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By Abbie Phillips Walker

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Extra resources for The sandman's hour;: Stories for bedtime,

Sample text

Behind the glasses, even the humble linnet, caught in the right light, would be surprisingly colourful with red on head and chest. Watching a hawk in flight, was memorable. With effortless controlled power, the pointed arched wings gently beat the air as the bird hovers above its prey. A splitsecond swoop earthwards for the kill; and a triumphant upward retreat of vivid linear grace. Reluctantly I handed Richard the magic glasses. ‘You’d better take them. ’ Atrocious weather was an excuse, if not a reason, to dry off and warm up in another Anchor Inn at Cockwood by the Exe estuary.

Behind the glasses, even the humble linnet, caught in the right light, would be surprisingly colourful with red on head and chest. Watching a hawk in flight, was memorable. With effortless controlled power, the pointed arched wings gently beat the air as the bird hovers above its prey. A splitsecond swoop earthwards for the kill; and a triumphant upward retreat of vivid linear grace. Reluctantly I handed Richard the magic glasses. ‘You’d better take them. ’ Atrocious weather was an excuse, if not a reason, to dry off and warm up in another Anchor Inn at Cockwood by the Exe estuary.

Water streamed off our hair and faces, tempers frayed, and all our bodies wanted to do was to arrive. Drinking tepid cuppa soup in the pouring rain, leaning against a tree-trunk whose winter branches gave as much shelter as a waterfall, was reminiscent of a Victoria Wood sketch. In a little place called Downderry my ‘fuel tank’ was empty. There was no sign of shelter, and, in desperation, I sat myself down in an inviting porch. ’ I leaned my back against the door post, with two wet appendages stretched in front of me, leaving a trail of water and mud.

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