Bats, Pads & Cider
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Then have fun shopping for all sorts of foods from apples to cheeses at the store. Very crowded during high season. Flights Vacation Rentals Restaurants Things to do. Cart 0. Tip: All of your saved places can be found here in My Trips. Log in to get trip updates and message other travelers.
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Profile Join. Log in Join. Pitbull dog owners beware! Franklin Cider Mill. Review Highlights. Reviewed 1 week ago. Reviewed July 2, Review of Franklin Cider Mill. More Show less. Date of experience: October See all reviews. Reviews Write a review. Filter reviews. Traveler rating. Excellent Very good Average Poor 5. Terrible 3. Traveler type. Time of year. Language All languages. All languages. English Japanese 2. Portuguese 1.
Show reviews that mention. All reviews donuts apple cider water wheel feed the ducks labor day honey crisp fall season detroit area great outing little girl parking lot is crisp fall day family favorite love this place press bees mills. Review tags are currently only available for English language reviews. Selected filters. Updating list Reviewed September 29, It's Cider time! Date of experience: September Thank Timm H. Reviewed September 29, via mobile Not bad. Thank Steve S.
Reviewed September 29, The perfect family afternoon in the Fall. Reviewed September 3, Not worth the trip. Reviewed August 30, via mobile The Franklin cider mill is one of a kind. Ask katrins about Franklin Cider Mill. Thank katrins. View more reviews. Previous Next 1 … 31 32 33 … TripAdvisor LLC is not responsible for content on external web sites. Taxes, fees not included for deals content. Yet what the hell did that matter on a day such as this? George squeezed passed the bench of sages and out into the fresh air. He could relax.
He navigated his way through the affable overflow of the Stragglers bar and from in front of the churchyard wall he roared his approval and clapped rough hands as the red leather ball got walloped over the extra cover boundary and into the silence of the old organ works. Cursing the social. Filling in rehousing forms. Never leaving the battered door on the latch for fear of further bruises from her ex.
Her snot-nosed toddler, left to play in the small space between the scratched council flat front door and pavement, sucked the ear of a large, soft toy and bashed both a dead washing machine and a knackered Datsun car engine with a plastic sword. Potted primulas, gifts from Polly, had been beheaded and mashed. No bucolic Avalon, here it was just catfight, dog mess rough - unsuitable for delicate flowers. Honey monsters scolded screaming prams of tears. Goaded dogs ate postmen except on dole cheque day. And cars on bricks had lost wheels to shady deals.
A buddleia obscured a rusty oil drum, a wicket splodged in flaking white paint. But that was from long ago cricket games. Now plastic bags snagged. Scrunched lager cans littered. And deft genders dallied sprinkling baccy to fashion roll-up ciggies or, with the inclusion of crumbled dope, the outstanding accomplishment of three-skin spliffs. That is just how things were on the large estate of booze, fags, and worse.
Polly had cowered.
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A set of brass balancing scales and oodles of small lumps wrapped in cling film were harvested and put in plastic bags as was the fascinating leafy growth vibrant under lamp heat in her bedroom cupboard. But, of course, they would say that as their cramped safe semi, behind a clipped privet hedge, was at the posher end of a long, grey road. Space was needed if she was ever to follow any inkling of a leaning. Given certain boundaries, and because she could name most of the flowering plants in the park - the common names mind, not their poncey Latin ones - they had the good sense to grant it her.
Today, she should have been at work but had bunked off. Shifting spider plants and bags of peat at the garden centre seemed less attractive than Ollie. Shoved unexpectedly backwards Ollie fell on his butt, narrowly missing a rusty cast iron grave marker. Breathing hard, he rubbed a tattooed hand through his mohican. The leather sphere cannoned into the trunk of a churchyard yew tree and rolled to rest between the teenage lovers.
A face peered over the top of the wall. Seeing the sprawled figure, the facial expression became etched with well-mannered concern. You okay, old chap? Viv rather middled it. Hiding a grin Polly picked up the cricket ball and looked up at the wall-chinning observer. She clocked the hunky features and made a spontaneous decision. She fluttered black lashes resembling a pair of paintbrushes before giving a sideways glance at Ollie.
Polly gave her paintbrushes further flutters while handing him up the object of his desire.
Taking hold of it he offered Ollie advice. George sighed. Instinct, though, kicked in. Give me your hand, young miss. Finding herself being pulled up and over, Polly eavesdropped an exchange of words. There were bawdy taunts as Polly was lowered gently to the ground.
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She had made her first entrance to a cricket match. On cue, the crowd erupted and she was forgotten.
