The View from the Whitehouse no.2. Being An Outsider.

“Ah yes, but do you actually live in a white house,’ enquired the Wag. ‘You see, if it’s the view from the White house...’

There’s always one.

Frequently several.

As it happens, we do live in a white house. As it’s 1000 feet up on Dartmoor, it is white for a given value of seventeen years of howling gales, rain, hail, sleet and snow, not to mention passing sheep trailers, milk lorries and muck trucks — which means grayish, greenish and, in places, frankly, mouldy. But the view, over the gate to Cosden Hill and towards Scorhill is glorious, the common across the lane is a perfect screen between us and the main road and although the cascades of wildflowers has gone from the lanes themselves they are still awash with wild roses, honeysuckle and yarrow as I write.

This time of year, the view generally includes the horses and caravans of our regular summer visitors, the folk who build furniture from trees and beautiful, rounded, gypsy caravans or vardos—from the Iranian word vurdon for cart—to sell or rent out for weddings and parties. Their painted horses (does anyone still use that somewhat ugly word skewbald for horses?) are grazing peacefully on the common in the shade and John has come for the water that we happily let them have from our underground well.

They are not real gypsies, and neither are the young family that also camp here with their daughters and who only travel in school holidays; they are courteous people living lightly on the land, existing, for the most part, as outsiders.

We are outsiders too and we know that. And we understand that wonderful fine line between not being local but being accepted. It is quite enough. They do say that you can’t be a Devonian until you’ve buried your grandparents here. I did enquire of the family about digging mine up and moving them down but nobody seemed keen. It probably wouldn’t count anyway.

I think we knew that we were okay the day that Diana, down the road, asked us to help look for her Dartmoor ponies which had broken out of their field. Or the day that Neil, the postman, left a brace of pheasant hanging on the door knocker. Or there was the first day that we freed a young sheep that had got its horns stuck in our wire fencing. And then another, and then another. Oh, hang on, it’s the same sheep...

But the real day of acceptance was when Neil knocked on the door, handed me a brace of pheasant and asked if I minded plucking and drawing them for him as he was on voluntary fireman night duty and wouldn’t have time to do it before they were to be eaten on Friday.

By then, I was an accomplished pheasant plucker—and had even skinned, drawn and jugged the most beautiful road-kill hare I came upon, still warm, one night as I turned off the A30 on my way home from a comedy gig in Bath.

Wags, though are, unfortunately, currently out of season…

First published in The Moorlander.

The View from the Whitehouse no1: Earthing

My Editor at The Moorlander Newspaper has given me permission to reprint the columns I've been writing for them here, so this is no. 1 from 2017.

Hello, I’m a woman with a thorn in her foot who’s just scared the willies out of the postman by lying naked on the vegetable patch. Our garden is pretty sheltered if you’re not actually coming into the driveway — and I did have enough time to ensure that my important bits were decently covered with a towel — but he probably thought I was a dead body for a moment.

This lying naked on the earth thing is called “Earthing.” I think it’s simultaneously the latest and the oldest thing on the planet. According to the website www.earthing.com, “Earthing is a fast-growing movement based upon the major discovery that connecting to the Earth’s natural energy is foundational for vibrant health.”

Major discovery eh? I think our ancestors knew a bit about that. Even my mother knows — she’s survived to 90 very healthily and firmly believes it’s all down to all the gardening she does. She’s probably right; mothers usually are.

It’s all because of electrons. Research from Texas A&M University reveals that when we take our shoes off and touch the earth with our bare flesh, free electrons, powerful antioxidants that can help reduce inflammation, transfer from the ground into our body via the soles of our feet or the palms of our hands.

You’d think, given their contact with nature, that walkers would be the most grounded of people but rubber or plastic-soled shoes prevent us from contacting the earth. Nowadays we rarely walk barefoot except on a summer holiday at the beach. We don’t even lie on the sand—it’s plastic loungers on the beach or by the pool.

I think it’s a bit too much of a challenge to spend half an hour a day lying naked on the vegetable patch so, instead, I’ve started to walk barefoot on the Moor. So much former city-dweller ‘it’ll hurt’ wimpy stuff came up ... and it was jolly cold too until this last month ... but it feels amazing and it certainly makes you focus on where you put your feet. There are tiny, tiny fledgling gorse bushes on the Moor and they hurt.

But I love the feeling of my bare feet splaying out as they were designed to do, adapting to the grass and peat beneath them. That’s not to mention the comfort of socks and shoes when I put them back on my feet afterwards. 

In the meantime, I’m leaving some intriguing footprints in the squelchier places. When just the ball of my foot and toes show up it looks like a very weird mark. Maybe some curious hikers on the way back down to Shilstone Tor are starting to wonder if they have seen the elusive prints of the mythical Beast of Dartmoor?

Mind you, she’s the one racing down the hill behind me, tongue out and leaping for joy. Dogs have all the right ideas and walking in shoes is not one of them.