I jump a jigged line
to the ring
of a baffled bird
meeting solid air.
An illness, an artwork and several poems ago, our family and some friends went to Belstone Village Fair. It was a typical Dartmoor example of stunning scenery, slightly odd activities and a Heath Robinson approach to organisation.
Plenty of green space to run about in left the adults free to explore the wonders of the stalls:
and, most importantly, the tea tent:
(Free kudos to anyone who can spot an Ent.)
Announcements were made by microphone, amplified by speakers which only worked if you started the car:
All generations joined in for the chaos and hilarious mess of the egg-catching (or not) game, presided over by two very strict but sadly inaudible ladies:
A pair of older gentlemen who took the 'sport' aspect rather seriously ended up sharing the prize with a pair of young girls who said, every time the lines stepped back, 'But I can't throw that far.' We all had a little chuckle. And then pretended not to laugh as a group of boys started smashing eggs over each other's heads.
In an unusual display of inhibition, no adult allowed themselves the wanton fun of smashing crockery:
There's no point; no game - just paying for the pleasure of being allowed to break stuff. The noise alone was a tonic.
And in the universal spirit of a day out, one would normally bury one's father in the sand. However, this being Dartmoor, we used the stocks. Then legged it:
And if ever proof was needed that, even on such a jolly day as this, we have reason to fear our inlaws, this is it:
A more lucid and folklore-based account of the day is here, along with a bunch of other strange but true stuff you have no need of knowing, but will be unable to keep to yourself once you do know.