THIS morning I walked the dog for 90 minutes on Dartmoor.
The sky was cloudless blue, the visibility infinite, the colours of the dying bracken against the green hills and grey rocks of the tors unbelievable.
Halfway up one of the tors I turned to see huge tracts of North Devon spread out in front of me. I crossed streams of unimaginable clarity and sat beneath the memorial to Capt Hunter, MC, and two bars, killed at Bapaume in 1918, overlooking the River Lyd. I swam the dog in the deep pool below it. It was all free!
This, surely, is the real world, not that of the bankers and politicians paid obscene millions to run the economy and now proved indisputably not competent to do so.
R A Neon Reynolds
Close Hill
Bridestowe