bunn: (dog knotwork)
I have to admit to scepticism about this.   I grew up in North Devon from 1982, and lived two parishes away from Combe Martin.  North Devon is not a place where a lot happens.  We visited Combe Martin regularly.  We read the local paper, in fact we read both of them, even when the main story was about a goose or something.

The Hunting of the Earl of Rone strikes me as exactly the sort of event that would have been made up as an elaborate leg-pull for grokels, along the lines of the ancient rural practice of signpost-twirling, and the sign that fell down and was replaced by a neat not-quite-replica that read 'Wheretheellarewe', and hence went unnoticed by the local council for a couple of years.

But maybe it's real, and I just didn't notice it. Or maybe it began as a joke, and somehow took on reality. 
bunn: (No whining)
And I wrote a whole long LJ post in my head as I was driving back, but now I am too tired to type it.  It was something along the lines of

- Porsche, perceptions, and why I choose Helga Saab to take me there not Percy the Purple Porsche

- Mazzards : should I get one? Or several?

-  People who say that they are clueless because they are female are very irritating. The 'clue' is not stored on  the Y chromasome. 

- Driving the ghosts of old roads

- Exactly what I want to do to people who tailgate through the 30 zone, are lost as soon as you hit bends, then speed through the next 30 zone to catch up so they can tailgate again. 

- Official Going To Meeting Trousers and average numbers of dogs at a Bunn business meeting. 

Anyway, as I say, I was too tired to type it all out and make it make sense. if you can figure it out from that lot you deserve some sort of award...

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