So, Dear Reader, off we pootled to the Valley of the Rocks, near Lynton…
Half the population of the Punjab had opted to spend their Easter Day there too, it would seem.
Up the steep mountainous paths One observed sprightly, elderly, Indian ladies in startlingly coloured saris biffing up the treacherous slopes like the indigenous goats, looking a tad incongruous it has to be said.
One remained an observer at the bottom, but did perambulate v close to the edge to gaze out to sea. It was one of those divine days when it was impossible to discern exactly where the sea ended and the sky began. One always has to fight the urge to leap over the edge and let One’s spirit soar, but One isn’t quite that batty – yet.
The A of the F really is a first class companion in all areas and every day spent with him is a pleasure for poor dear Lovely One, who currently spends the passing of many a moon tending to the sick and needy.
He does get a little shirty about the dubious driving habits of other road users, particularly those odd little blighters who biff about on bicycles getting in everyone’s way.
‘Just look at their faces,’ shrieks he, ‘they don’t even look like their enjoying it, do they?’ and indeed they don’t.
Along the narrow, winding, cliff-top roads there were some rather splendid homesteads, no doubt housing the privileged upper echelons of our disparate society and we ‘oohed’ and aahhed’ our shameless envy.
‘Tis One’s dearest wish to house the creaky old Admiral in one such establishment. Park him on an upper balcony to gaze out to sea with his telescope, whilst One reclines in majestic splendour upon a tiger skin listening to him rant on and on and on and on about the dubious sailing habits of other sea faring types…
Still, in under two weeks, he too shall be bobbing about the Adriatic being handsome and, oh, I shall miss him…