Clotted Cream

I remember moving to Milton Combe from Plymouth. It was in the middle of no where - how was I ever to survive - the last bus left Plymouth at tea time and took a tedious hour or so travelling through Clearbrook, Yelverton, Crapstone and Buckland, finally arriving at Milton Combe. The walk down the very steep hill to home!
I remember motor bikes and leather jackets and the joy of getting my first bike - independance at last; no more taxiing by Mum, to and fro.
I remember the school coach to Tavistock Comprehensive - the even longer walk back up the hill. I especially remember the day my sister decided to mitch off school to meet her boyfriend and got chased through the hedge by the cows.
I remember my little sister asking why some of the cows in the field had collars on and then exclaiming that it was so the farmer could tell the black and white ones from the brown ones!
Most of all I remember clotted cream made by Gladys in the shed next to her house. I remember her churning the scalded milk until the lovely thick creamy cream evolved. I could have eaten it day after day it was so delicious.
Sadly unpasteurised milk is no longer allowed. The cows don't walk through the village anymore, leaving a trail of pats and Gladys has given up making the cream - flipping EU legislation. Those were the days, when summers were still summery and not wet and windy.