Bloomin' Barum

School's out at St Michael's

2012-02-06T09:32:00.000-08:00

So with all hopes of a rescue plan dashed it turns out that St Michals will not be opening it's gates up this term and has closed down. Not that I, being a passionate supporter of state education am too upset by this state of affairs.
To tell you the truth I haven't really given the place much thought over the past few years. That is until a few weeks back when Me and Anne Cawood and the dug were coming back from an afternoon hoicking some logs out of young Gunny's woods out over Chittlehamolt way. He had been clearing some ash. Now that is a lovely bit of wood for burning, so it would have been foolish not to take him up on his offer of a few hundred-weight. I thought we'd make a day of it and take a drive out to Chittlehampton first off as I wanted to take a look at St Uriths church due to the fact I have lately developed a keen interest in North Devon's Celtic Saints and Annie, being a Swimbridge maid, just like the unfortunate Urith, was only too happy to oblige. Of course it was also a good excuse to pop into The Bell have a drop or two and share one of their fine roast dinners. You'd be foolish not to if ever you are out that way. Suitably fed and watered we jaloped on down the Mole Valley to Meethe Barton. A lovely spot. On the way back with darkness upon us and a mist setting in up there on the ridgeway we could hardly see the road ahead I couldn't quite place exactly where we were. The clouds towered above us like hellish mountains and we seemed to be driving along a precipice delicately balanced above perilous canyons and at every turn in the road I saw grey boney hands looming up out of the verges grasping the night sky. It was quite an experience made even more surreal by Annie playing Lady Gaga on the stereo and the dog barking along. It was all rather thrilling, although I'd rather have been listening to Hawkwind. After another wrenching twist in the road up ahead I saw some lights in the sky fuzilly through the mist. Initially, I thought it must be a lit up Missisipi steamboat on the river or someone had gone and parked a Bridgewater carnival float in a field, although as we approached through the gloaming they all came into focus and a large house set in it's own grounds lit from all angles became apparent. It looked quite spectacular. A stately pleasure dome, a golden palace, perhaps the Taw Taj Mahal. I just couldn't fathom it. As we descended out of the mist, alongside Codden Hill I was able to get me bearings especially when we found ourselves on the A377 just outside Bishops Tawton. It then became profanely obvious that this brilliant vision was in fact Tawstock Court home of St Michael's School. I must say that someone has done a proper job of illuminating it at night as it took on truly magnificent aspect.

As I was relating our trip out to the Marshals Lunch Club the news broke that the school was closing down. Now, of course that set us all to thinking about the place. We all agreed that it was a bleddy odd sort of place, isolated and yet only a mile or so from the town. The fact is theses days you rarely saw the pupils in their salmon pink uniforms out and about and not one of us knew of anyone who actually went there. Not surprising in the least, seeing as you have pay for the privilege. Well not exactly true as we all know the Squire and apparently he had been there for a time back in the fifties. However, when I pressed him about it, his recollections were more of the Dotheboys Hall variety rather than the Goodbye Mister Chips. Cold comfort sort of place. Infact, Ex Minister for Defence Tom King, Baron King of Bridgewater turns out to be an old boy. Well, fancy that.

Class 3B St Michael's School 1962

I must say as a youngster I do remember getting up to no good in Tawstock Woods and coming across the establishment. I recall peering through the trees at a clearing where stood this large whitewashed mansion with manicured lawns, a mini-golf course and a swimming pool. All bathed in a strange unnatural metallic light. It all looked real enough but fake at the same time. Hyperreal I reckon you could call it. Like a film set. I also took notice of the group of strange looking boys meandering about. To a boy they were all blond, extremely pale skinned almost see through and looked remarkably alike. Their faces shared the same joyless expression and their movements were uniformly mechanical. I was so struck by these creepy looking kids I made sure I kept clear of the place.
However, a few years later I was pulling salmon out of the river under cover of the Lake bank when I realised I was being watched. I turned away from snaffling a fish in a feed sack and looked up from the waters edge. In the pale dawn light I saw three lads of markedly different heights but all with the striking but somewhat haunted nordic look their electric blue eyes pierced the twilight as they stared down at me. I straightened meself up and bade them good morninng they peered at me down in the mud looked at each other gave a few haughty sniffs and trotted off back over the plain to the school. Bleddy odd.

2012-01-19T12:21:00.000-08:00

Think Rodney!

2011-12-16T07:50:00.000-08:00

Councillor Rodney Cann seems to spend so much of his time standing besides Westleigh Junction I am surprised that he hasn't been run over yet.
He has become a piece of street furniture and can be spotted several times on Google street view (see right ) standing beside a number of local roads.
So a warning this Christmas not only don't drink and drive, but also clunk click every trip and Think Rodney! As he will no doubt be out and about in North Devon over this festive season waiting to be photographed standing in the middle of the road, on the Tarka Trail or in a car park.
Should you spot him please give him a beep and please slow down.
I do think though it might be wise of Mrs Cann to get him a high visibility jacket for Christmas should he continue to maintain such a high profile besides our highways and byways.
I notice that he has a donate tab on his website so perhaps the people of North Devon should show their gratitude for his unstinting municiple good works and chip together to buy him one.

http://www.rodneycann.net/news.htm

Barum it's a must........

2011-11-22T05:30:00.000-08:00

....... a must what exactly? That was the question on our lips down at the Marshals Thursday lunch club and I must say we had a jolly old time trying to decipher the unofficial logo that has been foisted upon the people of North Devon by, as far as I can make out a small group of town traders who have formed a group called BID North Devon. Bleddy daft name for a start as first thing it does is put you in mind of that town over on the other side of the bay. So, to my way of thinking first thing they've gone and done is promote Bideford! I see no sense in it and neither did anyone else. Annie Cawood suggested Barum it's a must..... avoid at all costs especially on a Thursday afternoon when the methadone clinic kicks out. Charlie Street put forward the notion that Barnstaple, it's a must... for visiting charity shops, poundshops and pawnbrokers/money shops. Of course with Town's Fa Vase historic second round proper coming up I suggested a little more positively, Barum it's a must .... win on Saturday. (Which I am glad to report they did beating a team called Downton of all things, apparently the visitors had a bad dose of flu but a wins a win ).
Don't get me wrong though I'm not against promoting the town and I always do my own bit when and where I can, and engendering a bit of local pride as Lord knows at this present time the poor old place needs it but I can't see that this logo is the way to do it. It's wishy washy vague and has exposed itself to ridicule. Why to the people resposible for these things always dream up something so bland and neutral that fails to capture the essence, history and values of a place. They always do it, rebranding is what they call it and locally we have had a few choice examples in recent years to illustrate the point. North Devon College - Petroc which to be fair is growing on me and Devon County Council and North Devon both of 'em replaced logos with clear graphic representations of the area with anodyne pastel leaves and abstract rural coastal swathes of watery green and blue.

The firm behind the Barum design claim that they want to get over a sense of history and local pride. How? I just don't see it, not even after I tried squinting. They could have come up with something a lot better and could have done a lot worse than basing it on the old logo or coat of arms as they were called which has served the town well since at least the 16th century. As you can see it comes with it's own little tag line or motto. " Fides et Justitia" It's Latin and I have just had a word with the Squire who is a Latin scholar and it translates as "faith and Justice" Barum - Faith and Justice. Blimey you can't get more proud and noble than that. That lofty claim should give anyone a sense of local pride and history if that's what our forebears thought of the town it indicates what we should strive to live up to.

