By: Blonde Two
You have to love a bit of alliteration don’t you; especially when it includes two of my favourite words: ‘Dartmoor’ (for obvious reasons) and ‘Dimpsy’ (because if I use it enough, I might feel like I actually come from Devon).
For reasons of book delivery, an accidental trip past an interesting church and low fuel, Mr Blonde Two and I were late arriving at this week’s Sunday Dartmoor Bimble spot. It really was only a Bimble (tell you more about it soon) but we still ended up walking home down a ‘Dimpsy Dartmoor Lane’. I think this sounds a bit like the title of a Thomas Hardy novel; and it had all the required atmosphere.
There was no moonlight shining through the gentle mist; the puddles did not glimmer, rather they absorbed the light, stopping it dead and creating for themselves, a seeming solidity.
The leaf-bare trees were silhouetted against a sky that showed indifferent hints of blue; one particular row seemed foreboding (they deserved to, they led to a grave). The lane itself wasn’t frightening, neither was the escaping of the light. The brush of saturated brambles against my arms and legs, had the potential to cause alarm, but they did not.
A kilometre long, it seemed the perfect walk for the moment. The gingerbread light at the end of the eery tunnel came all too soon.