In the countryside

After two hours on the train from Paddington I arrive in Devon.

My family live about an hour's drive north of Exeter.

In my opinion, Devon is the most beautiful place in all of our United Kingdom. I have awarded it this accolade for the following reasons:

1/ In Devon nothing ever changes.
The country road leading to my aunt and uncles' house is exactly as I remember it as a kid.
You can live your whole life, get married, get divorced, have kids, go bankrupt, fight in a war, lose a limb and escape a hungry crocodile but you come back to Devon and it will be exactly as you left it.

2/ All the tourists fuck off to Cornwall and leave Devon alone.

3/ I can't really think of any more.

Here is a picture of the little village where my mum's family live.

See that church tower?

My mother was christened in that church, so was my sister. And my aunt. And my two cousins got married in it. And so did my uncle. And when my mum was a teenager she used to play the organ in it.

And you visit it now and it's exactly the same as it was about 300 years ago, when the church was built. They reckon that there's been a place of worship on that site since the 1100s (When Madonna first started singing).

The far end of the grave-yard is overgrown and makes for a good picture.

Here are two random pictures, one of a house that hasn't changed...

And here's a view from the end of the garden at that house that hasn't changed either.

On Monday morning I take a quite stroll around the village where old women natter on the street corner and tractors roll through.

I wander past the charity shop which always makes me smile. Here's the shop.

The reason this makes me laugh is because a few years ago my cousin threw a huge tantrum.

A few years ago I was at my auntie's sitting reading a book when this enormous commotion comes through the front door. My cousin has come home with bags full of stuff.

She stomps into the kitchen area and at the top of her voice bellows; "mum, that is the last bloody time I am doing this!"

Although Emma is my age, she wants to keep all her old books and toys for when she has children. My aunt thinks otherwise.

I go "Emma what's wrong?" and she goes "my fucking mother... that is the last fucking time I walk past the goddam charity shop and see all my old books and toys in the fucking window. I am sick of buying all my fucking stuff back!"

Today I look in the window and there are a few moth-eaten tea cosies and an old puzzle. No Barbie Ferrari or My Little Pony then. I guess my aunt has stopped doing it.

Suddenly it's Monday afternoon and I am back at the station and the train arrives and then I am in London.

The Bakerloo line stinks, I get a londonpaper thrust up my nose and some man is eating Tandoori chicken at Baker Street which makes me want to hurl. I miss the countryside.