Here's 'Combes recent effort. There's nothing like a bit of honesty and I think they have hit the nail on the head with a motto which needs no deciphering as I think there no denying it, it is a very, very curious place indeed

Fair view

2011-09-17T08:45:00.000-07:00

Isn't it just lovely when the fair is in town.The place really comes into it's own. I've been sitting out over the passed evening or two savouring the goings on up river. From my place you can here the calls of "do you want to go faster" and "Oggy oggy oi! Oi Oi" and the smell of candy floss and brandy snaps wafting downriver on a weirdly termed Automnal Spring tide. If me phone wasn't on charge I could have taken a smashing photo with the rain drashing down, the lights of the Buzzer and all the folk crossing he bridge now it's closed to traffic and the fireworks. The old boy has driven down to Halford's car park and is sitting there listening along to a bit of Handel. SoS. On the top tide I rowed up to the Lidl bank and took a look for meself, there was bleddy crowds there which is nice to see. I gather they do have a few rides which are only showcased at big fairs and stuff, one is a 1000 foot high. I took a walk through happy hour as they call it but the cheapest ride was 2.50 too much money to feel sick and ill I reckon and you probably lose 40p down the back of the seats. Fair lads will have that, quick as a flash. A few years ago I did lose fifty pence on the dodgems. I was trying to sort out me change while some fella was hanging off me rear end and I dropped it. Thing is I recall the fifty p bit as it was a Battle of Britain commemorative one and had three Spitfires, a Lancaster Bomber and a Hurricane on it. After the ride had finished I went straight up to the booth and asked him to keep an eye open for this unique coin of the realm. However, the phrase the customer is always right stood no stead with this peculiar one eyed rather sweaty and overweight gentleman from the banks of the Mersey and at the end of the exchange as he was busily putting on a pop on 45 twelve inch I had to give gave him some short shrift I ended up berating him about the nature of his customer service. I'm not a fella to stand on ceremony, a spade is a spade, but his reaction was plainly rather un-cooth. However, I did go the rifle ranges, only airguns these days I remember when they had .22's proper little brass bullets, and manage to win myself several of them meerkat thinganmyjigs. I'll give 'em to the kiddies for xmas I've now got fifteen of the little buggers, so I must have looked quite a sight as I sculled my way back down river. Bugger! I got to get back up there sharpish as, happy as Squirsie's as I was with my meercats I forgot to buy some brandy snaps and I promised old Annie one or two with a cup of tea. Plus the dug likes a good old chew on 'em. Suck the tea up through the tubes lovely job.

http://www.barnstapletowncouncil.co.uk/barnstaple-fair.asp

Tilting at wind farms

2011-08-23T06:08:00.000-07:00

There's something missing here..... 21 120 metre high wind turbines that's it!

Coming back from a few days down at the old barn in Mortehoe last week I managed to catch the 303 bus back home that goes the long way around via West Down and Heanton down to Ashford Strand. The highlight of this trip was the fact that it virtually skirts the whole of Fullabroke Windfarm along it's quite considerable length and breadth. Now, after all the machinations manoeverings and transportation of heavy loads through the highways and byways of North Devon, all 21 of the turbines are now in place I have to say that on a lovely sky blue summer's morning they are quite a magnificent sight. Fanning out as they do across the hills of North North Devon with the sun glancing of their polished 65m blades, all 66 of them. I reckon you can really feel the potential latent energy in the structures and I must say it gave me quite a buzz and made me feel strangely innervated. I can't say that my fellow travelers felt the same way as they just seemed to gawp, open mouthed at these leviathans of the downs. Some just started a muttering and a mumbling. Maybe they were just stunned to see such fine examples of kinetic energy converters in such a bucolic setting.
Believe it or not, although I may be a bit behind when it comes to consumer electronics and gizmos, I can never fail to be impressed by feats of engineering endeavour, be it the building of the new aircraft carriers down at Appledore, the construction of the Taw downstream bridge or the Windfarm to me they are technological marvels. I suppose this goes back to me days when I worked down at Tucker & Turners agricultural engineers, where as an apprentice I worked on the prototype of the Huxtables self propelled threshing machine. As a young man I also spent a bit of time on tankers, so the bigger the better.
When I first was aware of the plans at Fullabroke I didn't see what all the fuss was about, at the time there was a hell of a stink kicked up in villages like West Down, Marwood and Prixford (where today funny enough it turns out you can't actually see them from the centre of the villages), as I thought they'd be tucked away down the side of the valley out the back of West Down and I think most people were under this impression and all. Or came to this way of thinking after the notion of a community fund containing millions of pounds was wafted in front of their noses. Also, in these parts we are never of a mind to complain too bitterly about things especially when a few quid is involved.

So, earlier in the summer when they started appearing over the hills on the north side of town, an event which put me in mind of the martian attack in Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds, I was rather taken aback to start off with as it turned out that they can not only be seen from the Burrows, Barum Henge and Yelland but also further afield in places like Bideford, Alverdiscott, North Molton and even abroad in Port Talbot and the Mumbles and what's more, even from the Old Boy's and Mother's back bedroom up at Sticklepath. Somehow, I don't think the residents of Woodville were consulted at the planning stage!
Initially, I questioned whether this was actually part of the original plan and was under the suspicion that the developers had been a little bit naughty and led us all on a merry dance in not disclosing the true impact that they would hev on the North Devon skyline. I was angry and was determined to try and get some answers to the questions however, my technological bent soon took over and the more I looked into the mechanics of the structures and saw all the monster loads being hauled through the town the sheer logistics of the operation the more I started to feel something like pride in what was being undertaken.

Ultimately, I think that they compliment the North Devon skyline. I mean, you might as well complain about pylons or telephone cables and at least the turbines serve more of a purpose providing energy as they will do to thousands of homes. I could have taken them on like a Devonian Don Quixote. Mind you it is not as if they are the first wind turbines in the area. I remember Bobby, one of the Combe Martin hippies, building one above Ilfracombe back in the eighties. Looking back he was a veritable pioneer in the field. The trouble was he had the idea to tap the turbine into an extant lay line to conduct the power generated through this less tangible national grid to other mystical points in the realm. No wires, underground cables or pylons, lay lines that was the answer. I wonder what became of him? I reckon he's probably still in a field outside Gloucester with his multi-purpose electrical tester and divining rods.
As Georgie Hatherly's Mother pointed out, when me and Annie Cawood popped into the exhibition at Braunton Countryside Centre, "what else are we going to do?" I failed to mention at the time that we could all consider using less electricity but somewhat blinded by the white heat of technology I let it pass.
I do have a couple of niggling concerns. At the moment the turbine blades are all higgledy piggledy not facing in the same direction and I don't find this too pleasing to the eye. Annie said the same thing mind you she does have a touch of the old OCD and given half a chance she would be up there in a flash trying to get them standing proud, facing in the same direction.
My other gripe is that the company haven't put back some of the street furniture that they took down to make way for the monster loads, as just this morning I was passing the junction at Pottington and in the hedge outside of Hobarts some of the railings are still lying there all twisted and buckled up. The devils in the detail as Mother likes to say.
I also have a bit of a suggestion to make in order to make the turbines a little more attractive to all, detractors and supporters alike, they could be named. They could have nameplates fixed on the side of them so that folk could be encouraged to adopt one as from time to time they do look rather forlorn standing up their on top of the world. I've already earmarked one at Pippacott and to me it looks like a Gertie, named after my great aunt. People might want to take a picnic out there from time to time, like my Gran and Granfer used to do on the central reservation of the dual carriageway when it first opened.

Just a final point coming back on the bus down through Ashford I looked up river towards Town and was struck by the sight of a gurt big communication mast on top of Fort Hill. Where on earth did this come from? It reminded me of the one that they have on a hill above Santander that you see from the ferry or indeed the one I recall that towers over Barcelona. Yet another thing that Barum and Barcelona have in common. It occurred to me that as they do in Spain someone should think about running a cable car up there. we could be missing a trick here. Mind you in Spain they do like a tower or two.

Only a week to go.........

2011-08-11T08:24:00.000-07:00

...... before the Library re-opens after it's extensive refit and I can get back in there and do some serious blogging. Amoungst other developments they are going to get in WI-FI!! I can assure you that I have not been idle these past few weeks as I have been fulfilling my other media commitments details of which will be outlined directly. Suffice it to say Johnny Kingdom and his Exmoor safaris may have a bit of competition in the near future as I have a few different irons in the fire at the present time. Cheers.

The tale of the Landkey rat.

2011-06-30T04:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday afternoon Anne Cawood had a funny old tale to tell down at the Marshal's Thursday lunch club concerning the Landkey rat. I can't hope to emulate the way she told it as once she gets going she has her own special way with words. Anyway, her tale tickled us all. A few days last week she was out at Landkey to pick up one of her innumerable grandchildren from the school as her daughter Briony was on jury service and couldn't make it to fetch the little mites.

