home for the next six months, and once we’d secured one we got overexcited about buying furniture off Gumtree. We’d looked around for new stuff and were surprised at the cost (high!) so at this stage, not knowing the type and size of house we’ll be living in beyond the six months, we opted to go second hand (not much cheaper really - Aunty Vina, you were right!). Thinking ahead for future visitors (i.e. YOU), we decided on bunk beds for the kids, the ones with a couch on the bottom that pulls out and voila - a double mattress! And lo and behold we found two for sale. So off we went for the first one on the Easter weekend, got trapped in traffic (actual cars) for almost an hour (10 minutes from home) and gave up and turned back, felt terrible, after all the no-shows we experienced when selling our own stuff in Perth. We sent an email apology and said we’d come back in the week if he still had it (it turned out he didn’t). Two days later Maciek went to pick up the other one, a 35 minute drive away through the national park, and thanks to the ample boot space (see previous post) he was able to fit it all in. On his return I was informed that the mattresses were old and not in great condition, so I went to inspect and found that they stunk to high heaven. A decision was made to send the single one straight to the tip, and the double at the very least needed a good wash. Only problem was, the cover was secured to the mattress with those buttons, so we snipped them all off, and into the machine the stinky cover went. In the meantime the frame (and doomed single mattress) was kept round the side of the house in a sort of add-on shed (God know what the old neighbours thought as they no doubt watched these Australian ‘holiday-makers’ lump bits of bed-frame through the tulips and roses). Once the cover was clean, the realisation dawned that without the buttons the cover would not stay in place. And did I happen to bring a sewing kit with me? Of course I did, along with the kitchen sink. No. I didn’t. Sew Maciek set to work with a rusty old screwdriver he found, and thread he’d salvaged when the buttons were snipped. Blood, sweat and tears, it took, to replace those buttons. Literally. After he stabbed himself through the hand (the webbed bit of skin between fingers) and pulled out the dirty old wool from the mattress that had lodged in his flesh (1cm in) he sat in the kitchen and turned grey. I told him to give up on those buttons. And he promised he would. But some time later I walked into the front room and there he was again with the screwdriver and all I could do was shake my head and be grateful that we had tetanus shots not long before we left home. But, to his credit, he did it, all 13 of them. Never mind that the house stunk of musty old mattress foam from having it laid out on the carpet of the main living space for two days. At least it pleased Noah. He’d brought himself a blow up Spiderman punch bag which he was keen to practice his flying ninja kicks on - take that Spidey! The mattress gave him the brilliant opportunity to run through the kitchen and go at Spiderman like nobody’s business and enjoy a safe cushioned landing without a worry.

            A few days later we moved into our new place. Our move-in date had been agreed for the Friday, the same day as we had to vacate Apple Tree Cottage at 10am. And there was the problem. How would we get the bed and mattress, along with all our luggage and us (which as can be seen on previous post, took up the whole of the boot space and more) in the car all at the same time? So with a bit of pleading and bending the rules and praying that our rent was received in time by estate agent’s bank, we were given the keys a day earlier. And so it was on the Thursday, the bed frame and mattresses (including the one destined for the tip) were strategically packed into the car, leaving little room for us, which meant that someone had to sit in the most precarious position being the seventh seat at the back. It normally would have been Noah, since he’s the smallest, but if one of us had to risk decapitation-via-bedframe during the drive from Bovey Tracey to Exminster with a stop at the tip on the way, it might as well be none other than mum. Oh, the sacrifices we make! And so it was that I squished myself in with a serious lean to the right, my ear pressed into my shoulder, with a tiny triangular view of outside, because I couldn’t actually move. But all was well in the end, and I lived to tell the tale.

