It’s  both funny and strange how we remember some things so clearly and at the same time have no conscious memory of something else until you see it again and realize that it’s totally familiar. This is the essence of what yesterday was all about as we left the motorways and took the back roads through towns and villages on the way to Cornwall. 

It started with the hedgerows lining every back road. I had totally forgotten how lovely and frustrating and scary it was to be on the narrow roads that often turn into one lane in width, no visibility because the hedgerows are 20 feet high , with twists and turns, and cars coming from the other direction. These hedges not only make driving scary they also frustrate because you can’t see all the charming farms, cottages, and manors they hide.  The etiquette on these roads and lanes is amazing as cars meet and automatically decide who can back up to a spot wide enough to pass each other,

And then there was the very clear memory both of us had of the Cerne Giant. This is a mysterious giant figure carved into a hillside. What makes this so memorable is the size and the fact that this carving is of a naked man in all his glory. Just google “Cerne Giant” and you will see why it stuck in our memory for  45 years. Since it wasn’t out of the way, we decided to take another look at it and were completely baffled when we arrived at the designated viewpoint only to see nothing on the hill. We were in exactly the right place and yet nothing was where it was supposed to be. We drove around the whole area, but found nothing and in frustration we returned to the viewing area. As we pulled in I spotted it. Still there but barely visible. Come to find out, he gets rechalked as maintenance, but it hasn’t happened for awhile. Our reaction? Total relief to learn that our memories were real after all.

Another memory long forgotten are the dogs so beloved that where their humans go, they go. In restaurants, pubs, stores, and sidewalks the dogs are everywhere. The most amazing thing is how socialized they are. You never see them lunging at anyone, relieving themselves anywhere, sniffing each other’s butts, or even paying attention to all the people and the other dogs. You even see multiple businesses with signs in the window welcoming them.

Now I want to tell about our shared memory of a spooky and funny experience from 45 years ago.  I’m writing about it just so we will be able to recall it when our memories naturally fade in the years to come.  We both so clearly remember it, at the same time we have wondered if it really happened. 

In 1980, we stayed in what was then cheap B&B’s; usually with a shared bathroom down the hall. As we remember it, one night we stopped at a very large house in the middle of nowhere, deep in the Dartmoor moors. This is a vast area of wilderness, empty and lonely, and the setting of Sherlock Holmes most famous case, “The Hound of the Baskervilles”. As the hostess showed us to our room, she cautioned us that the house was haunted and hoped we would not be disturbed. We reassured her that we would be fine and inquired about where we could go to get supper. 

A pub down the road was mentioned, so in a little while we set off to find it. A typical British pub, it included the warmth of a fireplace,  good food, a dog, and friendly locals that chatted with us about the moors and the famous Dartmoor prison. 

This pub was like something out of a storybook, but eventually we had to return to our B&B. As  we exited we saw that the whole area was covered in fog, lending a beautiful but ghostly atmosphere to the empty road and lonely moor. 

As we drove through the fog, we slowly realized that even with our windows rolled up we could hear a certain noise - the pounding of many feet coming toward us. 

Of course we were convinced that there had been a breakout from the prison and even talked about what we could and should do when these  pounding feet broke through the fog and surrounded us. And then the source of the sounds appeared. Not escaping prisoners, but a unit of the British army on night maneuvers!

We returned to Dartmoor yesterday and found that it was just as lonely and beautiful as we thought it would be, but nothing looked particularly familiar.  And then, like magic we passed the large house and instantly knew that it was where we stayed. Shortly afterwards we spotted a large compound and there was the sign - Dartmoor Prison. That left only the pub. I had decided that either it wasn’t where I thought would be, or I had dreamed it. Then, just like magic, we rounded a curve, looked down into a small valley and there was. This memory is real after all.