The heart of Landkey Town

So there she was, waiting in the road opposite the school yacking away with one of the mum's when over her shoulder she spied a bleddy gurt rat, enourmous it was, scampering it's way along a wall. I asked her if she was sure it wasn't a koypu that had swum up from Bishop's Tawton but she assured me it was a rat. A rat that was quite literally the size of a cat. Old Annie drew the attention of some of the mums gathered at the school gates to the bold rodent but they all seemed rather non-plussed. "Oh yeah there he goes the little bugger" said one and a few of them seemed quite happy to catch a sight of the furry vermin and seemed to be addressing the little critter in similar terms of endearment. On the way back over the way to Gorwell she mentioned the rat sighting to the kids telling them how amazed she was by the size of it. Mind you, knowing Annie it had probably increased to the size of a brown bear by the time they got to Westacott. However, they like the mums also seemed rather bemused by their daft granny's ramblings, only adding nonchalantly that they often see it scuttling across the playground of an afternoon, making for the bins behind the kitchens and they all liked to stop what they are doing and take a look at him. They even had a competition to find a name for him. Turns out he is called Rory after the little singing kid off of Britain's Got Talent

A brown rat

The following afternoon Annie was out there again. This time she parked up in Mazzard Way and was walking towards the school gates when, lo and behold, the rat appeared again. This time scurrying across the road right in front of her as bold as brass. Amazingly, he then seemed to take a quick shower and had a brazen gambol under a lawn sprayer. This time Annie couldn't let it pass, so she went up to an old mate of ours, Terry Ford, who happened to be passing, to find out what was going on. Terry is a mine of information on all things Landkey so he was able to put her straight. It turns out that this here rat has become something of a celebrity in the village and he's been sighted all over from Lankey old town down to the Castle and further afield. Anyway the rat has obviously found Landkey to his liking and is seemingly impervious to the comings and goings of the villagers, through traffic and the hubub of such a vibrant community. Thankfully, at present, there seems to be no sign of a pied piper character to lead the rodent over to Venn Quarry and subsequently the good folk of Landkey have become quite proprietary towards him. As Terry Ford went on to say he was so charmed by the sheer audacity of the brazen rodent that he didn't have a heart to pull the trigger after he'd been asked, much to many peoples consternation, by the Parish Council to fetch up with his air rifle in order to dispatch it humanely.
It's good to see that in this day and age that something like this can galvanize a community and it has been able to draw together around it's very own regal rat. Mind you I did point out that such things aren't that unusual out Landkey way as befits a village with such an illustrious history, founded as it was by Sir Francis Drake as a refuge from the Spanish Armada and named for the Celtic saint St Kea, Llan Kea until the Saxon invader turned up and Anglesized it. Bleddy Saxons.
In the eighties the Councils plans to demolish the place and start all over again on the other side of the valley were thwarted by a concerted local campaign and also the mazzard, North Devon's very own soft fruit was reintroduced after the heroic efforts of local residents especially those of my old comrade, Dickie Joy

Mazzards make a lovely pie

Of course the rat wouldn't fare so well in the neighbouring village of Swimbridge home of the Parson Jack Russell terrier which the eponymous parson specifically bred to be terrifyingly efficient ratters. Fortunately due to internecine village rivalry no one in Landkey is allowed to own a Jack Russell.
Likewise no one in Swimbridge eats mazzards.
Annie called round yesterday afternoon and reported that local opinion has now come to the conclusion that the rat is of a domesticated variety that must have made a bid for freedom. They may have a point as many domesticated rats are infact imported from South America and these can grow to be very large. Thinking about it it could also be a fancy rat. It is also thought that it didn't originally come from Landkey due to there having been no "missing" signs posted on lampposts nor messages read out at morning worship. I told her they ought to put a note in the Journal Of course it could just be disorientated and will start making it's way back home like in that film. Maybe it's best to just let the little bugger be and let him make his own way.
Anyway following on from Anne's tale I have half a mind to pop over there one morning next week, have a spot of lunch in The Castle and then walk up and over to Venn on a rat safari to see if I can't catch a sight of this fine specimen of the species rattus norvegicus. That 'll give me something nice to look forward to..

To the ferret king - Get well soon

2011-06-15T09:50:00.000-07:00

Last week I was quite perturbed by the news that reached me concerning Barry Jewel's finger. Apparently, the legend, as he has become, in local ferret racing circles has lost a finger. He is the North Devon's ferret racing answer to Henry Cecil and year in year out he always manages to breed sure-fire winners from his yard out at South Molton. My first thought was that one of his charges had turned nasty on him, a narky hob gone a bit mixxy and bit off the aforementioned digit. However that would have been highly unusual as from my own experience I know all too well a ferret can give you a fair old nip but it would have to set itself to a good old gnawing before it could get through your finger. Anyway it turns out that Barry was doing a bit of work in his shed and lost the finger, his little finger, when he fed his hand into a band saw by mistake. Barry's plight caused a right old forore in South Molton as he'd picked up his finger from the shavings on the shed floor and walked around with it to his neighbours asking them to call an ambulance. Due to the nature of the injury, bleeding like beggary, it was the air ambulance that came for him and that really did cause quite a stir in sleepy S'Molton on a weekday afternoon as in no time at all quite a crowd had gathered at the Rugby Club to see old Barry being whisked away in the big whirly bird up to the NDI in Barum. However, once he got to Barum he was no sooner up in the air again this time being conveyed directly to Exeter. Not that old Barry seemed to mind this one bit as he later told the Journal that despite the pain he was quite distracted by the lovely views he was getting of the Taw Valley, priceless they were. Fortunately, up at Exeter they were able, using state of the art technology, to rebuild his finger. Bleddy marvelous isn't it, what they can do these days.

Not Barry's missus with favourite ferret but Leonardo da Vinci's

Trouble is Barry has now been signed off by the doctor until the end of August and due to this being high season for ferret racing he is finding it quite frustrating being unable to compete until then. So far, all told he has already missed the Braunton fair and the Royal Bath and West up at Shepton Mallet. I would have given him a call and see if I could lend a fully fingered hand to enable him to take part in the races down at the Royal Cornwall show but the Hiace is still off the road. Although, I did give my ex common law brother in law Michael Tanton a call, him being a fellow ferret fancier and breeder. I just thought he may be able to help out but I could sense he wasn't too keen on the idea.Thinking about it now, I reckon there could be a bit of history between them, bad blood. Besides, he said from what he'd heard Barry seemed happy enough to give racing a miss this season and had decided to concentrate on his fancy ferrtets for showing in the autumn. Michael also told me that this wasn't the first time that Barry had lost a finger as he had managed to slice one off a few years ago when he was working out at the chipboard factory.

Well all I can add is that I wish Terry a speedy recovery. By the way, that's from me and the rest of the Marshal's Thursday lunch club and when he feels up to it maybe he could pop by one afternoon and tell us all about that helicopter trip.

I thought I could smell something fishy.

2011-06-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

I have been wandering about with a dead crab in a bag in me pocket for the best part of a week. I was starting to wonder what the smell was. I thought it was due to the fish processing factory and wind direction. Turns out it was me all along. Mazed fool.

Silage night muck spreading

2011-05-29T06:03:00.000-07:00

The other morning me and old Charlie Street was siting out enjoying the view along the cycle path and out over the estuary enjoying a jar or two of Ostlers farm cider that one of Stokey's lads had dropped off the previous evening as he'd been doing a bit of work out at Goodleigh and had gone along to the St Dunstan's Eve apple blossom ceremony and he'd managed to wangle a demi-john of the juice and thought I'd like to sample a drop or two. Lovely lad Stuart.
Anyway once again we were just sat there mulling over the age old shag/cormorant debate and like always we had Radio Devon on in the background as I like to tune into Judi Spiers's show when I am at home.


Dame Judi with legendary side-kick Mr G. Honeybun

As it is I am a great fan of Dame Judi. She' really is what they call a fine old trooper. I love her banter and she never fails to play my kind of music. Anyway we were still listening when Justin had come on and was taking calls on the lunch time phone in programme, our ears pricked up when we heard him say that he was taking a call from Bob in Braunton. Being as we were just down the road we put down our binoculars and lent an ear to the radio. However, moments later after hearing what Bob had to say for himself we were left speechless. Honestly, you couldn't make it up. Bob from Braunton had called in to express his disgust, on BBC Radio Devon, no less of having been forced inside one evening during the recent warm weather, due to the smell caused by a neighbouring farmer spreading manure over his fields. This Rob /Bob fella, I forget exactly what his name was now, complained in a rather nondescript but nasal and whinnying accent that he had been deterred from drinking Pimm's with some of his visitors in the garden over the bank holiday because of the reeking stench and he was of the opinion that people living close to farmland should be informed by farmers when they are planning their muck spreading.