            Mattresses aside, we can all imagine the hardship of landing in a new place and not knowing where to buy stuff. We’ve been there before, in Austria. But despite the language issues, there was a very limited choice which in way made it easier. Here - the choice never ends: Sainsburys, Tesco, Waitrose, Morrisons, The Range (responsible for Spiderman punch bag) and more. We were told about Trago Mills for household stuff. So off we went to discover a discount department store (a bit of a cross between Bunnings and Spotlight, only much bigger) and family leisure park all rolled into one! Bumper cars and all. With a faux-castle Co-op (supermarket) to top it all off! We’d been looking for Asda and found it in Newton Abbot - hooray I said, I’ve found the equivalent of Big W, with food as a bonus! And I never thought I’d say hooray about Big W. But there you go. What we didn’t know is you have to pay for the parking (take your ticket to the cashier and get the amount discounted from the cost of your shopping) so now we’ve landed a fine. Boo! Asda’s too far for us now as a local place to shop. But, hey, we’ve got Aldi and Lidl. For those unfamiliar, you can get food there, not everything, just some stuff, mostly rip-off brands that are much cheaper than the real thing, mostly from Guatemala or Morocco or Slovakia. And in the centre aisles there’re racks of random items - for the garden or kitchen, pyjamas, colouring books and toys, and even sometimes washing machines.

The lane to Apple Tree Cottage

Co-op Castle? (At Trago Mills)

Here are some Lidl jokes about Aldi:

 A man walks into a shop for a pint of milk and comes out with a wetsuit.

A man walks into a shop for a loaf of bread and comes out with a set of secateurs and some work trousers.

A man walks into a shop for a Polish sausage and comes out with a vacuum cleaner.

(Yep, that was us. It was only 50 quid. And it really sucks. I suppose you get what you pay for).

Sometimes, on the way home, Noah sees us pull off the roundabout at the dreaded exit with the big yellow sign and complains, “Nooo, not shopping again!” And we say, don’t worry, we’re only getting a Lidl bit.

Boom-boom!

Letting Go

We each shed a tear or two today, on Easter Sunday, for one reason or another.

            For Noah it was because the bouncy thing he’d bought at House of Marbles had flung up into the air, courtesy of Amelia, and unbeknownst to him, had quickly descended into a bowl of tomato soup. It was a delayed reaction from Noah, who was busy with something else at the time, but once alerted to it by our uncontrollable laughter, there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And throwing of pillows. And feeble attempts at revenge. And it quickly escalated into floods of tears because we couldn’t buy a dog. A border collie to be exact.

            For Amelia it was because she’d acquired too many cards in a game of Uno which put her in last place on the points table. And that turned into being jealous of our praise towards Noah’s bravery, after a nasty fall at the skate park yesterday. And something else that I never quite got my head around.

            Mine started before all that, while I was making the beds, after I’d seen some Facebook pictures of my gorgeous nieces and nephews enjoying Easter hunts at home, like we used to, with family. And I started thinking back. To all the people and things and memories we’ve left behind.

            The month before leaving was a whirlwind, and the past three weeks here haven’t been much different. There have been small moments of time to pause and reflect and remember, before the present has jolted us back, to organise or schedule or get something done. Until this morning - a rare opportunity to do nothing for a while. Maciek and the kids were occupied playing cards downstairs, and so I sat on the bed, looked at the few things we’d brought with us, remembered everything we’d left behind, and I cried. I really cried. I looked at the photo of Amelia in her first calisthenics costume and remembered how proud we were to see her on stage for the very first time. The sibling photo of them when they were so little at the Kindergarten in Austria, the one from Montessori when Amelia had no front teeth and Noah still had his, the teddies they’ve had since they were babies, and I thought of how much they’ve grown up, and I remembered the years of height markings on the bathroom door frame in Kingsley, and how it’s probably been painted over by now. And I picked up Amelia’s silver-heart locket with a photo of Babcia inside. And the sound of Noah riding his go-cart around in our garden came to me, and I regretted the times we told him to stop for the noise of it, while were trying to enjoy a coffee and a chat outside. And in my mind I went through our house, and remembered all sorts of other things, and cried even more.

