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Thought Number 3 A Moorland Interlude and Enjoying the Journey

I peel off from the holiday traffic on the A30 and head off across Bodmin Moor for home. The road is signposted Blisland. I always love the rumble of iron as my wheels go over the cattle grid, the physical sensation which marks the separation of the normal world with this ancient place. My friend T, who runs a lovely yurt holiday camp on the moor, and who I happen to be chatting with at the time, swears that this particular turning sends you into a Bermuda style triangle of lanes and ditches which lead you everywhere except where you want to go. But I reflect that it’s all about enjoying the journey so along with the bleak hills I get to see the soft velvety hillocks of moss below drystone walls and windblown scrubby oaks covered with ferns and dripping with the palest green filigree lichen, wild ponies and free range sheep. And more cows. Always cows.

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