Lovely heap of dung

Me and Charlie were besides ourselves and immediately reached for our phones to give Radio Devon a call but it turns out other people throughout the county were similarly vexed by this bloke's highly contentious assertation as the switchboard was jammed. Young Justin. old master of the radio phone-in that he is, was soon taking calls from all over and I am glad to say that there was not a single call in support for Rob from Braunton and his evidently singular point of view.
Later on Stokey and I wobbled along to Braunton as I needed to go to Slee's Home Hardware for some tomato canes. Job done, we settled into the Mariners where we were able to better establish the facts of the matter. Apparently this blow-in bloke lives up Higher Park Road way which backs onto Park Farm. We had an inkling that this would be the case as the Farm is pretty close into Braunton and due to it's being a rather tumbledown place and a true working farm it has, in the past come in from some criticism from the residents of the Higher Park Road area. I recall that a good portion of it is a private road and the folk up there are always keen to stress this fact one way or another in order to underline their exclusivity. Many of them are of the type who don't ever lack something to say about anything.
Over the years I've done a few jobs up at the farm for Michael Chugg and his mother and I can tell you that it's bleddy hard work keeping a farm going in this day and age and I have nothing but admiration for the Chuggs who are still intent on making a brave fist of it. The last thing they need is some jumped up, retired civil servant/police officer meddling type giving them grief on local radio. Besmirching their hardy endeavours.
As the week drew on muck spreading and associated activities became the hot topic on Justin's programme and it heartens me to relay that by Wednesday the bloke had largely become an object of ridicule.
That Thursday I was in the library and by some miracle or another I had actually managed to nab the copy of the Journal before anyone else snaffled it away and I was able to read the Chugg's side of the story. To say the least it turns out that were rather aggrieved to find themselves at the centre of such a raging media storm as I know they do like to keep themselves to themselves, to just get on with things. They were also rather perplexed that a so-called neighbour had instigated such a meddle and caper as they will always lend a hand when someone needs a tractor for a tow or some errant wildlife needs to be dispatched quickly and cleanly. They always were under the impression that they had a good rapport with their neighbours. Mrs Chugg went on to say that what distressed her most was the fact that people thought the smell was caused because they were using chemicals, when in fact it was nothing more than well rotted-down dung, good wholesome organic matter. The smell of which she admitted is not to everyone's liking but you know if you live in the country you have to expect such hearty odours from time to time.
This way of thinking seemed to be echoed by other residents within the vicinity who were surprised at the complaints and responded to the Journal's enquiries with the comments such as "it's a load of old bunkum" and "you live in the countryside, what do you expect?" And "It is just ridiculous that someone would complain about this – if you don't like it, go and live in a city where there might be much worse smells."
My thoughts entirely.

North Devon bathed in star light.

2011-05-10T05:37:00.000-07:00

During the month of April down here in glorious North Devon not only were we bathed in golden sunshine we also had the good fortune to be bathed in star light. In all my days I have never seen so many stars illuminating the area, we have been truly awash with them, bathing in their associative residual lustre.
Things started right at the beginning of the month with the dissemination of a wild rumour that Prince William, the soon to be Duke of Cambridge, no less was spending his stag weekend in the area .

Not Prince William at Spekes Mill Mouth

Due to the time of year I put it down to an April fool. However the story was soon verified in both the Gazette and the Journal by some local surfers who had been approached by George Stukely scion of Hartland landed gentry, to keep an eye on a couple of lads who were surfing down at Spekes Mill Mouth who apparently weren't that much cop, 'floaters". These 'cheps' turned out to be the Windsor lads and their party. I suppose the T-shirts would hev been proof enough. 'Will's Stag Do - Clovelly 2011'. They were also spied at Barnstaple Station standing with assorted boxes of booze waiting for a mini-van to take 'em up along the A39 Straw hats on, lurid sunglasses, cargoe shorts and flip flops. The obligatory male attire for a weekend in the Westcountry. To my way of thinking it was a bleddy good job that the local boardriders were pressed into service as I know for a fact that it is a wicked break down there in those parts and there are also some treacherous rip tides. Bleddy daft really. Who knows what could have happened if they'd been entangled in one of those. They'd have been dragged under, towed around the rocks and then whisked out to sea never to be seen again. Blimey what a stir that would hev caused. That would have really put a spanner in the works. No groom no best man and I reckon they would have cancelled the back holiday and all. Which would have been a crying shame. Good job they didn't take James Cracknell along with 'em totherwise they really would have been in trouble.

Friend of North Devon

Selassie's seat in St Nectans Church

I suppose their choice of Hartland may have been partly influenced by the fact that Haile Selassie also stayed at Hartland and knowing that public schoolboys like a bit of reggae and affecting Rastafarian mannerisms I'm sure that that must have been a factor in Prince Harry's search for the perfect location. No doubt on the Sunday morning they popped up to St Nectans Church and payed homage to The Mighty Lion of Judah chilling on the seat that HIM Jah Rastafari himself once sat on. I know this as some of my old mates from my Bristol days, Ras Kayne Sham and Clifton 'one ton' Ashton who in the seventies acted as extras in a number of films shot in the locality always popped along to pay their respects. Back in the day they even had a Rasta party in Hartland Village Hall where legendary West Country reggae artistes Black Roots took to the stage. I believe that Will's great Grandmother, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, bless her, also had a fondness for easy listening pop reggae melodies.

Heidi and Liz a shared mutual love of scones

Later that very same week the Journal reported another local connection with royalty this time of the Hollywood variety following the untimely demise of legendary queen of the silver screen Liz Taylor. Turns out our Liz had a friend Heidi who lives in Chawleigh who had been sending her Xmas cards for the last 40 years. Apparently Liz confided in her friend the last time they met, which I think was 1961, that she had a fondness for pasties and clotted cream. So in due course our maid Heidi Her friend went onto to rue the fact that she had, in all those years, never got around to inviting her down to Devon for a proper cream tea and a pasty supper. Of course it is too late now. However, the Chawleigh woman was able to help out Ms Taylor when she'd heard that one of her dogs had passed away she sent a letter to her explaining that since her dog had just had a litter of puppies she would honour Miss Taylor's dog by naming the puppies after some of the roles that she had undertaken during her long and illustrious career. I think she may have had to name them after husbands and all as they can't all have been called Cleopatra.
I'm sure Liz went to her grave happy in the knowledge that the people of North Devon would be able to share in such fond memories


Bergerac keen to get to grips with local villains.

Later that week I met my cousin Kenny in the Marshals for a jar or two. He'd come up from Holsworthy for the day to go to a farm auction at Harepie as he is a keen collector of antiquated agricultural machinery. He was in high spirits no doubt buoyed by having successfully bid on a nineteen thirties Tucker & Turner threshing machine, a very rare T&T 75 model no less, so he was full of the goings on down his part of the world and once he got going there was no stopping him. It turns out that on the previous Saturday he'd been to see the Holsworthy Players annual review and the surprising thing was that John Nettles, Bergerac as you may recall and latterly Inspector Barnaby off of Midsommer Murders was in the cast! Blimey he's come down a peg or two. I suppose though he must have wanted to live in a more diverse community than Jersey and Midsommer Norton so he up sticks and moves to Pyeworthy. I told Kenny that if that was the case then he'd better keep an eye on his insurance premiums as now that bugger Nettles is in the area the crime rates would be bound to sore as trouble follows that fella around like a bad smell. Not that they'd notice that much down those parts. Still at least he's putting something back into the area which is more than can be said for a lot of blow ins. Though I do hear he is actually Cornish. So I suppose depending what side he gets out of bed of a morning he's come home.

Inspirational

And so it goes on... the very next morning back in the Marshals for a Thursday Lunch Club meeting I couldn't help but notice a rather nervy, pallid looking young fella at the bar nursing a large whisky. He wasn't the sort we normally get in there, especially at that time of the day. First off I don't know why but I thought it was the chef Gary Rhodes but as soon as Annie Cawood walked in and spied him she put me right. It was none other than Gareth Malone from BBC2's The Choir. I knew it was Gary somebody or another. Annie was beside herself with excitement she's his number one fan and after necking down a swift barley wine she went up to him and told him this several times. Ian Stokey who has seen the programme told me that he is the thinking woman's crumpet and all the ladies love him. Don't know about that he looked a bit dunked Cornish wafer to me. Just as Annie was getting Mr Malone to sign her ample bosom a rather hassled young lady stormed into the pub complete with headphones, mic and other cables dragging behind her. She barged poor Annie out of the way grabbed Gary's Whisky, slammed it on the bar and frogmarched him out of the pub. A few minutes later she was back in again this time she made us an offer we couldn't refuse . She'd put a few quid behind the bar if we trundled along to the pannier market in order to lend a bit of local color to the proceedings. Fair enough so off we went.

