Tags
Acland, Broadclyst, Ellen Terry, Exeter, Henry Singleton, House of Commons, Killerton, M, National Portrait Gallery, National Trust, New Zealand, Octavia Hill, Saudi Arabia, Suffragettes, Suffragists, Women's Marseillaise
Killerton, Broadclyst, Devon. With nothing in my diary for the day, and having noted long ago that I wanted to catch an exhibition there before it closed, I took myself on Friday to this National Trust property a few miles north-east of Exeter. It is one of the county’s largest estates. The house was originally intended to be temporary, but the grandiose mansion planned was never built. The late 1780s Georgian property was extended twice, early in the nineteenth century and again a hundred years or so later. I came across this description of the estate at one point.
It was donated to the National Trust in 1944. 
After the obligatory coffee on arrival, I left the elegant Georgian stable block, which now houses café, shop and plant sales, and took a backward glance at it.
At the end of the drive lay the house itself, presently housing three exhibitions relating to the long campaigns for votes for women. A stark reminder of how the campaign could divide members of the same family, aunt and niece in this case, each living on the estate, greeted visitors. 
The first exhibition was a collaboration between the NT and the National Portrait Gallery, London. 
Octavia Hill. Octavia Hill! Against! Social reformer! She who had so much to do with the founding of the National Trust!
Ellen Terry – pro women’s suffrage
I had not previously realised just how strongly some women felt that they should not get the vote, and I felt uneasy all the time I was in this small exhibition, very conscious how another political debate today, on which I feel so strongly, is dividing households and friends. (My cats are totally apathetic on the matter, so my household is tranquil.)
The other two exhibitions, fashion related to the suffragette/suffragist movement, and more about the two Acland women, left me less emotionally troubled. I could not have been a suffragette, but am equally sure that I would have been out there marching with the non-violent suffragist movement.
The music room
I was very tempted to sing this out loud, but I didn’t quite dare. I’m pretty sure though that onlookers and volunteers would have been delighted!
A set of playing cards laid out on the console table, with pro and anti themes
A House of Commons with not a woman in sight …
The drawing room
The Pastor’s Fireside, by Henry Singleton, the 19th Baronet Acland reading to his family
The library, somewhat spoiled in my view by all the panels of quotations
The dining room
The movement had a long history
None looked like achieving anything, until the World War I when women proved their worth in ‘men’s’ jobs. I actually got a little angry inside as I looked at the changing pictures , some of which are in the slideshow below, showing just what work they had done. 
Why did they have to do ‘men’s’ jobs to prove they were sufficiently responsible to vote?
This map showed that New Zealand was the first country to give women the vote (1893), and Saudi Arabia (2015) has been the latest
A delightful respite in one of the bedrooms from all that politics
On emerging from the house, I went looking for a snack in the Dairy Café. 
But it was closed, so I went back to the entrance café, not wishing to take a meal in the main restaurant in the house. After having my soup, I went off in search of the old 1950s Post Office, but reading the notice saved me the tramp over there, though the path looked enticing.
I’m glad the fence was strong!
This was Friday
So I went back to the house and started exploring the gardens, which, as this slideshow proves, still had plenty of colour, this early October day.
From there I went further into the grounds. 
I came across a granite cross, which I have since learned was erected in 1873 in memory of the 10th Baronet who did so much to develop the estate, by 40 of his friends. But for me the main interest was that it was swarming with harlequin (i.e. non-native) ladybirds, scurrying about, never still and occasionally flying off and returning. 
Harlequins come in many colours
Were they enjoying the warmth that the granite had absorbed during the morning? Were they preparing to swarm together to find a place to hibernate? My researches have not got me very far… But some of them came far with me. It was a good fifteen minutes and several hundred metres away before the last one emerged from my hair.
I was keen to leave Killerton in time to avoid Friday evening traffic, but still had time for a gentle stroll in a small part of the parkland, where I met scarcely a soul. 
A glimpse of the Victorian chapel
Lovely spot for a romantic picnic
Autumn rolls on
This post has been very long, but here is a slideshow for any reader with stamina for 12 more pictures with details.
I soon understood why.
I moved on after a few minutes. The Somerset willow/wicker industry is still thriving, (and indeed we display a wicker coffin in the museum). 
There was dry stone walling, 
and timbercraft. 
I particularly liked the bench which could be moved around like a wheelbarrow. (A wheelbench? Or a benchbarrow?)
I saw no pressing, perhaps because judging was still taking place, but was delighted to discover the Rural Life Museum’s stall nearby, as I could now stop worrying that I would never find it.
and dozens, if not hundreds, of stalls selling things to consume, to wear, and to play with, and offering services, commercial, voluntary and public, (no photos of any of these). There were horses, 
and ponies, 
sheep, 
young (and older) shepherds dispensing advice, 
sheep judgings, 
sheep products, 
small goats (and large), 
alpacas, 
pigs, 
and a judge getting down to things. 
