It’s August now, and that classic, autumnal feel to the fields before breakfast – what I call a Melplash Show Morning – is already with us.
The fields this year have been glorious in all their states of undress, with wheat standing to attention and barley blowing in the wind. The morning sun rests for a while in the branches of a pine tree before the long day ahead. In the evening, the sun rewards us with wonderful skies above the rooftops.
Up on the football field, moles are having a field day. The molehills look like mountains when you get down on the ground and see them from eye level. One miscreant scurries past me, blind and baffled, in a shallow ravine it made earlier. Luckily, the dog doesn’t see it. The mole looks more like a wind-up, fluffy toy than a real, live animal.
I start to sing in rather too deep a voice ‘I am a Mole and I Live in a Hole’ and then realise a stranger has just come up the path.
‘Morning,’ I say, putting on rather more of a Wescountry accent than I should. With any luck, they will think I am a local ‘character’. They just nod at me, with a knowing look on their face.
I look round to make sure there is no-one about when I snigger after finally seeing the joke in a long-standing road sign outside my neighbour’s house.
Humps for 300yds
I bet he wishes he could.
Down on the coast, there are sprats and mackerel a-plenty. The sea is alive with fish. First the sprats come in and, where they go, the mackerel closely follow. A sprat to catch a mackerel.
Back in the village in the early evening, the Jehovah’s Witnesses wander round en masse trying to preach to the unconverted. They tend to arrive mob-handed in this village. I have no idea why. It’s as if we are some outpost in the Wild West, the clock chiming thirteen as the tumbleweed moves in slow motion up the street, past the attractive recycling bins that have no place to call home.
As I see their smiling faces, golden locks and clutched copies of The Watchtower in their hands, I wonder to myself about their success rate. Probably not as high as the mackerel fishermen.