Spot the old lady who always gets down the front

We arrived in the Pannier Market where a stage was set up and there was already quite a crowd there. Mind you what Stokey said turned out to be true as, apart from some of my old mates from the Barnstaple Male Voice Choir, the audience consisted exclusively of ladies of a certain age, cooing and billing about what a marvelous inspiration the chap was and how he turns people's lives around. After being jostled and poked by mobility scooters and wheelchairs all assuming their right to get to the front, especially that rather grand woman in the wheelchair who is always photo'd on these affairs right at the front. I have to say though that you could not failed to be impressed by the choir Gary had formed with the wives and partners of servicemen down at Chivenor. Their version of sweet child of mine was truly inspirational.You should keep an eye open when it comes on, BBC2 it is, sometime in the Autumn. We're the mob at the back merrily gurning away.

Neil Morrissey - bad joke

The Reform adds to it's celebrity clientele

A few days later I was in the Rolle Quay having a pint having a look out for the wild coypu when I got a text from my ex common law brother in law Michael him of ferret fame to get over to the reform as soon as as Neil Morrissey from TV's 'Men Behaving Badly' which being a great fan of the work of Lesley Ash I caught from time to time, was in there. First off, I thought he met Morrissey the singer but one of the lads at the bar put me right when I showed him the text as I couldn't make head nor tail of it. So using the new bridge from RGB I made my way over there. He'd put a few quid behind the bar and he himself was charming the pants off of Esther the landlady with his wit and wisdom and tall tales of an actors life. I only stayed for a couple of pints as I had to get on and get back down to Ashford Strand to get me night lines out as I'd be a fool to miss a tide at this time of year. Anyway, I heard he stayed there all day and polished off a bottle of brandy and by chucking out time he was way beyond burbling. I guess that might have something to do with the rather terrible review he received from the Journal. Apparently all he did was stand on the stage make a couple of badly received jokes and yack on about The Reform. And to think, people actually paid good money for that. I tell you what, I have half a mind to get in touch with Queen's Hall and tell 'em the next time they want someone to do that I'd gladly put meself forward for a fraction of the fee. Failing that I'm sure Mr Selkirk would be happy to oblige and he'd no doubt throw in some choice anecdotes about sheet metal fabrication and the highs and lows of Barnstaple Town F.C's season in the Western League. They could probably get him for a couple of pints of Barum Original, a bag of crisps and a pickled egg

I realise I may be going on a bit now but I feel I can't stint on such a momentous month in the life of North Devon but I have to take a breather. Part 2 to follow dreckly.
Keep an eye for The Duke of Wessex in the Pier Tavern, Ilfracombe while his wife Sophie marches with local Samba band. The real Alan Titmarsh, not the life size cut out down at B&Q, visits Torrington. Alan Carr at the Wrey Arms wedding party.

Adder advice

2011-05-03T11:16:00.001-07:00

northdevongazette.co.uk/news/adder_adv… via @AddThis My advice: cut a cross over the wound with a big sharp knife and then get a passerby to suck out the venom

Into the biosphere.

2011-04-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

The other day, the marvelous weather we've been having over the past few weeks put me in mind to clean out the old Hiace, get it back on the road and take it out for a spin. Surprisingly, all it took was a bit of tinkering and I managed to get the thing started first time. Any road it spluttered a bit going up the lane and just as I was turning on to the Braunton road the bleddy engine cut out right in front of any oncoming Georgeham bound bus. Of course this caused a right old muddle and caper. Fortunately the bus was full of eager young squaddies who at the drop of the hat and without my bidding alighted brushed me aside and pushed the van right up into Trelawney's car park. Thanks for nothing lads. Now I was going to be in a spot of bother as I am banned from using the car park due to several disputes I have had over the years about me visitors coming and going out of it without purchasing some horticultural supplies or stopping in for one of their good value lunches nor cream teas.
In order to avoid another confrontation I decided smartly that I'd better call Annie Cawood sharpish and ask her to pop over with some jump leads or failing that at least she'd be able to give us a tow in the old Landrover back down to the Strand. so rather furtively and keeping me head down I beetled out of the car-park and went down to the Ashford Strand phone box and called her up. She was only too glad to oblige as she needed to get some miniature aubergine plants this would then of course give her a legitimate reason to be in the car park
As she was only down at King's Carpets Annie turned up in no time in her ancient but sturdy mode of transportation with her weird looking dog, looks like something out of a Victorian bestiary all bits of different breeds stitched erroniously together, hanging of the window. Still, after a fair few attempts and trying to jump start the whole thing with the aid of some old fellas who'd just popped in for a spot of lunch, we couldn't get it started. However, it seemed a shame now I'd tidied it up and managed to get it out of the hedge to let the opportunity to go out for a spin go to waste, so Annie had the rather smart idea of towing me down to Crow Point where we could park up, take the by now highly excited dog for a walk out and over the boardwalk and then come back for some tea and seasonal pastries, hot cross buns, in the van. Forthwith, she had me hitched up to the tow bar and off we went.

So, after stopping off at Warrens in Braunton the one of killer pasty fame, we soon got down to Crow Point. The bloke at the toll gate only charged us for a vehicle and a half to let us through after I pointed out rather keenly that as we were technically only one vehicle we should only have to pay the toll for one. I guess he saw some sense in my argument as we came to splitting the difference. Tell you what it was abslolutely glorious down there in spite of the time of the year and the fine weather there was hardly a soul about. Annie let the hound of the leash and it tore off on a haphazard course over the dunes out of view. As we strayed off the boardwalk and made our way along cattle tracks out over towards the coast it occurred to me that we could have been transported into another age. It was like the land that time forgot tha is if you disregarded the small arms fire coming from RMB Chivenor and the constant drone of amphibious military craft coming from the estuary. (There must be somewhere in Libya that looks like Bideford as they have been zooming up and down the Torridge in hovercraft and landing craft for days now) It also put me in mind of that film One Million Years BC.
I half expexted a flying dinosaur to come flapping out of the sky, squawking menacingly while trying to carry us away with its tentacious claws. Of course, it would take a great leap of imagination to turn Annie into Raquel Welch, however she aways did turn a few heads back in the day. Although I have to say she was more your Diana Dors type but still, she would have looked a bit special in a rabbit's fur bikini. Come to think of it I think she may have sported one a few years back now when she had a walk on part in 'The Romans in Britain' that the Barum Amateur Dramatics Society put on in the early 80's. They had intended to have her in the nude but the dress rehearsal caused such a storm especially as TSW heard of it they put her in more modest costume

Raquel Welch possibly on Braunton Burrows

I have never been down to the Eden Project but on a good day to my mind when you have got Braunton Burrows who needs to? This is the real thing, a natural phenomenon our very own biosphere on our doorstep, not some man made artifice plonked in a china clay pit in St Austell.

Of course like many things in the area, going out on the moor, walking the coast path you always promise to take a greater advantage of them and to tell you the truth I hadn't actually been down there for a few years now but there was a time when we'd come down as tackers and watch the army on manoeuvers picking up their spent bullet casings as we went stealthily following them through the dunes. When I was a young man and before myxie did it's worse I'd come down with the old boy and Wes Twardo and his old boy with a couple of ferrets and some nets to bag a few brace of rabbits. Of course back then the place was overrun with them because before the Second World War it was actually run as a commercial enterprise providing rabbit stew for the nation. I've seen pictures of the rabbit trains which would regularly leave Braunton Station and head up country laden with them. Today, the rabbit is once again very much in evidence......
In the seventies when I fell in with the hippies we'd come down on many a summers evening to get nude, do a bit of skinning dipping drink cider and wine around a driftwood campfire before retiring into the dunes for a bit of nookie, taking care not to get your bum bitten by an adder. Today, a sign at the entrance to the dunes warns against such 'naturist activities' which is a bit rich coming from Christie Estates the landowners seeing as Hector Christie himself, a barley reconstructed hippy, can be often spied walking about with next to nothing on. Fair play to the Christies though as they do allow pretty much hassle free access to the land. I suppose in this light they are entitled to but up a sign or two. I think they may not actually be against naturism but be alluding to those activities which often occur in a state of nudity. Annie told me of a school geography field trip she went on to trace the River Caen from source to the sea apparently by the time they reached the Burrows and Crow after along hot day in the field the trip became more of a study of biology rather than geography.

