THE REPORTER
The story is set in a fictional village on the edge of Dartmoor. Abel Richards is a young news reporter from the Australian bush, who finds himself working in England, for the Mid Devon Post. When Abel is asked to investigate a missing person, he gets to know the hill farming community and uncovers a story that is close to his own heart.
Excerpt #1
The stranger was wearing trainers and shorts, even though there was still a frost on the ground outside. A dog followed him into the pub, so close to him that her shoulder brushed his leg. It was a blue merle, a handsome dog with prick ears. In the dim light of the bar, the stranger nodded to the people at the bar, then picked up a menu.
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“That lad runs all across the moor,” muttered an older man wrapped in thick jackets to a younger man.
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The younger one forked steak pie into his mouth. “Seen him before,” he replied.
Excerpt #2
And now the herd approached the gateway for a third time and this time they were prepared, their horses blocked every exit and with nowhere left to run, the cattle circled in front of the open gate off the moor. Eventually, a single Galloway cow came through the gateway. Abel moved back to give her more room and she took another step and now the momentum of the herd pushed her forwards, and the cows piled through the gateway, pushing and barging, their wedge shaped head swinging from side to side.
“Hold them there Abel,” shouted Moss.
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Abel raised his stick, which seemed a bit small upon reflection and when the herd bore down on him, he brought it down with a smack on the leading cow’s head. It wasn’t much, but it gave her pause, so he raised the stick again and looked her in the eye and roared. The cow turned away and the herd followed, circling between Abel and the gate, their matted coats steaming in the sun. Four horses clattered off the moor behind them and the gate clanged shut.
“Who’s this?” Henry Trant asked, “matey with the twig in his hand?”
“It’s the Aussie,” said Johnny. “Abel the Aussie. Legend.”
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“You want to find yourself a better stick next time son,” Henry said to Abel, crouching over as he lit a cigar. He turned to Moss. “I’m thinking of retiring this old horse.”
“He’s slowed up a bit,” Moss agreed.
“He’s so slow,” said Henry, “I can feel him taking root.”