            I sat on the bed and through the window there were trees in bloom and hills in the distance, and a paddock where four white horses graze every day. The house in front has a flag pole on its grounds, with a Union Jack whipping in the breeze, and I’d always thought I’d belonged to that flag, more than the other, but at that moment all I wanted to see was the Southern Cross. And I wondered about leaving and belonging. I wondered where home really was. And I had a sense of all the people in the world who’ve left theirs for new lands. With hardly more than the clothes on their backs and a heart straining with hope. For a chance of survival, for an opportunity of safety for their children, for a peaceful life. Out of desperation not choice. And how so many don’t end up finding it, not for a long time anyway. The things they lose on the way. And how it must be, to have to drop everything, without the time to think, to just have to go as you are. And then I felt lucky. Because I have two places to call home. Two flags. And we have choice. And the time to pack our most precious things safely into boxes to come back to. The opportunity to pick and choose what to bring. The choice to experience this. And into the sadness came gratefulness, despite how hard things feel right now.

            It’s a good time to talk about letting go, and new beginnings, it being Easter. Spring time. Rebirth. New life. And quite apt really, that over this weekend we managed to secure a six month lease on an apartment, just south of Exeter. It’s a ground floor 3-bed, and belongs to a building which started life as a hospital built in the mid 1800’s. A lunatic asylum actually, as they were called back then. So it’s pretty fitting for us some would think! But actually it’s quite posh. Gated. With 11 acres of communal grounds.

            For the moment, till Friday, home is a 17th century thatched cottage on the edge of the Dartmoor National Park. It’s cosy and warm with a creaky staircase and fabulous views, and an extremely awkward driveway shared with five other cottages. Last night we hid chocolates around the pretty garden using a torch after the kids went to bed, and hoped we wouldn’t attract trouble from curious old neighbours, especially since that evening we’d hauled the frame of an old bunk bed along with a stinky mattress from the boot of our car, and stashed it for now in the shed.

            We hid 40 chocolates but only 36 turned up this morning. Must have been a thief in the night. We had a lazy morning, and at half past two decided to go out to a local village, Widecombe-in-the-Moor, where an Easter hunt was meant to be happening at the 15th century Sexton Cottage and Church House. The ladies in there knew nothing about it. Not that it mattered. It was a gorgeous village and I’m glad we went to see it. If it wasn’t for the promise of an Easter hunt we may not have gone. All stone houses surrounding a green. A 300 year old forge where a blacksmith still worked making candle sticks and wine racks and other souvenirs. An Inn, equal in age, where we stopped for some Ale, some nuggets and chips, some thick warm bread dipped in cheese fondue. And a walk through the church to light a candle for Babcia, and sit for a few quiet moments, and that’s when Maciek’s turn came for some tears. And we hugged. And we sat with the kids in a pew and remembered, each in our own silent way.  

            On the way home we stopped at Hound Tor, behind which is hidden the stone remains of a medieval village. We sat in the stone rectangles of long ago homes, and there were several attempts at a family portrait using the timer, where we each took a turn to blink at the crucial moment, or stand in the wrong position and end up headless. Or the slip of the camera snapped us a pic of the bracken and brambles instead. We posed for about 10 minutes in the wind before giving up. And I drove the car for the first time, home to the cottage, through the narrow winding lanes in the fading light.

            Yesterday was mostly wasted in traffic, to pick up the bunk bed I mentioned, which we found for sale on gumtree. So there’s at least a place to sleep when we move. We haven’t yet thought about covers or sheets.

            Good Friday we had a great day at Becky Falls Woodland Park, not far from us, and collected stamps on the trail and clambered over boulders in the falls, and won a cream egg from the gift shop for the Easter quiz we completed. (What does oviparous mean? Does a Boa constrictor lay eggs?)

