Coming over the hill to see Widecombe-in-the-Moor is something I've done several times. When we lived in Devonshire I used to love driving through Dartmoor, over the Haytor pass, and dropping into Widecombe, a little town nestled into a valley so picturesque that you think it's fake.
This trip was special, however, because I got to come over the hill on the opposite side. We were staying just outside of town, and to get into town - for a pub dinner, of course - we had to walk a good mile and a half. It was a beautiful June evening, and I was holding Lisa's hand. The group remained together most of the walk, though nobody, even me - the patron saint of camera sneering - could resist snapping picture after picture of England's best kept secret. Every turn in the little Widecombe lane provided greenery, thatched roofs, and some kind of interesting pastoral bird call. It was one of the most beautiful evenings of my lifetime.
The following day, in the true spirit of romance, Lisa and I spent our 11th anniversary at a sheep-shearing.