Eventually, we reached the beach beside the mouth of the Taw and Torridge Estuary and at a low incoming tide you can see just how narrow the channel is between it and the open sea. Vast quantities of water racing in on treacherous currents. On a low tide you could fool yourself into thinking you could just wade over to Northam, if you really wanted to. At your peril. A few fools have tried and periodically continue to do so, and have been dragged under to be carried out into the vast blue yonder never to be seen again. We sat up on a sandy cliff and out in the bay a ship was waiting to come in, riding the white horses off the bar. It was absolutely bleddy beautiful. Soon the dog came lollopping back to us bedraggled and barely able to stand upon it's mutant legs. As the sun set in a western sky the breeze picked up and we headed back to the not so trusty Hiace for a lovely cup of tea and a toasted hot cross bun. Smashing.

Anne Cawood sells sofa on e-bay

2011-04-15T09:16:00.000-07:00

Annie Cawood dropped by this morning with some wonderful news, she has managed to sell her sofa on e-bay. She was as pleased as punch with the transaction which in spite of what some people had warned went extremely smoothly. She told me that things had really started to hot up and became quite thrilling when, half way through the auction, a bidding war broke out between a woman from Woolfardisworthy and a bloke from Petrockstowe. This contagious conflagration succeeded in pushing the price up from a rather lowly £3.49 to the all the more impressive sum of £17.75. However, towards the end of the auction a lady from Wrafton came in with a killer bid of £23.15 which remained the top bid at the close of sale. She is now the proud owner of Ms Cawood's sofa. Anne was delighted that the much loved sofa has found a home in North Devon as it was originally from this area but it in it's lifetime has had a rather nomadic existence. It was bought in Chope's of Bideford at the turn of the century, so it is a period piece, and it's provenance shows that it was first given pride of place in a living room in Westward Ho! It then found itself on the move this time rather further afield, up the M4 to Staines where it remained for a number of years before being relocated to a semi in Harlingdon. However, in 2007 the sofa was returned to the area, initially to a garage in Landkey but after a couple of months it was dusted off and was more recently found to be located in a modest Roundswell reception room.
As you may be able to tell I am fast becoming a fan of e-bay as I have heard nothing but good things about it. Inspired by Annie's beneficial experience I have opened an account and in the next few days I shall be putting some of my beachcombing and mudlarking finds up on the site to invite bids from all and sundry. Who knows where my collection of single flip flops and sea shell craft pieces might end up?

Bus crashes into hairdressing salon - News - North Devon Gazette

2011-04-05T08:06:00.000-07:00

Bus crashes into hairdressing salon - News - North Devon Gazette

Shapland & Petter shuts up shop.

2011-03-24T07:05:00.000-07:00

I am afraid to report that there was a rather glum pall hanging over our corner in the Marshals towards the end of last week as news came through of the closing of Shapland and Petter, Barum's premier door making factory and one last vestiges of our town's notable manufacturing industrial heritage. It's decline has been somewhat marked over recent years as it has changed hands from one anonymous multinational concern to another, each spin off, divestment, heralding a gradual whittling away of the workforce and site. As per usual in these cases it is always the poor so & so's who make the product the skilled workers who are the first ones to go those white collar worker, the sales teams etc. who produce nought, are to be retained but will move to a different location. Strange strategy for a business that apparently makes a profit and has orders on the go. Of course funny thing is that this announcement comes only days after it had been announced that the land has been bought up by Asda who hope to build a supermarket on the site. In the pub we was probably correct in assuming that the old Victorian works building are ripe for residential development and shall be marketed along the lines of loft living in North Devon in a highly desirable, prime riverside location. Another thing is certain, they'll no doubt be priced way out of the range of the youngsters who worked at Shappies. Infact, they'll more than likely be going at a price beyond the means of all average working people in the area. Still at least we will have another giant supermarket. By my reckoning that will be 11 which isn't bad for a town of some 50.000 people give a take a few.

Made in Barum

Shapland's has now gone the way of Brannam's potteries another local business with a proud history of producing finely crafted products whose reputation extended way beyond the North Devon borders. In the North Devon Museum you can see examples of that craft fine Barumware pottery and what they call Arts and Crafts furniture that was produced right here in Barum which were then sold in the showrooms of London and further abroad. It makes you proud to see such fantastic pieces on display. Even when Shappies just concentrated on producing doors, they were doors of the highest quality and were shipped on a fleet of tricks all over the world. It has been said that the palaces of Ceaucescu in Romania and Saddam Hussein in Iraq were fitted out with doors made here in North Devon. No joke, of course back in the day they were not the bogey men they became just good clients. On a less controversial note I was always led to believe by Ian Stokey's old fella, who worked over there man and boy, that they made doors for Concorde. I reckon he may have been a bit off the mark there but still no doubt about it the finest doors in housing and commercial developments throughout the land came from Shappies. Stokey's old man could always tell a door from a door and he would come back from a away up to see a show at Bristol Hippodrome or a West End theatre trip. " We Will Rock You was blimmin' marvelous and I'll tell you what, they got Shappies doors in the Travelodge we was staying in" That's one thing about the folk that worked over at Shappies they were always proud of that fact, not that they'd give on as they would bellyache about the place all time but to my mind they seemed to like it.

Years back when, the firm made it's presence felt in the town by the factory hooter which droned across the Taw first thing in the morning, lunchtime and home time. Daily, my neighbour, Ernie Smale and his colleagues would get on their bikes and make a dash to get over there before the second hooter sounded five minutes later. The lunchtime hooter would signal a hectic mass pedal back across the bridge which resembled a sprint finish in the Milk race.
They always had the best float in the carnival and their Christmas display was second to none, a true sign that the festive season was upon us.

My own experiences of Shaplands was limited somewhat to the Shappies Social club whose Friday night dos were legendary as they were always a good crowd who worked over there. A proper merry Bunch although I gather that mat have had something to do with the thinners that were used in polishing up the doors. A more raucous evening would have been hard to find. I had some fine old times down there listening to those fine purveyors of scrumpy and western, Shag Connors and the Carrot Crunchers, Jethro before he became world famous and other luminaries of the West Country club circuit like Adge Cutler and his then little known backing band the Wurzels. A rare old time and was always on the cards.

Another notable contribution Shaplands made to the town comes in the guise of shovehappeny. Many of the workers played in the leagues, they knew their wood almost spiritually and they were skilled at playing with the grain in order to get the rub of the board. They also knew what lacquers and spirits to apply to a board in order to give it a more "competitive" finish. Our own family board that was crafted by a master french polisher, who did a bit of moonlighting producing custom made boards and whose tips on how to maintain them have made ours the envy of the many folk who have been invited to play on it
How can a supermarket and some highly expensive flats ever make such a contribution to the life of a Town? Fact of the matter is it can't . Sad but true.

Here are some recently discovered photos illustrating some of S&P's fine contribution to the commercial architecture of the Town

Interior of the Gaumont, Classic and now Scott's Cinema which was fitted out by Shappies notice the fine period doors

I think that these are the original doors which they have just replaced. Typical.

Is it last orders at the Inn on the Square?

