Even More - Here We Are!!

More of Andy and I have arrived home from holiday than went on holiday last week. I think this is because the primary sources of nutrition in North Devon are pasties, fudge and clotted cream teas. Not a whiff of a vegetable in sight. Not one that wasn't covered in local Exmoor Extra Strong Cheddar, anyway.

However, to counteract some of the effect of the pasty/fudge/ clotted cream diet North Devon had thoughtfully intergrated some extreme hills and valleys of deep incline and gradient in every direction leading away from the holiday cottage we were staying in. This meant that on Sunday, when we thought we'd walk to the nearest seaside village of Lynmouth (approx. 2.5 miles) OR SO THE MAP IMPLIED), we found ourselves yomping up and down and round and round some twisty turny windy hills (that's 'windy' as in back 'n' forth on hair-pin bends, and not 'windy' as in Force 10 gales although it was a bit breezy as it happens) to the point that we actually found ourselves further away from Lynmouth than when we started off and nearly died walking back up the hill to the holiday cottage over an hour later.

It seemed that wherever we went, we encountered hills. Steep hills. Thigh burning hills. Breath -gasping, heart-pounding, calf-wobbling hills. So this dose of holiday excessive baggage has gone straight to my stomach. Still, it'll come off quick enough when I start on the broccoli again.

We nearly brought home a lost lamb. I sent postcards on Tuesday, including one to Grand-daughter Kayleigh, when I jokingly said that there were so many sheep hereabouts I'd see if I could smuggle one home. Well, on the evening of the Icelandic volcano eruption (see what the rest of the world gets up to when you turn your back for 5 minutes to go on hols??), Andy went up the hill to see if he could see the 'magnificent volcanic ash induced red sunset' promised by the weather forecasters. And when he came back (no such sunset to be seen) he said, 'I found a lost lamb.'
'Where?' I said.
'In a field at the top of the hill,' said Andy. 'On its own. Barely moving.'
'Oh,' said I, thinking where could I find a box big enough for lamb-back-to-Kent transportation mode and do they like clotted cream?
'And in the next field there was a Mummy sheep, also on her own,' said Andy. 'So I picked up the lamb and put it in the field with the Mummy sheep. And they took one look at each other and shot off in opposite directions.'
'Oh,' I said. 'Do you think we should initiate a lamb rescue mission?'
'Yes,' said Andy.

So off we went.

But as we stepped into the farmyard of where we were staying, we bumped into the owner of the holiday cottage who was putting her varied collection of hens, cockerels, ducks and geese to bed. Andy consulted her re: the lost lamb.

She pulled a face. 'I'd leave it where it is,' she said. 'If it's on its own there's probably something wrong with it.' And then she wittered on about failed rescue missions, vet's bills and dead lambs with a look on her face that said something like, 'Bloody sentimental holiday-makers.'

I'm afraid I scowled a bit at this point. I refrained myself from saying, 'But Andy IS a vet,' and 'All living things deserve a chance at life,' and 'Just provide me with a lamb-sized box and I'll make a decision thank you,' but she must have picked up the vibes because she concluded her speech by saying, 'I'll get my husband to telephone the farmer; see if he wants to do anything about it.'

Great. For the rest of the evening I was bogged down with thoughts of going on a lamb rescue mission and being accused by the farmer of stealing one of his sheep, and trying to plan out where we would keep the lamb if we managed to get it in the back of the car to take home. The night ended with me taking the wimp's route i.e sending up a prayer to God to look after the lamb and hoping it was still safe in the morning.

Okay, maybe I was being a pathetic, unrealistic sentimentalist. Maybe the neighbours, thus far tolerant of our hens and our bees-to-be would have drawn the line at a lamb appearing in the greenhouse, but we'd have found a way around it. And, quite frankly, if a farmer is so blase and cavalier about his livestock, he has no right being a farmer in the first place.

Holiday rant over. Time to hit the Wii Fit and lettuce!