Hello, London, and goodbye misty, foggy, sweetest Devon. A week of total isolation in a cottage of stone, surrounded by the wildest and most cultivated of ancient plants, permeated with dusky smoke from a cozy fireplace, fed with roast chicken, mozzarella-stuffed meatballs, pork medallions in a creamy sage and mushroom sauce (even if we couldn’t see a bite of THAT dinner because the moon did not rise quite high enough!). Avery read twenty-five books, John took naps, I… did the dishes! A sustaining, chatty, sleepy week was had by all, punctuated by otters and wild ponies, a high tea worth remembering, castle tours and more than we ever wanted to know about a certain Admiral Drake! “He’s stalking me…” Avery moaned.
More on all this very soon, but tonight celebrating a reunion with my darling friend Sam, who upon retiring has discovered what it means to share his bathroom with the washing machine. Mountains, my dears, mountains of dirty laundry. I’ve collapsed with an Armagnac and a good book and shall be back in the saddle tomorrow. I’ll be ready to tell you all you need to know about a certain little pocket of Devon, Dartmoor, and a family holiday. Nighty-night.
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