Neighboring lives

As I sat reading on the slope of Nattadon, with a thermos of coffee, Tilly beside me, and the fields of Chagford rolling in waves at our feet...

...Tilly turned with a growl, her tail held high in excitement mixed with alarm. Something was coming up the trail toward us. A walker? A dog?

"No barking," I murmured as she stood quivering, longing to do just that.

At this time of year bracken narrows the trails, turning them into tight tunnels of green, but at last our visitor stood revealed:

The large, gentle creature stopped and stared, just as startled by us as we were by her.

We often find cows at the bottom of the hill, grazing in the pasture below, but if they climb up the hill, they do it as a herd, not one one lonely cow on her own.

I looked up, and sure enough, the rest of the herd was high on the hillside above. "Let's move so that she can pass," I told Tilly as I gathered my things; then I led her down on a different path, her tail drooping with her reluctance.

Tilly perked up again when I passed by the homeward gate and took the streamside trail, leading to another good reading spot near a pool shaded by an old oak. But here, just as I was settling in, pouring fresh coffee into my  cup, we heard a rustling in the tall bracken....

The wind? More cows? A neighbor's stray dog?

Out stepped a Dartmoor pony....

...no, a whole herd of ponies, young and old.

They were heading to the pool, intending to drink or to bathe...

...and we were in their way.

"Come on, girl," I told Tilly, laughing, "I give up. The hill belongs to our animal neighbors today. Let's go home and I'll get back to work."

So we did, and I did.