The Lighter

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It never fails to impress me what I find whilst taking Titchika, my Alsatian, for a walk in the woods.
Usually this consists of lost tennis balls and discarded trainers, although I did once manage to find a Volvo Peta engine, in a plastic fishbox, tied down under a tarp; there were no vehicle tracks, skid marks, or anything to distinguish how it got there at all.

Now, couple of days ago, while I waited for Titchika to come back from chasing squirrels, I happened to look down and saw some sort of shape covered in mud. I stooped down and picked it up and, after a wiping some soil from it, found it to be an old cigarette lighter.

Above: the cigarette lighter found in the woods

I put it in my pocket and took it home with me, intending to clean it up and, maybe, get it working, if it wasn’t altogether unredeemable.

Me being me, I forgot about it for a couple of days, until I put my hand in my jacket pocket, before taking Titchika for her morning walk. So, when I returned home, I got to work on cleaning it up a bit; I gently scraped off many years worth of soil and mud that had ingrained into the lighter’s body and crevices.

Whilst cleaning the lighter and as it wasn’t very far away from where I found a pouch of coins earlier this year; I began to wonder to whom the lighter once belonged: male, female, young, old, were they in the woods exercising their dog, just passing through or, perhaps, working?
Also, I wondered if the coins and lighter were owned by the same person, but I discounted that idea when I found that the lighter was gas-fuelled, not petrol, and the latest coin year was 1927.


Looking After Cinnamon Over Easter

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Waiting for her walk

Over the Easter weekend I have been looking after my mother’s house and Cinnamon, her Labrador/Staffie Brindle mix. Cinnamon is quite an active dog, who is regularly run along the coast from Jennycliff to Bovisand Beach and back; she also runs with the Plympton Hash House Harriers (PH3) on Sunday evenings, and Try It Thursdays Hash (TITs) on, well, Thursday evenings.

Everytime I take her out for a walk, she insists that I take her ball with us for her to chase, which is fine by me; she does two or three times my own mileage. I mostly walk her from Jennycliff, enjoying cracking views of Plymouth Sound, around to Fort Stamford, one of the Palmerston Follies (a ring of mid-19th Century fortifications protecting Plymouth from the threat of a French land-invasion).

Anyway, time to take Cinnamon for another walk; it’s all “GO!” around here!