Each day we settle into the routine of letting the hens (two Sidney Silkies, one Bantam and two bigger hens - one black and one brown - all named) out by 8.30 in the morning, checking their water bowl, and giving them their daily rations of wheat and corn mix; checking in on the rats to see what they have been up to overnight and then checking the guinea pigs - refreshing their water and chopping up a little gourmet breakfast of carrot, corn, red capsicum, apple or orange and then topped with a handful of parsley.
The little pigs munch into theirs with great relish while the rats come out to see what's on offer and then one (the oldest) will grab a tidbit and rush off down the ramps to the bottom of the cage and into a plastic tunnel to munch away in private or store it away for an afternoon snack.
It is with a great burst of energy that we venture out on the bikes to explore the Dartmoor for the first time. Little do we realise how high the moor is and how steep the lanes become, rising hundreds of metres above sea level. With map in hand and an outline of our destination, we set out for Buckland in the Moor. It doesn't look too far on the map and we decide we will do a round trip through Widecombe in the Moor and come back to Ashburton.
We pedal up Bowden Hill, behind Ashburton, and past Lavender House Hotel, a nondescript building - not the cute lavender encased cottage that I had imagined. We wind our way through narrow stone-banked lanes, watching out for traffic from both front and behind - ready to dismount at a moments notice if a massive tractor or vehicle should suddenly appear around a blind bend. A crossroads of sorts takes us onto a wider road but starts to climb rather steeply. I manage to stay on my bike as we rise above the village though avenues of tall, leafy trees.
Needing a breather, I make an excuse to photograph the valley below and scramble up a bank to a fence line only to be stopped in my tracks when I actually lay eyes on my first fox.
Sadly, this fox is in a very bad state of decomposition - I clearly see the remains of its furry red body and its once cunning jaw of teeth. I imagine that it has been hit by a car and crawled up this bank to die or perhaps some ruthless farmer had tossed its dead carcass or injured body up off the road out of the way.
Not everyone here likes foxes. It is illegal to hunt foxes and kill them but from I poster I see recently of a fox savagely torn to pieces by hunting dogs, it still continues. Animal rights groups do their best to bring an awareness to locals and visitors alike to protect this little animal from its human predators. Needless to say, I have readily donated to their cause.
Sadly, this fox is in a very bad state of decomposition - I clearly see the remains of its furry red body and its once cunning jaw of teeth. I imagine that it has been hit by a car and crawled up this bank to die or perhaps some ruthless farmer had tossed its dead carcass or injured body up off the road out of the way.
We wind our way, whizzing to the bottom of the hill into a small valley, passing a sign that says Buckland in the Moor. We are desperate for a coffee but there is no cafe and there is no village that we can see, without having to climb up yet another hill.
We stop at a bridge and there nestled into the hillside is a hamlet - a cluster of three, very cute, thatched cottages. One is being re thatched and we chat with the owner, who takes pity on us and invites us into his garden for a glass of grapefruit juice to quench our thirst.
We meet his wife and family, and watch the thatchers at work with great interest. The stacks of reeds for this home come all the way from Turkey and it costs 25,000 pounds to renew, lasting just 20 years due to the dampness of the surrounding landscape.
The cottage, his wife tells us, is over 1000 years old and was left to her by an old aunt. It was originally a one up and one down before they extended it to house their growing family, building on the original foundation excavated during an archaeological dig.
We decide not to carry on to Widecombe. Our ride back home is much shorter than the hour or more it took to reach our destination - after an initial climb, it's all downhill and takes us barely 30 minutes to get back to Ashburton again!
A drive back out this way a few days later reveals St Peter's Church and more thatched cottages just around the corner and up the hill a bit but, alas, still no cafe at Buckland in the Moor.
The church, however, reveals a few curiosities: its bell tower houses a clock with, instead of the usual gold Roman numerals, the words: MY DEAR MOTHER; and a recent newspaper article tells about young local people taking an interest in learning the art of bell tolling.
And judging from the bell ringing that bounces off the hills that surround Ashburton, sometimes coming from both churches, it wouldn't surprise us if there was a bit of fierce competition.
So it really isn't surprising to discover The Guild of Devonshire Ringers exist - a group of folk, dedicated to the melodious art of bell ringing, who come from all parts of Devon. Each group with their own style of ringing and bringing together all age groups.
It all adds to the unique experience of living in a small English country village...
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