I've Died and Gone to Devon

England is a small country, unless you're driving across it. The three-hour drive from Heathrow to the West Country really takes four. From the M3/A303 you'd think the whole country was countryside. The deeper into Devon you drive, the narrower and more winding the roads. In North America, roads this narrow wouldn't even count as driveways. If this is the wrong side of the road, I don't care what's right. If this is the driveway, I thought, half a mile in, then I can’t wait to see the house. The house stands on a promontory in a bend in the River Dart. Meanders don’t last forever, but this house might. It's so quiet here at night. The slightest sound carries. A full moon whitewashes the hoot-owl-haunted high-tide river. At low tide stippled water runs over rucked sheets. Rain on magnolia leaves produces a dry, rustling sound. English optimism turns "mostly cloudy" into "sunny intervals". It rains sideways all day, until we decide to row down for a half at Ferry Boat Inn. A half moon rises over Dittisham. Fall flotsam on a tidal river is a strange mixture of oak leaves and seaweed. Cormorants line the bank, great wings hanging like laundry to dry. A pair of swans swans about near the slipway at Blackness. Don't laugh at the Caution Slipway May Be Slippery sign. It may be true. There are egrets, no regrets. This the most achingly beautiful place to come across a little death.