A walk round Powderham.

We had a nice country walk last week, we started at Powderham castle where we normally stop for coffee on our way elsewhere.  Powderham castle is open to the public, and has various events in the grounds over the year.

We walked along the quiet country road that passes the castle grounds and on the other side of the road is the River Exe estuary and the railway line that runs all along the coast.  The blackberries were still ripening on the banks of brambles.

Also in the hedging were the tiny cream flowers of traveller`s joy and sprays of rosy red hips.

The road runs beside Powderham`s deer park, where there are several hundred Fallow deer, it was lovely to see this splendid stag having a morning snooze amongst the bracken.

The sun was lovely as we walked, that lovely Autumnal gold...across the road on the railings beside the railway track, Old Man`s Beard fell in waterfalls, and on the old mossy granite wall there were bright spots of yellow lichen...

The estate has some beautiful old trees, and there is an old well established Heronry here...where in the Spring you can see the Herons flapping backwards and forwards collecting sticks to add to their nests and standing beside them at the tops of the trees like so many little old men.  There is also this very dead dancing tree that is much favoured by the Jackdaws, they squawk and squabble amongst themselves in the Spring fighting over the many holes in the trunk.like so many feathered mafia...

Next to the Heronry is a lovely large field that is surrounded by one of those gorgeous old fashioned metal fences that I love, abit broken and dilapidated, with views to St. Clements church tower, and sometimes on a misty morning you see the pheasants walking rather sedately around, like so many rustic country gentlemen.

We walk round the corner of the field passing the church which is solid and beautiful in it`s red stonework, passing the graveyard where the local folk sleep beneath the Yews and Firs with only the sound of birdsong to disturb their peace, and the odd whistle from the trains as the rattle along the estuary.

And eventually the long tree lined road leads to the hamlet of Powderham where delightful thatched cottages bask in the morning sun, and woven pheasants run amok on the roofs..

Across the road is a large village green, dominated by a huge ancient Holm Oak, whose branches spread and shade the green, and pigeons coo from the depths of the greenery.

The green is surrounded by hedging, brambles and umbellifers now tall skeletons bearing gold pennies that stir in the breeze...we follow the path past more old fashioned railings wearing an overcoat of ivy...

The path is narrow and one side skirts the Powderham estate, and on the other spreading fields and the Folly...along the path are mature oak trees that shake their acorns beneath our feet which crunch in a satisfying way...and the path becomes edged with dewy ferns that brush against us...

 

We look through the fence over the estate where deer  are walking beneath the trees, their tiny tails flicking, and further away to where the estuary is a thin blue ribbon and beyond the village of Lympstone clinging to the rivers edge...

 

 

Eventually the path, which has been steadily rising levels out and runs beside a wood, sunshine dapples the leafy ground, and ferns poke through the wire fence.

 

 

It is nice and shady walking beside the wood, and it smells of Autumn that lovely earthy mushroomy sort of smell...we hear Pheasants screeching on the estate, and amongst the bracken deer are snoozing so well camouflaged we don't see them till they startle us by standing up and leaping away..on the other side of the fence is this lovely old metal kissing gate, I wonder where it used to be and why it was abandoned...

 

 

The path runs down hill to a gate and some steps then over the estate road and crosses marshy fields where a stream winds its way across the meadows, past shaggy willows and eventually runs beneath a little bridge...

 

 

From the bridge I watch the stream gurgling merrily beneath the willows that drop thin lemon coloured leaves onto the crystal water that carries them off to the distant River Exe..In the winter these water meadows are host to geese that feed and rest here, and arrive in V shaped formation, in pale winter skies.  We carry on along the path which is bumpy and runs beside watery ditches where tall bulrushes stand to attention with their lovely brown heads, till we cross the road and through a gate to a path that runs beside another stream, across from which are houses and pretty Autumn gardens filled with Michaelmas daisies, and berried shrubs.

 

 

It is another clear running stream with weeds moving gently in its flow, and in the granite walls little ferns and navelwort grow..

 

 

The path leads into the village of Kenton, a picturesque village with rows of lovely old cottages, and a village store and pub, we walk up the hill to the lodge house of Powderham castle where a Virginia creeper burns in shades of red and scarlet against the grey wall...

 

 

and then back to our car noting another lovely stag resting beneath the trees in the park.

Ponsworthy

Ponsworthy is a delightful little village on Dartmoor, its not chocolate box pretty like some of the villages, but has a certain charm and character that others lack...
 

You drive along the tiny roads of the moor, between ferny banks till you reach a hill which drops down into Ponsworthy which is set in a valley...on the way down you pass the Ponsworthy Splash, where a little stream crosses the road and runs under a lovely little bridge...

And running down the hill towards the stream are lovely thatched cottages with beetling roofs, and thick granite walls that keep the Dartmoor cold out...it is an old village, a village that has seen many winters and summers, a village where generations of people have lived, some now sleeping peacefully in the churchyard beneath a holly tree, while their children and grandchildren now tread the paths of the village where they once trod...

It is a village that maybe washing is hung on a line in the orchard where a few chickens scratch about and cluck contentedly amongst the marigolds and sunflowers...where bees buzz on the lavender, and birds hang on the nut feeders...

It is a village maybe that on Sunday there is always a nice roast dinner, followed by a home made apple pie...where the Grandchildren visit and take home a posy of flowers from the garden tied up with a piece of green twine, and a basket of freshly picked strawberries, or a nice cabbage in the winter...

It is a village maybe that on a dark winters night, the curtains are pulled, the lamps lit and tea is eaten in front of a roaring fire...hot buttered toast, cold meat and pickles,  freshly baked scones with jam and clotted cream, a large fruit cake stuffed with raisins and cherries, sultanas and spice and all washed down with lots of hot tea...

It is a village where the West Webburn River gurgles and glides icy and peat coloured, beneath the old granite bridge, where oaks and willows hang their shaggy heads over the crystal water, and tiny trout dart beneath the smooth river stones that lay and have laid on the riverbed for centuries...

It is a village where dusk is called `Dimpse` and tiny bats flit around the old granite barn...where the night is velvet black and lit with hard diamond stars....and the moon rises gold and ripe like a cheese, and the hoot of an owl can be heard from the wood, or the sharp bark of a fox...

 

 

It is a village maybe, where blackberries are picked from the hedges to make bramble jelly, and blackberry and apple pie, or trips are made into the fields on early mornings to pick the first snowy white mushrooms to eat frizzled up with bacon and eggs, and thick slabs of bread and butter.

 

 

It is a village that has a heart and soul, where daffodils dance in the borders in the Spring, and in the Summer Swallows swoop and dive in the blue skies and nest in the old granite barn, where in the Autumn the berries burn in the hedgerows, and the leaves turn gold, brown and rust and float down the Webburn like little boats.....

 

 

It is a village that lies snug and buried in the winter when the ice and snow lay like a mantle over the thatched roofs, and icicles hang beneath the bridge where the Webburn twists and tumbles...and as the year runs down to Christmas, maybe there are holly wreaths on the doors tied up with bright red bows, and in the windows can be seen the twinkle of Christmas trees, and the sound of carols can be heard Maybe......