Saturday night in Ashburton, Devon

I awoke at 5 am to the sound of heavy rain. I'd gone to sleep in a lightning storm, several hours earlier. The excessive heat woke me several times, as did Bomble, who eventually got kicked out. I lay in until after 8, because the prospect of a weekend in Devon suddenly seemed less appealing in wet weather.

After a local history event in the village of Brimscombe, organised by our own Stroud branch of the WEA, Steve and I loaded the car and set off far too late to contemplate stopping off anywhere interesting on the way to South Devon. We didn't mind, because it was still raining. Somewhere south of Bristol, though, I had some sandwiches and started to feel more cheeful. The clouds cleared and we caught a glimpse of blue sky.

Arriving in Ashburton around 5 pm, we eventually located our air b 'n' b cottage, in a little hobbit-square off another square off a side street. Everything is small and charming; and to match the mood, we're even watching The Hobbit on TV! The owner is out at a wedding so we haven't even met her, but she left the key under the mat....

We're staying here because I'm going on a half-day course at the famous cookery school tomorrow, and because I just happen to like South Devon. A Lot.

Ashburton itself seems rather like the nearby town of Modbury, which I blipped a couple of years ago. https://www.blipfoto.com/entry/3393963 Some of Steve's ancestors hail from there, and others from Brixham, which we shall probably visit after lunch tomorrow, along with Totnes. My own ancestors also hailed from Torbryan in South Devon, several hundred years ago. They were connected with the Devon wool trade, but later decamped to Ingatestone, Essex. Steve's maternal line, meanwhile, were busy clanking their mayoral chains in Southend-on-Sea, Essex.

Steve and I now live in the former wool town of Stroud, where Steve is a town councillor. I sometimes wonder if we might be related. One of his 'permitted' tartans on his Scottish side (I've never asked much about this aspect) is the Murray. There is some suspicion that my grandfather, apparently a McIntyre, might actually have been a wrong-side-of-the-blanket Murray of Atholl.

Tonight we went to Ahburton's pub and the Red Mullet chippie. Look out for French macaroons tomorrow...

PS I have discovered that Torbryan is just down the road from here. We might have to go back to the pub, and the decomissioned church, and the big hoose there. Neither of us was blipping in 2008, when we last visited.