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......