2011-03-13T05:00:00.000-07:00

Crying shame that's all I can say. Well not quite. Tuesday night me, Charlie Street and old Stokey turned up outside the Inn on the Square, Golden lion tap, Mugfords whatever you call it, to find that it was all shut up. We'd gone down there to have a bit of a darts practice as we have a mind to get the old legendary team back together again, the Tangerine Dreamers who latterly morphed into the Ebberley Archers as we were playing out of the Ebberley Arms back then. Knowing that the GLT had quite a good board, although the oche is a bit skew-whiff, and an electronic scoreboard so you don't have to do any sums we arranged to head down over there with our new darts which I bought over at Lidls last Thursday, quality German tooling at superb prices. I am obviously not spending out too much at this juncture, I'll bide me time and see if we can get back to a competitive standard before popping in to Apex Sports and investing in state of the art arrows. The other advantage with the GLT was that in the week there's hardly anyone in the place so as we are trying to keep this operation hush hush, under wraps so to speak, we could have a couple of games of mickey mouse without being seen. I do pop in there from time to time as I like to sit in the window and have a good old gawp at what's occurring on the square. Apart from the odd dipso coach tripper, who has regretted signing up to the Shearing's Charity Shops of Barnstaple excursion and has taken themselves off for a quick pint, before heading back to 'Combe and the Dilkhusa Grand for supper, the place is often empty, especially at this time of year. I've heard it does tend to get busy at holiday times when the youngsters and students come home. Presently though, I always wonder how it manages to stay open. It obviously doesn't.
So there we were stood outside, arrows in hand wondering where to go next when Wes Twardo walked past with his son and daughter in law. Wes looked a bit sheepish, he'd been found out. He was supposed to be coming along to the darts practice but cried off saying he felt a bit poorly. Anyway he said he was going to Lilico's. Lilico's blimey! I tagged along. Why not seeing as I'd never been in the place. I never thought it was for us sort of old boys, those who don't quite brush up that well even at the best of times and who don't tend to stand on ceremony. Stokey and Charlie Street shuffled back up to the Marshals for a pint of Steradent as Wes's boy insisted that was all they served up there.
Tell you the truth turned out it not too bad in there, a young crowd but they all seemed very welcoming. As they don't sell draught cider I opted for a glass of San Miquel. Me and Wes took ourselves off and sat in the corner of the window and looked out on the Square. From what we could gather no one seemed to know what was going on at the GLT. Of course after a few pints of export continental lager Wes and I began to reminisce. We remembered that back in the day, when it was Mugford's Golden Lion Tap we used to go in there quite a bit for a pint of Devenish ale or a firkin of the unbranded cloudy cider poured from a gurt barrel propped up on the bar. This was before it was all opened out and refurbished in the 80's and the Mugford's name was dropped. I remember two small front bars one of which looked like someone's front room and a games room out back. There were other rooms as the place was a regular warren of locked rooms, store rooms and other vestibules. Upstairs they had a grand, mirrored, etched glass paneled meeting room. Looking back the place would have probably fared better if they'd stuck to the original design especially in these straightened times. While we were yacking on, I remembered Pearl the barmaid who had a heart of gold and had never quite forgotten the time years before when she was the apple of the eye of a few of the GI's based down at Raleigh Meadow. A local forces sweetheart was Pearl, the Rita Hayworth of Yeo Vale. She was always dressed up to the nines, garishly made up and I vividly recall her often modeling a luridly coloured floral jumpsuit.

The Satans Slaves - well known local hard nuts

Another couple of pints prompted us to remember the gleaming rows of motorbikes that would be lined up outside every Sunday afternoon as the pub became the meeting place for the local road rats. At the time I had a James 90 lovely old British bike but only a moped compared to the machines lined up on the pavement. All sorts of classic British bikes. At lunch closing time they would tear off up the A377 to Eggesford Forest where often as not they had a dust up with the Satan Slaves who rode up from Exeter to head them off. They would invariably retreat in the face of their much feared and infamous adversaries, turning back up in Barum in dribs and drabs throughout the afternoon. After parking their bikes up once more outside Mugford's and contenting themselves comparing machines, doing burn ups along the Strand or Taw Vale and recounting exaggerated tales of derrin' do from that afternoon's run down the Taw valley.
We watched all these comings and goings with increasing amusement from Divito's Ice Cream Parlour front window. It was then we realised why the aspect out upon which we were gawping looked so familiar we'd found ourselves that very evening sitting in that exact same spot. Lilico's is on the site of Divito's. Although apart from the view you wouldn't know it. I thought Divito's was where we sat, Wes thought it was on the other side by the bar.The current layout of the place is obviously the original one and at some point way back when someone divided the place into smaller premises, Divito's occupying one of them. But despite of us going outside and trying to figure out the exact location of DiVito's I said in one window he said the other and we also to pressed the staff into providing an answer but they looked at us as if we were crazed and maybe regretted letting us in the place, we just couldn't see eye to eye on the matter. I reckon I'm right. So as soon as possible I'm off down to the library to do a bit of research in one of the many books of old photos they have down there. Anyway we agreed to disagree and finished up the evening discussing an idea of writing a a book together on the history of Barnstaple as told through it's pubs or maybe something entitled, 'The Disappearing Pubs of Barum'. Now that is definitely something to look into.

A customer complaint.

2011-03-13T04:13:00.000-07:00

Nothing like making your point succinctly and directly. This message was posted on the wall outside the driver's office at the bus station. Obviously not too much book learning going on there or maybe they were just deliberately saving on spray paint. Fair 'nough.

Ghost riders on the No. 2 Bus. A mystery solved

2011-03-03T00:35:00.000-08:00

I was immediately drawn to a story in this weeks Journal concerning ghostly travelers on the No 2 bus which runs up to the hospital. Apparently, last week a driver picked up a couple of strange looking passengers outside of Green Lanes shopping centre before continuing on his way up to North Devon District Hospital. When he reached his destination he waited for the passengers to alight but no one got off. So, before setting off back down into town he checked the top deck and to his surprise he found no one there. The passengers had disappeared. He was rather spooked by this and a little concerned as he was aware that he had a duty of care to his passengers. So he parked up his bus and went off in search of his passengers but they were no where to be seen, they had seemingly evaporated into thin air. Back down at the bus station he related this occurrence to his colleagues and anyone who was prepared to listen but he was largely greeted by quasi scientific explanations or he got the impression that people just thought he was plain mazed

Ghosts photographed in Ashford church

I think I am able to shed a little light on the mystery, going by the descriptions I think the driver has come across the wandering spirits of Bet Lifton and her son Stanley, a couple of local lost souls. I am a little surprised that the driver had never come across these apparitions before, mind you he was from Combe Martin and they are normally to be encountered on the bus out to Chivenor where they usually get off or sometimes they will get the bus from Saunton to Croyde to avoid walking on the road, as that stretch can be treacherous at times especially during the Summer.
I guess the driver wasn't local as if he was he would have been able to cast his mind back a few years and remember the sad fate of the Lifton family. Old man Lifton just disappeared one Saturday lunchtime back in the early seventies. He went out for a pasty and never came back. The family were always a strange looking bunch, they dressed day in day out as if they were off to chapel sometime in 1947. Young Stanley wore shorts and a sports jacket when everyone else of his age wore Birmingham bags, he also had a severe highly brylcreamed short back asides when the fashion for young men at the time was to wear their hair long. There was another boy Gordon, a few years older than Stanley, who like his brother was always dressed up like a 1940's schoolboy, until that is the day his father disappeared. With Father apparently heading off on foot to Penzance to pick up his pasty Gordon decided to let his hair down, he discarded his sports jacket and bought an afghan coat and it wasn't long before he quite literally went off the rails. He'd developed a fondness for wacky backy and magic mushrooms he'd also fallen in love and was about to get married to a South Molton maid. The wedding day was set for the Saturday of the Carnival sometime in September and to celebrate his last night of bachelorhood Stanley decided to have his stag party in the Golden Fleece by the cattle market which stayed open all day. After an early start where the pints of farm cider flowed freely the party decided to go over to the fair where the merry pranksters as they labelled themselves remained for a couple hours eyeing up the fair girls, playing the one armed bandits and drunkenly angling ducks in order to get a goldfish for a wedding present. Failing miserably at this endeavour the general opinion was to return to the pub as soon as possible in order to get in for the lock-in. So they hurriedly made their way back over the bridge that is everyone apart from Gordon who for reasons best known to himself decided to cross the river via the old railway bridge however, halfway across the track and timbers gave way and he fell into the wild river and at that time of the year there is always due to spring tides a strong current poor old Gordon obviously dragged down by the sodden Afghan coat was sucked into a brackish tidal vortex and swept out to sea. Tragically, in spite of an extensive search over the next few days his body was never found. Mrs Lifton vowed to never give up the search for her lost son and for years she would walk the shoreline between Barum and Crow Point, then crossing Saunton Sands and over to Baggy point where they would stand forlornly looking down into the waters. They looked quite a sight dressed as she was and carrying a bunch of carnations which she'd bought in readiness for the wedding. She had vowed never to rest until she was able to pin a buttonhole on her sons body. Back then people were used to the sight of them crossing the beach Stanley tagging on behind. Mother Lifton would never say a word just smile enigmatically Stanley although a a little touched was quite a jolly chap and he would always stop for a word or explain what was going on but he soon shut up when Mother admonished him with a stern glance. They were on a mission. No time to stop yapping.