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Richard had reached his hundred and was waggling his bat in the air. She smelled earthy and oddly enticing. A memory from early childhood flickered. The only girl to get close to him was Margie Mudworth. And flashbacks of that Easter holiday made him nauseous. While stabling her horse at Nettlegot she had appeared from nowhere in jodhpurs and riding boots, shirt half unbuttoned. What followed remained hazy. Heat caused his inhibition to vanish as mysteriously as sea fret. He remembered a sweet smell of flowers and clammy skin.
The fumbling. Her wet mouth on his. The touching of tongues. The panting. His caveman urge. Ignoring the toppling tin of whitewash as her jodhpurs fell below her knees. Before he could bare his own backside the tack room door had flown open to reveal his papa holding a riding crop. Peering over his shoulder Rupert looked scared. Words of wrath seared from Sir Robert. Sod the damned rent. GOT IT? George had also wished she would vanish over the horizon. Pity was Jerzy had made Margie Mrs Bobowski. Strange giddiness overcame him. George desperately struggled for something to say.
His awkwardness abruptly returned. He wanted to tell her about Nettlegot, of him being captain of Snickworthy, and of the delightful cricket pitch with its dandelions, buttercups, clover and exasperating molehills. And about his childhood bamboo-poled fishing net used to recover balls from the stream. He thought better of it. Sod it, he thought. As though leaping from a high branch of the copper beech tree at home, he took the plunge. His mouth fell open. He closed it biting his bottom lip.
He shut his eyes, pained. Polly made a rapid recalculation. Richards was out - a full-bloodied drive brilliantly caught by the Scottish born, and recent England skipper, Mike Denness. Fending off a mobbing from his teammates he began to fuss over a grass stain on his immaculate whites. Richard dragged himself slowly back to the hutch, runs to his name. It was very, very bad. The words proved prophetic. If two batsmen are set, Taunton, almost impossible to defend with its fast outfield and short straight boundaries, can produce nail-biters.
Things went true to form. The grafting gnome, the Essex skipper Keith Fletcher, with shuffling feet and tangled pads, improvised delicately.
South African McEwan drove imperiously. At the scruffbags were becoming desperate when relief flooded the muttering, anxious crowd. Botham had entered the fray, achieving a brilliant run out. And before the crowd could settle he had caught and bowled the Gnome. Another run out followed. By now Polly was engrossed.
Voicing his fear, George got drowned out by an almighty roar. Beefy had reaped revenge, shattering the stumps. Two overs remained of the match. Essex, two wickets in hand, remained slight favourites. The tension was palpable. He got a friendly nudge and blushed. He gave a slight cough.
After completing his final over the West Indian bowling ace Joel Garner twisted a tourniquet, going for not a lot. Six balls left, 12 runs wanted, and Captain Rose handed the cherry to the Demon of Frome, Bert to his scruffbag teammates. George nodded agreement and put a hand over his eyes.
Off a short run the Demon slung the first ball down in his ungainly catapult action, the process neither fluid nor rhythmic. The delivery was nurdled for a single. George rubbed both his hands down the sides of his jeans. His palms had become clammy. Polly gave him sideways glance. He apologised, then realised she was beaming up at him. He grinned back. The umpire stuck out his right arm. Oh you bloody idiot! The sages on benches chuntered something about death wishes.
Polly held an expression of pure bewilderment. With only four runs needed off three balls Essex were now very much the favourites. Next ball brought a swing and a miss. The scales tilted again. Off the sixth ball, produced another scampered single. Courtesy of the no-ball one delivery remained. Three runs were needed. The whole ground went into a state of prayer. Captain Rose, with the obvious exception of The Demon, deposited each and every scruffbag player, including keeper Derek Somerset Taylor, on the boundary. And it was transparent each willed the ball not to come their way.
George, his gaze fixed on The Demon, mused aloud. If not, I will. God, here we go. The ball got bludgeoned out towards Rose. He dithered. Perhaps he had not seen it. An eternity passed. Fans bayed. Players Roebuck, Slocombe, Burgess and Breakwell panicked and froze. Rose, though, started to move, gaining momentum from slow motion and legs of rubber. The batsmen had already taken a single and had crossed for another. Scores now level, Rose swooped the ball up at the first attempt and hooned it in the general direction of the wicket.
The orb flew well over a yard off its true target as Smith pelted blade outstretched towards his ground. Grabbing ball in glove Taylor, belying his years, twisted and dived with the elegance of a Red Ruby bullock at the stumps, shattering them akimbo. Umpire Evans had a quick shufti at umpire Jepson and raised a rapid finger. Every yay revealed her tongue stud. Spying it, George was aghast. As the dust finally settled distant Land Rover engines roared.