Cattle big and small,
I had wandered about the huge showground so much that I was a little concerned that I’d never find the cider and Somerset heritage marquee again. I was just about on time. 
One of the children’s activities we offered was stick weaving, which I had never heard of. 
Custom was slow to begin with, but it picked up, and it was useful that there were two of us to chat with both children and grown-ups. A few had visited the Museum before it closed in 2014 for refurbishment, and some had already visited after it had 
I saw more horses, 
bees and bee products, 
bantams,
golden goose eggs (?) 
and other kinds, 
and Egg Sheeran. 
Just when I thought there couldn’t be any more kinds of animals (and was pleased not to have seen cats in cages) I came across a few rabbits. 
Human exhibits changed every hour. This is the Barnacle Buoys, who often sing in support of the RNLI. (Apologies for the words clipped at the beginning and end. The latter is ‘ago’, and is sung one tone up followed by one tone down – for those concerned.)
Well away from the main dog classes was a ring where some kind of obedience test was happening. I didn’t stay long enough to understand what it was all about, but this apparently obedient dog is here being persuaded by the ring master – in vain and for the third time – to retrieve a ball and take it back to its owner. 
The dog classes were continuing.
Take-off was imperceptible and we were up and away before we knew it.
At last some wild animals – running deer, tiny specks here.
We saw fields with patterns.
After some 50 minutes it was time to start descending. 
Once the balloon had deflated sufficiently we were allowed to get out.
We were invited/encouraged/cajoled to help push all the remaining air out of the balloon, then to roll it up and put it back in the basket. 
It was some time before a minibus arrived to pick us up. The interval was very pleasantly spent sipping champagne and chatting with fellow passengers. 
It had been worth the two-year wait! Thanks Geoff for kicking off the whole adventure! And 
From there, we continued along the coast to the west, and then turned inland to another upland, very different from what we had seen, a plateau heathland, once more above the clouds. 
They were building a huge reservoir where we made a brief stop (in the middle of the left-hand brown area on the map), but we were there to see more of this magnificent native plant, called Pride of Madeira, echium candicans. 
I’d liked it so much the first time I saw it, on the first day, that I’d bought a t-shirt. The flowerheads really are this big. ![20180627_094406[1]](https://musiewild.files.wordpress.com/2018/06/20180627_09440611.jpg?w=529)
The label says it was made in Madeira.
At the end – a place called Risco – there was a long, but narrow, waterfall, to which I found it difficult to do justice in photos. 
Back at the hotel, it was time to pack, then go down one last time to a restaurant near the seafront, and climb back again.
At the end of our walk was a tunnel, through which the levada continued, and along which we had been intended to walk, but I was glad that that thought had been abandoned – it would have meant uncomfortable bending over for 800 metres. 
I did venture a very little way into it, and if this photo is viewed on a big enough screen, the light at the end of the tunnel can just be seen.
My memory of this place in November 2016 was of a meal taken in a revolving restaurant. This time our stop was for coffee, and then for a very short exploration of the local geology. I nipped off at one point to buy some cherries from a stall, and when I rejoined the group they were all staring at the beach. I could see a tern or to. 
And I liked these contrasting grey textures. 
Only on looking more closely did I see that some of the stones were in fact terns, roseate terns I was informed. 
From here we were taken just a very short distance westwards, and deposited to walk along the old coastal road (closed to traffic) for about a mile.
Two of us were ahead of the others, so we were the first to venture in to this tunnel, which we could see was dripping wet for the first and last several metres. 
It was fun, once emerged from it, to see the others noticing the ‘hazard’ and then venturing in. 
From here we were taken via Seixal to Châo da Ribeira, where there were picnic benches. The sun had gone in again, and it was again a little chilly. We were joined by 5 feral cats and a kitten, all very wary, but won over by gifts of ham and cheese. 
From here we went for a short walk in the 
Lunch had been late, and we were running later. We made just one more stop on the way back to the hotel, to see the rare Madeiran saxifrage. Here it is: 
and here are some of us looking at it. 
Another lovely dinner in a Funchal restaurant, another fitness session back up to the hotel. Then watching a fireworks display taking place back down in the harbour, an event which the town of Funchal lays on every Saturday evening in June.
Unfortunately I was beaten after an hour or so. By the wind. Not having had full sensation in my feet for a couple of years now, passing over a high and very exposed spot, unbalanced by camera and binoculars round my neck, and wearing a wide brimmed sunhat, I was actually terrified that I would be blown over by a gusts of the (pleasantly warm) wind onto the hard stony ground. Very reluctantly I had to turn back and reach a more sheltered spot, where I sat for a while. 
