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Those eager to lead us into believing one thing or another are never far away. I shy away from religion and groups that shelter behind a cloak of respectability. My pension provider has lost two thousand pounds from my pension pot this past twelve months and says I may not have the 25% tax free drawdown promised by Her Majesties Government. "Telephone again next April". They say; "we might have more to tell you by that time".
I listened to a bishop berating a banker on Thursday but why the BBC chose to broadcast a sermon on the morals of a banker is a puzzle, when we know full well that bankers are no better than the rest. ( I would sooner hear what the bishop had to say about the actress).
The tools of propaganda crowd the airways night and day. Doris Archer and Ambridge Farm, leaves me cold.
Perhaps the BBC would have Eddie Grundy tour the Morgan factory, now that would be a tale worth telling.
Before the gritters spread salt on Devon's lanes I take an autumn colour run. . Its about here the Nightjars purr a haunting song and sometimes wing clap one another. Long since flown to warmer winter ground.
The high road leads to Chudleigh and the skyline looking west is Dartmoor. Lanes wild growing Ash, Oak, Birch, Holly, Beech and Hazel.
Forgetting Bovey Tracey, approach Manaton for more woodland colours and gently thread a way down where moss cushions the granite boulder hedge. One five bar gate needs opening before the climb out of the shade to Hound Tor. Heading out of Manaton and past Wingstone Farm the next turning left is the narrowest of roads ever to be navigated in this Mog.
Best not bring your wide bodied Morgan through; in places less than 3 inches clearance exists on either side of me.
Now is not the time of year for thoughts of Hounds and Misty Spectres. There are no such shadow figures lurking here, no howling dog barks on remembrance Sunday.
All is quiet and mellow, until one Morgan burbles down the road and soon goes by.
A tiny vole scampers left to right, missed by a country mile. It would be a shame to find this little dark chocolate coloured creature between the treads of my Continental front tyre.
A mistake to hurry home too soon.
Pause after the five bar gate and take a dozen still images of this autumn kaleidoscope. If only I had done so.
Today I say a prayer for my uncle Eric lost during D day landings. I found the faded letter of very few words sent to my grandfather and grandmother typed on the thinnest of war issue paper.
I salute him.