            Last week was spent looking at houses to rent. Discovered some lovely villages in the process - Chagford is one to visit if you come to this part of the world. But it was hard to get everything right. Village, school, house, availability. It was one or two out of four. We’ve ended up with a nice house in an alright village, with an average school and a fairly busy commute to the city, available just at the right time. Not what we had in mind. But we went with it anyway.

            Before that was a visit to my 93 year old Nan in her residential home by the coast. And the tour of the place that she gave us, up to her room and back again, an expedition for her in her slippers, shuffling along with her walker, my arms ready to catch should she trip over her feet and tumble.  Sharing a cup of tea and a poem she’d remembered. Waving goodbye and closing the door and swallowing tears on leaving.

            Before that was a move from our first cottage - The Woodshed in the village of Upton Pyne. Tiny but gorgeous oak-framed addition to the farmhouse with stunning views of the countryside over which we dragged the kids through the mud (on the first day, before we’d bought decent shoes, having left their wellies at home in the madness of cutting down the piles of things we wanted to bring). That was also the week we searched for and bought a new car that I couldn’t drive through a half-empty Sainsbury’s car park without stalling and side-swiping the bars at the trolley return, never mind out on the roads without risking somebody’s life. The car that cost us a bomb for insurance due to our foreign licences. Not the car we had in mind either. Not the car we drove to the middle of nowhere to look at because it was the make and model we wanted, the one that had serviced a family of six and it’s animals (including a dog and a lamb) who lived on a farm. I really wanted to buy it, I did, because the seller was a lady so friendly I was this close to asking if she wanted to go for a drink at that thatched pub we’d seen in the village. But the interior was encrusted with mud and sheep’s wool and God knows what else and we couldn’t imagine how we’d get rid of it ... so, with time pressing again, we went with one from the guy with tattoos and a bald head, born and bred in Exeter, born and bred, me, proud of it too, you should know, and why not? A Vauxhall. A Holden. Not what we had in mind. But what incredible boot space, for all that camping and outdoor gear to come. I’ve never seen a man so ecstatic about boot space, as Maciek was on moving day.

            Before that was a walk called The Jane Austen Way, thought to have inspired scenes from Sense and Sensibility. For us it was more like Nonsense and Sensitivity. We followed a map and tried to engage Amelia and Noah in the story of the Dashwood sisters, but they were more engaged with complaining and pulling disgusted faces at all of the mud and poo. It followed a path through bridal ways, public footpaths through fields and farms, and we were stopped in our tracks by a close encounter of the bovine kind, a herd shuttled along by a man in a tractor, and I attempted to duck under a wire to get out of their way as they can look quite menacing, cows, close up. And I got zapped. Maciek doesn’t believe me. It was rope, he says. But I did. I got zapped. Definitely. It startled my heart and zipped down my arm and left me all a-tingle. Shortly after that we slid through a few meters of mud-mixed-with-poo. Oh-Oh. Poo. We can’t go over it. We can’t go round it. We’ve got to go through it. It could have been a disaster. But that came later, when further along I attempted to dodge a dodgy section of lane by going up on the verge of grass, only to step back down calf deep in mud-slush. And probably more poo besides. My Merrell boots are certainly living the life they were meant for!

            Before that, and the only day of rain we’ve experienced so far, was a race through the city for waterproof runners/hikers for Amelia. We got drenched. Soaked. It was torrential, out of nowhere. I thought it just drizzled here? Like, all the time? But the glimpse of cathedral was nice. And so was the medieval bridge from what I could see of it enclosed in a hood as I was. We went back a couple of days later, when it was sunny, to buy The-Most-Expensive-Insurance-In-The-World. Saw the city properly. Strolled with a coffee. Some awesome historical features, not least the Cathedral. And Noah got told off for throwing sticks and ran away and hid behind a bin. He’ll never look at teenage girls the same way again.

