Daffodils on Dartmoor and poetry in Teignmouth

If ever a poet is worth travelling to hear read, it's Raymond Antrobus, and he was appearing in Teignmouth this last weekend, so I was able to combine my love of poetry with my admiration for Deaf culture (for Raymond is Deaf), and squeeze in a trip to my beloved Dartmoor just when the wild daffodils were blooming in the Teign valley. What good fortune.

My plan was to park at Steps bridge and walk the footpath through Cod Wood, along the right bank of the river, but for some reason it was closed off, so I walked instead through Dunsford Wood, on the opposite side. The first daffodils I spotted were all on the far bank, but it wasn't long before I encountered some Dunsford daffodils.

There was a lot of bracken in this particular spot, which meant the daffodils were spread rather more thinly than you might spread butter, which is the preferred density for daffodils, but I knew there'd be more upstream ...   

... and after passing fungi, clumps of wood anemones, and many magnificently mossy trees, we reached them. 

The bum of a bumblebee (Common Carder, I think)

A sight to butter up the spirits.

robin

Most of the primroses I so associate with Devon had gone over, but there were still a few in shadier pockets of the wood.

A pair of goosanders

On the return leg I sat on a bench for a while, to which there was a small plaque attached. Forgive me, human Ted, to whom the bench was dedicated, but the Ted I was remembering was my dog, who did, indeed, love Devon, and Dartmoor in particular. Always in my heart.

Wood anemones - yet to bloom - in the crook of a tree

The weather had turned by the time I reached Teignmouth, and it was overcast and blustery, with the high tide making a walk along the beach impossible, but it was good to be there all the same.

Meanwhile, the welcome from poetry friends in Teignmouth and the surrounding area was warm, and Raymond's reading, of poems written in English but incorporating a significant amount of British Sign Language, was enthralling. It really did seem to have a profound effect on the members of the audience, many of whom I suspect hadn't had the privilege of much exposure to Deaf culture, and I couldn't help thinking how wonderful it would be to get him to visit the deaf school where I work. Our students would love it. Maybe one day. 

Old pits and puddles

Just over a week ago it was time to catch up with my Son the Younger and go for a walk in his neck of the woods, which is Lyde Green.We'd decided to visit two nearby disused collieries, Brandy Bottom and Parkfield, so set off along the old Dramway that connected them and other collieries to the north and south with the docks on the Avon.

Coppiced hazel

Approaching the chimney of Brandy Bottom Colliery and Old Pit

New Pit

Cornish Engine House 

The two halves of a winding wheel on either side of the path just beyond the colliery have no connection with it. Apparently, they're from a colliery in Wales and were installed by Sustrans to mark where the Dramway crosses a Roman road; in fact, they're far bigger than the one that would have been in operation at Brandy Bottom.

We then doubled back and headed for Parkfield Colliery, of which little remains apart from the chimney, which can be seen in winter from the adjacent M4 ...

... and the former mining cottages, here seen from the rear.

We wandered back to Son the Younger's neck of the woods along the lane that turns to a river in winter, but which was merely muddy and puddled following the spell of dry March weather. At one point I nearly slipped and fell, but managed to regain my footing. 

At the end of the lane I felt in my jacket pocket and realised my phone was missing. We retraced our steps up and down the lane for half an hour, as far as the point where I remembered taking a final photo, with Son the Younger ringing my phone in vain. No sign of it. In my head I rehearsed the various scenarios: the having to get a new phone when I still have two years to pay on my lost new one; the trip to Vodaphone in Cribbs Causeway, where there would be a long wait for help; the sheer bloody inconvenience and expense of it all. Then, advancing on the puddle from a different angle, my son pounced and raised my dripping phone to the sky with a howl of triumph. It must have flown from my pocket when I slipped and there it had been all along, in about five inches of muddy water, but still, apparently, working.

It was a day before it would charge without making a horrible alarmy noise, but is now in full working order, thank goodness. March 13th, lucky for some.