These link pages relate to the place I live in and the wider Plymouth area, especially around the Tamar Valley, Tamar Bridge, Saltash Passage, Ernesettle and St Budeaux.

Coming soon:

St Budeaux Church


This Place. A Sense Of Place.

ALONG THE RIVER TAMAR Diary entry 2000

It was a morning in autumn, when fat spiders shimmer

on glassy webs. When my breath greys the air, and the

leaves crisp underfoot along my concrete path.

I looked over the trees toward the river. Something

different today: a thick river mist, in the form of a film

of whiteness, cutting the distant landscape in half.

Why so compelling, so attractive?

Goodness knows I had a thousand other thoughts on

my mind, to crowd this out. But no.

I have to go down there, to see for myself. It could be

gone in an hour or so.

I approached the river from St Budeaux with a full sun

on my back, crossing the tumult of traffic by the Tamar


I started to descend the steep Normandy hill, so named

after the legion of soldiers who walked this path ready

to be on their way to France in the Second World war.

Quite quickly, I was aware of eerie changes around me,

a dampness on the back of my neck, a milky sun now

above me, and cool shadows, like grey soldiers from

the past swirling,coming to join me as I walked into this

grey world.

As I neared the river, the air was suddenly very damp

and clammy. A grey light with no sun.

So quiet, there was such stillness here. Water touched

the shore without wave, like a mirror stretching before

me to infinity.

For a moment I felt uneasy.

Unable to betray movement, less I fell into this glassy


Somewhere out there, before me, yet on the edge of

my vision, yacht masts floated on liquid symmetry,

sentinel and still, ghostly yachtsmen from past days.

I moved along the shore.

Above me the great rail and road bridges loom over

the river, only their top outlined clearly, their bases

fading to nothingness, as though the weight of stone,

steel, and people lay weightless on a cushion of air.

1849 the sunbeam caught the painted numbers, high in

the sky.

150 years on from Isambard Kingdom Brunels

masterpiece of engineering.

Strange rumblings now as new technologies , men in

yellow hats weave a new web to extend the road