Baked spuds and Balaklavas

The Mitre Inn turned out to be another game of 2 halves in as much as I spent the evening listening to the self-important landlord telling me how he could have been a big songwriter if he’d wanted to while the local acoustic guitar trio gently vivisected everything from Blue Suede Shoes to American Pie in the background but then in the morning (as is often the case) the landlady turned out to be a real sweetie despite having that slightly harassed, worried, is that the bank manager at the door again look that is increasingly common to the breed i.e. owners of large crumbling country pubs.

Then off into the Devon countryside in remarkably good weather. With time on my hands I dawdled through the sandy coloured lanes stopping occasionally to admire John Henry Thomson’s erect monument to him falling over his balaclava . No sorry, that should be falling at Balaklava.

Stopped to take a picture of a roadside plant stall in order to keep my feminine side up to speed.

 Eventually landed in Hatherleigh  hoping for a spot of light luncheon only to discover it was in the grip of socially corrosive jacket potato habit. Perused the menu at the delicatessan – jacket potatos, The George – jp’s, The Tally Ho – jp’s, the coffee shop jp’s What the hell is going on here? So it was back into the lanes heading for Martin and Caroline’s place. The final approach to Bratton Clovelly from the North is a magnificent 3 mile downhill swoop …… yippeee.. and the sun is even shining.


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