After a bit, I moved further towards the car park, and found an almost suitable boulder on which to sit. For a long while. I confess that I did get a little bored, but amused myself taking more photos.
And a video.
I could indeed identify people from our party. I assumed they were sitting to have their lunch (which I took to as a cue to have my own) but I learned later they had been birdwatching and had seen, among other things, canary and rock sparrow. Oh well, I had watched grasshoppers … 
and a rather elegant wooden tourist boat, the Bonita da Madeira, following the coastline of the bay. 
Together once more, we went back along the south coast towards Funchal, and stopped at Ponta da Garajau, 
for liquid refreshment and what was intended to be a further walk down a cliff path to find a particular plant. 
However, the authorities had roped it off as too dangerous. This did not stop our leader venturing just a few metres into it to collect this insect from a cactus. 
He then passed it to a volunteer who agreed to crush it in her palm. 
This was the cochineal insect, much prized as a very expensive trading item centuries ago, and which set me off singing to myself an extract from a madrigal by Thomas Weelkes (1575-1623), Thule, the period of cosmography. This includes the line, ‘The Andalusian merchant, that returns laden with cochineal and China dishes,…’.
We had been told that the last part, to the top of the Pico, was just 400 steps. The white splodge at the upper right of this picture is a refuge at the bottom of those last 400 steps. 
After quite a lot of walking I had admitted to myself that there was no way I was going to inflict that last stage on myself, and indeed that I would probably turn round well before it. In fact I did make it to the refuge, but once there was not in the least enticed by the thought of being able to see a very rare plant (viola paradoxa, a yellow violet, an oxymoron to me!) at the top, or by the encouragement of my companions to attempt it. 
I ate my lunch at this halt, 
pleased to find that it was not totally occupied by others already. Given that doing the walk were many people of many nationalities – German, then French, then Portuguese in my estimation far outnumbering British people – I was pleased to have a bench to myself.
to have a wander around the coastline, 
and to admire the geology. 
I hadn’t really twigged before that volcanic rock could be sedimentary, but of course these lines are formed by layer upon layer of volcanic ash and other spewings.
Indeed, on the previous occasion I had noticed that there were ‘levada’ walks from that place, known for its trout farms, and I was pleased to have the opportunity this time to follow them up. We did two, one before our picnic lunch and one after. The first 
took us to a viewpoint at Balcóes. I took all these following photos within ten minutes of each other and from the same spot!
I struck out on my own, as did most people, leaving the very keen botanists with Martin, along a broad levada walk, again from Ribeiro Frio. 
After a rest at out hotel, we walked down to town for a meal in one of the dozens of restaurants in the Rua de Santa Maria, where you take your liberty in your hands if you haven’t already a booking (we had) or at least a target firmly in mind!
Taking the quiet roads enabled me to see and stop at more wildflower-studded meadows, 
and pretty – if forlorn – houses. 
This part of France maintains many of the plane trees lining roads, originally designed to shade those walking or driving carts along them. (Other places blame them for car accidents and have ripped them out.) 
I had never before seen oaks serving the same purpose. 
Coffee time, and I stopped at a town called Villemur-sur-Tarn. No problem in parking here, though I didn’t go right into the centre, but stopped along an embankment of the Tarn. 
When I saw this as I walked into the centre, I did wonder if I should have left my phone number in the windscreen! 
It was reassuring shortly afterwards to find out that the last time that the flooding had come so high was in 1766. 
The more modern notice must have been for the underground car park I had passed.
But what’s happened to the celebrated French pavement café? I could find absolutely nowhere, inside or outside, to have a drink! Even the Café de l’Hôtel de Ville was empty, not just of people but of furniture! 
Fortunately I had water in the car.
I hadn’t seen many poppies, which like disturbed ground, at all, so was very pleased, when driving around a town with a huge gravel works, to see these on a recently constructed bank. 
From now on I was concentrating on getting to the car hire depot on time, and on finding fuel to be able to return the car with a full tank. At the airport it was with great satisfaction that I abandoned my poor, spoke-broken umbrella to a bin!
I drove on
By now it was nearly lunchtime, so I looked out for either something to buy or somewhere to eat. Everything shut – it was Monday, as I explained to some Canadian (?) tourists who approached me to ask firstly if I spoke English and then if I had seen an open restaurant. I walked up to one of the two castles. Given the age of each, I was not sure whether this was the old one or the new one, but I took a few more photos up there. 
When I eventually found parking, I saw from my satnav that the interesting old town was pedestrianised, and a five- to ten-minute walk away. I didn’t get out of my car. 
A further long drive followed, and I was delighted that the satnav took me off the main roads and by some fields of wildflowers, and between rain showers. Sadly, I don’t think these photos do justice their prettiness.
As I was gasping by now for a drink, I just parked in the centre of 