By: Blonde Two

Mr Blonde Two and I left home yesterday morning (once I had persuaded myself that getting out of bed was a good idea).  It was a strange experience leaving the younger generation – Not-At-All-Blonde, Six-Foot-Blonde and Bearded-Blonde in charge of three axes, two open fires, a Jack Russell and a diminishing mountain of Christmas cheese.

There must have been some kind of governmental decree this week because we, like Mary and Joseph, were returning to the town from whence we came; the lovely, hill shadowed Malvern.  I would like to point out here that we are neither expecting a small arrival nor sleeping in the stable (the summer house was offered).

As we drove in, I found myself pondering the question of home.  Blonde One was born and bred in Devon but I have only inhabited its pixie filled hills and combes since 1998. They have been good years and I have fallen love with the place – in particular Dartmoor.  I love coming back to Malvern and making the regular pilgrimage to the top of the Worcestershire Beacon (I shall wave at any of you who live nearby from the top today) but I know now that I have firmly rerooted myself in Devon.

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I once knew the Malvern Hills like the back of my hand, now I feel that I know Dartmoor better and in much more depth (sometimes literal depth!)  Dartmoor, like any beautiful outdoor place, gets under your skin.  Tricky to pin down when it happened but in Malvern now, I am a happy visitor, on Dartmoor, I am on home territory.