            Before that two days at Pendley Manor in a village called Tring west of London, where the staff were all called Svetlana and Fabio and such (stereotypical names to give you a picture) with the exception of Beryl and Bob who monitored the pool and sauna and Carol the cleaner (again, not real names). We woke at 3 in the morning, then at 4 on night two. Lay in the dark listening to night-time activities from the neighbouring room. Peacocks ran amok in the gardens - Bob, Francis, Lola, Riley and Sammy - actual real names given by Amelia and Noah, very fitting of peacocks I must say. Noah exclaimed that it was so cool to live in a place where rabbits and squirrels ran round, not realising that we weren’t actually going to be living there. It was from here that we surprised the kids with a trip to Warner Bros Studios, the Harry Potter Tour. We did it with a treasure hunt consisting of poetic clues and the tickets hidden under a pillow. Amelia was the sweetest, most kind, most helpful, most thoughtful, most lovely child that day, happier than happy she was. She even dressed up and let me do her hair! It was brilliant, the tour. Highly recommend. Although eat before you go. We got a BLT in the cafe with more L than T and almost non-existent B. Gluey white bread. Glad we took apples.

            Before that a hire car that wouldn’t fit our stuff, despite unpacking a bag and squashing things in down the side, under feet, between seats. It wasn’t to happen. So we upgraded in the end. A Korean something or other we’d never heard of, the Gangnam Style car. Did the trick for a week though.

            Before that. The horribly looong journey. Took five hours to watch La La Land. Mum, this isn’t working. Pause. Mum, I need a drink of water. Pause. Mum, I need to go to the toilet. Pause. Mum, I want teddy from my bag. Pause. Oh, hold on, here comes dinner. Meanwhile, across the aisle, Maciek is engrossed in whatever is playing on his screen. Apparently, he’s watched two movies already. And on the second flight, there he is tucked up with the hood of his fleece round his face, all peaceful, mouth open and sleeping. While I’ve got one child’s feet on my lap, and the other child’s head on my boob. It’s my fault. I can’t let go of being the one to tend to their every need.

            So here we are at the point of letting go.

            In a world where everything seems so uncertain, we’re letting go of safety and comfort and familiarity. Letting go of the company of good friends, of time spent with family. Letting go of stuff packed in boxes, of photo albums, favourite books, clothes that would have come in handy right now, jewellery I might one day wear, of their first pair of shoes, of the picture they painted and stuck on the wall. Letting go of a great school where I know they’ll be well educated and looked after until the age of 18. Of a house we complained about but now miss for its space and the fact it was ours. Letting go of ideals, expectations, of what you had in mind, of things working out just so. Letting go of past things and beginning again.

            What will be will be. That’s all we’ve got to work with right now.

            But we’ve got each other. And at least we’ve been blessed with great weather. Everyday has been stunning.

            We hope you’re Easter has been full of memorable moments and time to pause and reflect.

            We’ve been listening to Heart FM. And as they say at the end of each news break - It’s Monday the 17th of April, and you’re up to date, with “Grubs”.

Drenched in Exeter

Being silly at Aunty Val's

Sunset from The Woodshed balcony

Bit more offputting than a dog!

Gangnam Style car outside The Woodshed

Lovely lunch at The Lazy Toad

That's one magnificent boot!

Poo slide!

Washing our boots in the stream!

Exeter Cathedral

Cow procession

On a walk to Ilsington village

Powderham Castle

Deer at Powderham Castle

Islington Village

Local traffic on our lane

Walk through the woods to Islington

Appletree Cottage

On the walk to Islington

Wild horses on the moors

Boulder clamber at Becky Falls

Becky Falls

Saying hello to a miniature pony

Don't mind if I do!

Happy Easter!

Hunting in the garden

These are different!

Squid rings at the 300 year old Inn

A saxon well in Widecombe-in-the-Moor

Outside the church Widecombe-in-the-Moor

15th century church Widecombe-in-the-Moor

Medieval Village at Hound Tor

Noah ended up taking one instead!