Poetting in Totnes, plus a detour to Dartmoor

Having missed out on driving Son the Elder to Crewkerne last week - and enjoying a day fossicking around Dorset while he roboteered - because of waking up in the morning to the flattest of flat tyres that Could Not Be Pumped Back Up (and needed replacing), I was relieved to get safely down to Devon for my reading in Totnes a few days later. First, though, a stop on Dartmoor, my heart's home.

Hound Tor

Looking over to Hayne Down

I chose to visit Hound Tor, hoping that through the miracle of magical thinking, the late-flowering bluebells that cover the Down and Holwell Lawn might somehow be out, but as I suspected, I was just a bit too early to witness that glorious lavender haze that seems to float over the moor when they're in full bloom.

A few were just beginning to show their faces, though, along with heath milkwort, spring cinquefoil and marsh lousewort, which were lovely to see.

View across the Beckabrook to Black Hill, Grea Tor, Smallacombe Rocks, Haytor, Holwell Tor, etc

It was very warm for April, despite the breeze, so I had a bit of a sit-down on a rock. Up ahead a deer was grazing, and down in the valley, the cuckoos were shouting to each other.

The deer is in the middle distance, against a patch of green

Grea Tor 

Looking from Haytor and Holwell Tor to Saddle and Rippon Tors

It was then nearly time to leave, so I wandered back through the rocky outcrops of Hound Tor.

Looking back towards Haytor, you can see a face in profile in the rock

Looking up to Easdon Tor, with Hayne Down in the middle distance

Then down down down to Totnes, where a poster of me and my fellow-Bristol-poet-and-reader, Tom Sastry, greeted me on the door of the venue, which was the Barrel House and very fabulous indeed. I spent some time staring in every direction, open-mouthed.

Julie Mullen was our MC, and she'd put together a great bill, but first she read some of her own arresting poetry.

Then the first of two sets by the fantastic Bulgarian vocal group, Gora Ensemble, who were mesmerising ... 

... and an excellent set of funny-but-deadly-serious poems from Tom Sastry, reading from his new collection, 'Life Expectancy Begins to Fall'. 

And me, I read too, from 'Love the Albatross'. Here's an accidental selfie that couldn't have been better composed if I tried. 

It was so good to meet poets I'd only previously been friends with online, as well as catching up with real life mates, including my old friend Bob Mann, whom I've known for years and accidentally lost touch with when his computer died. Firmly back in contact again now, thanks to the poster on the venue door.

Then it was back home up the M5 and into bed at 1am, my five hours' sleep before the alarm went off leaving me to a zombie for most of the next day, but a small price to pay for a precious few hours on Dartmoor and a gig I'll never forget. 

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.