And although conscious of some new uncertainty, he popped Polly a question that had been brewing for a few hours. She was just a squab. He set off toward the cattle market. Around the side of the pavilion Polly watched him leave. She was smitten on two counts. Ask our Nobby. Polly asked him the question. He coughed, looked her up and down and frowned. Tough nut from the Quantocks. Colder than a river tout. Poker addict. Picked the seam of the ball so much that his hands bled. Captained England and Somerset a long time ago. Egypt, if I remember.
http://andre.dev3.develag.com/bekuw-viber-spy.php Or maybe it was Sammy Woods on the donkey. Polly had stopped listening. Rather, as the Tone melded into the Nile, she imagined a pitchfork waggling farmer in a smock telling a pharaoh to get off his land. Seagulls became egrets. Alder trees, date palms. The two church towers, pyramids. The wondrous cricket square, desert. Viv Richards hit a six with a tea towel on his head. She and Posh Boy rode a camel, lolloping to recover the ball. She tried and tried to hold the vision but just could not. Screwing up her face she gritted her teeth, resigned that on far side of the river was another world, one less romantic and to which she must return.
High hedges of beech funnelled numerous lanes diverted every which by mossy-banked streams and wooded slopes, some not seeing the sun for half the year. Here, a lightning-struck oak, its truck split into a pair of pollarded limbs, stuck two fingers up at the world. Somewhat surprisingly, then, change when it happened, was subtle and complicated. The church had long given up on salvation - goings on in the rectory the stuff of hearsay.
By comparison the forge merely held surprise.
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The smell of baking scones and Victoria sponge, not to mention flapjacks and gingernuts, made Lobb the Duckdog, a Border collie, drool, and signalled advanced forward planning. Her flour dusty apron hid a frumpy white blouse and navy skirt bought from a home catalogue. She was a sensible soul with never enough time for dressing up, especially as she also kept the church prettified with botany and the pews polished.
The discrete silver cross hanging from a thin neck chain, however, was an adornment of fancy rather than faith. She observed George wrestling with a wellington boot and patted the back of her practical bob. The heat was stifling. Sweat drenched him. It dripped from beneath his helmet, blurring his vision. Had to take responsibility. Many ducked for cover.
Others hid behind newspapers. Pints upon trays were spilt. Terrified parents hugged kids. Teammates in camouflage uniform ran around like panicked rabbits. Gauntleted, he circled the stumps his eyes fixed on the plummeting sphere. A drop was unthinkable. People could be maimed. Killed, even. Barri blinked awake with a start. Discombobulated and panting, his T-shirt and blanket sodden. His hands were shaking. With fingertips he scratched his scalp through a mat of dishevelled sandy coloured hair and groaned.
On the pine table were a bag of grass seed and a kettle sat upon a primus stove. Sunshine shone on a trio of toppled glass cider bottle empties and pooled on the stone-flagged floor faintly stained by whitewash. Two faded sets of footprints, one large one small, headed for the door. They played upon the blade of his weathered cricket bat and a battalion photograph taken at Bessbrook, the sprawling, massive century old linen mill, tall chimneys and all, converted into barracks in County Armagh.
He reminded himself yet again to prise the window open, stuck fast. Someone at sometime had given the frame an over-enthusiastic slap of paint. A wellington boot kicked the door a second time. Get up, you lazy Welsh squaddie! Get your skids on. Big Doug, Mel and Griffin are already getting the pick of the pickles. Come and be civilized. Modesty preserved by a pair of Y-fronts, a threadbare towel over his arm, he headed for the outside tap in the cobbled yard. Barri nodded glumly. Horrible, it was.
A total disaster. He was grateful to Reverend Clewes and Sir Robert in helping him get back on his feet. What a fiasco. Some soldiers had been flown into Belfast at such short notice they had arrived with bayonets fixed. And signs they carried warned rioters to disperse - in Arabic. Landmine risk caused the little village of Irish granite to reportedly be the busiest helicopter airport in Europe. And that after the village had once had a philosophy of "Three P's": no pubs, no pawnshops, and therefore no need for police.
Well, that became bollocks. The young beggar woman in a shawl hugging a babe wrapped in a blanket to her chest was burnt into his retinas. Glad that had both kept in contact, Barri, though, was unsure whether the reverend, having retreated deep into the Somerset sticks for his own reasons, had also kept faith in God. Of course, Barri was going to have a shave and well as make his bed immaculately with hospital corners. The habits of a serviceman, even a veteran, never die.
So, no more cheek. He placed his black beret on the pub bench and stroked thoughtfully at his neat, grey beard.
George hiccupped again. You have licence to wallop. What let him down was actually connecting with stumps or leather.