July on Bodmin

“Hang on guys”, I said, as I opened the Land Rover door on Stannon Moor and the wind almost took it out of my hand. This didn’t impress the one year old black Labrador, Napoleon, and a more genteel Cocker Spaniel, Roy, who were pushing and shoving to get out of the vehicle.

Napoleon & Roy

“What a difference from yesterday”, I thought, as the rain drove almost horizontally and the looming presence of Rough Tor was totally invisible. Only the day before, I had been up here in shirt and shorts and, with a benign southerly breeze, it was as warm as the moor ever gets.

I wandered over to the nearby stone circle which I could only dimly see through the rain and, as ever, mulled over how many different weather days it had seen in its 4000 year history. What manner of people chose this spot to build this complex structure from indestructible granite, along with at least 20 huts, home to a community of about 100 people?

But then, as Napoleon and Roy raced in and out of the mist, excited to have the wide space of the moor to whizz around in, I thought that in the grand scheme of it even 4000 years isn’t that much. The ground I was walking over, the famous Bodmin granite, was created about 300 million years ago, from the same granite body that formed what is now Dartmoor, Scilly Isles, Carnmenellis and Land’s End.

Wow – 300 million years, even older than my mother-in-law. But, even this unfathomable period still pales into insignificance when we look at the age of the Earth. Like the other planets in our corner of the Universe, our home was formed about 4.6 billion years ago, give or take a couple of weeks. If we squeeze all that time into year, modern man pitched up on earth about ten minutes to midnight on 31 December – just in time for the champagne. The rocks of Bodmin Moor, however, formed about the 8th of December – not very long ago, really.

Anyway, focusing now on the dogs as the mist was lifting, I headed up the valley towards Louden Hill and Rough Tor, past the old kaolin mine dumps, resolving to revisit the geology again later and all the implications for Cornwall’s economy – the tin, china clay, the moors and maybe now lithium – are all due the presence of granite.

As I followed the stream up the valley, I saw the pair of Stonechat that have been nesting in the wall by the river this summer, their scolding alarm call of “chak, chak’ telling me they didn’t like the dogs near their nest. Napoleon couldn’t care less, he is a powerful young dog, but Roy is six now and more aware of what’s going on around him. The male Stonechat is a handsome lad, with his summer suit of a black head and orange breast.

European Stonechat - DGWildlife

Then, across the wall I saw a young Roe deer – I’d seen him before, fleetingly – but this time instead of disappearing rapidly he watched me curiously for several minutes and I was able to observe him through my binoculars. He was in great shape with a shiny coat, testament to the good food on offer on the moor in summer.

Eventually, the mist and rain returned and it was time to get two wet dogs home so we piled gratefully back into the Land Rover, both of them curled up on the front seat, reflecting the chilly nature of the day for a wet dog.

I thought it might be appropriate to pop into the local pub on the way home, the New Inn, being that sort of time of day and I had to see a friend about some work I needed doing. In the remoter parts of Cornwall, twitter is what house sparrows do at dawn, communication is best over a pint.

The usual late afternoon suspects were in, all suitably socially distanced mainly due to the size of the beer bellies. I signed in and sat next my friend, Piggy (he may have another name, but only his mother knows), who was talking to Richard, newly back from France were he has a cottage. Turns out his car, parked in the street in the tiny village, was badly damaged when a passing bull lent on it. As it was a French car brand, perhaps it thought it was appropriate but, to much mirth from his unsympathetic mates, he is facing a significant bill as the bull is refusing pay (“Too Moo-ch”) . The general consensus was that sheep are much safer.

Having concluded some business on weedkilling required, I persuaded the dogs to detach themselves from the welcome fire and headed out. At home, the mist had gone as we had dropped 400 feet from the high point of the moor and so my wife, Geraldine, and I had a coffee (in a wine glass) on the patio, watching the house martins streaking about the field and under the big sycamore where the evening flies were gathered. I always think the House Martins are a bit like Hurricanes to the Swallows’ Spitfire – not quite a flashy but compact and highly efficient. Both will only be with us a couple more months until they start off on the miraculous journey through Europe, over the Mediterranean, across the Sahara and then down through Africa to South Africa. It’s always sad the see them go but first we say goodbye to the Swifts, currently wheeling and screaming through the evening sky, but destined to leave in just a few weeks.

Where did summer go?

Fred Knobbit.