I am sitting on one of the little beaches at Torquay, and my hand is shaking from skipping of many stones.
My sister’s Art Shop is called “The Blue Bird”. “The Birds” have queer and varied experiences. Today a very tall young ex-soldier came in – wanted to learn painting, felt that he had “something in him”, and would find a vent either in art or poetry – wasn’t sure which – wanted to learn to paint “Futurist” pictures, and was wooing his muse of a non-metrical type, “something like prose” he put it.
An old maid is sitting nearby producing a masterpiece in water – seems afraid to mix any paint with it.
[Image: Myrtle Lee, ‘Interior of the Blue Bird’, c1919]
On Sunday afternoon we had a good tramp in the wind, climbing Belever Tor, whose rocky top commands a splendid view of the surrounding moor. The tops of the tors are composed of huge slabs of stone piled one on another, like rough plates from a giant’s wash-up.
Just polished off a breakfast fit for three kings. One king couldn’t have done it justice.
Saw one of the circular collections of stones wherein the ancient Britons became hostile. Also crossed the stone slab “Clapper Bridge”.
Good sleep in a big bed with a nice little fire beside it. Plenty of “good words” enframed on the walls. They are arranged so as to take you by surprise. You go into a little recess to have a wash, and are confronted with “He sees you”. After a huge breakfast and a chat with mine host and hostess, I tramped back to M’s haunt.
Parts of the Moor reminded me of the gum-country in New Zealand, but it is not so dreary as that. It is inhabited by fine little shaggy ponies, with very fat tummies.
Motored to Newton Abbott where we caught train to Moreton Hamstead, from which we tramped six miles to my sister Myrtle’s haunt, meeting her halfway. I go to a farm house at Postbridge, about a mile way, to sleep.
Ipplepen: You see I’ve got here.
London terrifies me. I’m frightened to go more than a few yards for fear of losing myself. Just discovered that the British Museum is only a few steps away, but have no intention of trying to visit it. I should get lost, and spend two or three hours getting back here, revolving round London underground, and doubling on my tracks like a hare.