Scene of tragedy

A few years back, must be twenty five years ago at least, I was back in Town just off the dredgers and I passed them in the street as I was heading to the Marshals. I stopped to ask after their health and to see how things were going with Stanley but they just looked right through me. I deduced that things were not going too well as their clothes although the same as before were looking rather threadbare and they looked a little dusty and spattered in what looked like seagull's shit even though at he best of times their complexions were pale they were translucent now. Strangely the bunch of carnations looked as if they had just been bought from Ridd's the florist that very morning. At the time I just shrugged it off, nothing odd in odd folk getting odder.
Anyway I get inside the Marshals and soon settle down to a good old session with the usual suspects. At some point I just mentioned casually that I'd seen Bet and Stanley on my way in and I was greeted by a deathly hush, you could here a beermat drop. Stokey then told me the news. A few weeks back Bet had thrown herself from Baggy point taking young Stanley with her. She could bare the grief no more and had obviously decided to end it all in the hope of joining Gordon if not in heaven then in the depths of Barnstaple Bay. I was gobsmacked I'd just seen them, looking a bit under the weather admittedly, they were there outside Yendells as plain as day. Oh no they weren't said Stokey. The next morning I went down to the library and checked in a back copy of the Journal and there in detail the whole sad tale was recounted. Bleddy hell, I must have seen a ghost, two ghosts to be exact!
From that day to this I quite often see them abroad and to tell you the truth I don't really give it much thought. They must be condemned to wandering in perpetuity, vainly seeking the lost soul of their dearly departed Gordon. Living as I do on the edge of the Tarka Trail they will often pass me by. I always go out of my way to say a "cheers then". but they just pass me by as they continue along the shore on their eternal spectral quest.
So I'm off down to the bus station directly to have a quick word with the First Bus manager before he does something daft like call in Father Toffolo from the Catholic church across the way to perform an exorcism. They were Chapel folk anyway so it wouldn't be appreciated theologically and anyway I say leave 'em be as they are our ghosts and we are quite happy with them. All they did was get on the wrong bus. Anyone can get in a muddle do that from time to time.

Local man buys clock off of e-bay

2011-02-27T07:24:00.000-08:00

I was rather puzzled as to the nature of an article in this week's Gazette concerning Philip Milton's purchase of a big clock. The well known local independant (sic) financial adviser, failed Tory candidate, purveyor of Christian texts and all round local character, has bought a large clock off of e- bay. Apparently, Mr Milton considers this to be newsworthy as does the Gazette who promptly despatched a photographer out to Trimstone manor to snatch a portrait of Mr Milton with his newly acquired timepiece and I must say very nice it looks too if a little bit kitsch for my liking. To be fair the story does have a kernel of local interest as the face of the clock has Barnstaple written on it and according to Mr Milton it was made in Barnstaple by a local clockmaker some 200 years ago. He explains that when he saw it on e-bay he knew he just had to bid for it in order to restore it to it's rightful place back in here North Devon and I am glad to report that, in spite of the rather heated bidding war that ensued, he emerged victorious and was subsequently the proud owner of a unique piece of Devonian horological history.
Trouble was now Mr Milton had to arrange to pick up his purchase as the vendor refused to meet the shipping costs and so eager was he to gather it into his possession he decided to go and pick it up himself. So he describes how he set off first thing the following morning on an intrepid journey over Dartmoor all the way down to the town of Ivybridge. Yep Ivybridge, Devon, that town located between Plymouth and Exeter, just off the A38 which must be all of 60 miles away. Now I can see there being some interest in such a jaunt if the clock was retrieved from some crumbling colonial bungalow in Pondicherry, India or rotting in the corner of a municipal office in Port Moresby but a town in the South Hams, come off it! So, let me get this right, a clock that was made in North Devon or probably more accurately sold in North Devon turns up 200 years later in ... South Devon bleddy incredible that is.
I was wondering if the Gazette would be interested in a story about me and my sideboard. My Mother bought it a few years ago now from Devon Pine, when they were up at Roundswell, but after a few months she went off it as didn't quite fit in with the Welsh dresser, so she offered it to my uncle down at Ilfracombe, who was glad to have it. However, about ten years ago now he had to leave Combe in a rather clandestine manner and much to Mother's consternation he took the sideboard with him. Last summer Uncle eventually returns to Barum, after spending a few years keeping a low profile in Scotland, with the said sideboard strapped to the roof of his car. Although mother was pleased to have it back she still couldn't make up her mind about it, so for the time being I have in my parlour. So like Mr Milton I am also the proud possessor of a piece of North Devonian craft work that has been restored to it's place of origin
As a footnote I would just add that I also have a couple of painted plaster donkeys with Clovelly written on them and a shell mouse with a real leather tail stuck on a varnished pebble that has Lynmouth etched on it. So if anyone else in the area is interested in collecting some authentic local handicraft then I feel obliged to let you know they'll be up on e-bay later. Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee that I'll be able to ensure that these pieces stay in North Devon, but should anyone feel moved to keep them housed locally in a private collection or gallery then I will put a "buy it now" option on them.

I have to say though that it was only few weeks back when Mr Milton was in the Journal this time with some rather mildewy documents that he'd found concerning a lost inheritance. Once again this one left us all scratching our heads in the Marshals. What's he bleddy on about? What's so special in that? We thought, as each and every one of us could lay our hands on our own mouldy documents detailing lost inheritances, Great Granfer's farm sold for a pittance, tracts of land lost in the Devonian hinterland to family feuds, wheeler dealers and bad investments.

Camper Van Tales...... Part 1

2011-02-23T03:16:00.000-08:00

The camper van man

Over a few pints in the Corner House the other afternoon the conversation unlikely as it may sound for that time of day took an interesting turn as someone, I think it was Stokey, happened to mention this chap and his camper van who has been on BBC2 of an evening. I have to say that the assembled company had very little positive to say about the bloke. Lots of guarded mutterings and mumblings. I was very interested as I have a Toyota Hiace van which although it needs a bit of work done on it I hope to get back on the road this summer. Apparently he has written a book about camper van cooking, thinking about it now I do recall reading something similar like in the Journal a while back, and on the back of that someone decided to give him his very own TV programme. From what I could gather he lives out Hartland way down towards Cornwall somewhere and he claims to devote his life to surfing, tinkering with a fleet of VW vans and dreaming up recipes to enjoy if you're out and about in a camper van. I hadn't managed to catch the programme but my interest was certainly pricked by Annie Cawoods slurred interjection during the discussion that it was just another example what she called lifestyle porn. Lifestyle porn? Until then I'd never heard of such a thing and old Annie herself didn't seem to know where such a notion had come from and she seemed genuinely stunned by her own ready analysis.One things for certain I don't reckon she came across such a high blown concept in the Western Morning News or those back copies of the Exmoor Magazine and Devon Life that she carries about in one of her bleddy laundry bags

My Hiace. Back on the road in no time.

Anyway after the tone of the conversation descended to a rather base level "lifestyle f*******r" is what old Stokey decided to term him and his ilk and he seemed very pleased with this piece of razor sharp wit that by the time I left he was just slumped in the corner contenting himself by burbling it over and over again and cackling.
When I got back down here to Ashford Strand I stuck in the dongle to take a look for myself on Iplayer. Turns out that the fella is called Martin Dorey and from the episode that I saw, where he went off with his mates down to Bucks Mills or thereabouts, he seems like a jolly sort of chap. I fast came to the conclusion that he was an amiable prat. Although I don't reckon he is the most charismatic of TV presenters, Matt Baker he ain't! He made a fair fist of it. All I can say that it was a bloody good job that he had a film crew with him to fetch and carry as if his attempts to catch and cook a fish supper were anything to go by he would have starved if such a pattern of general ineptness had continued throughout his jaunt around the UK. He caught bugger all, Dan the fisherman, another media friendly figure, down at Clovelly caught him an inedible fish and then to cap it all his stove was washed away by the tide. Still it was beautiful scenery. The star of the show was without a doubt the North Devonian / Cornish coastline. I must say it really is a beautiful part of the world down that way, specially on a summers evening with the sun setting over the ocean in a gigantic western sky. The light and evening shades must surely give the Northern Lights a run for their money any day of the week. It got me longing to get down to Welcombe meself and hole up in the old caravan for a few days. Ah won't be long now as the evenings are drawing out and the daffs are coming into bloom. It was at this point that I began to understand what Annie was going on about. I guess there are thousands and thousands of people out there who aspire to live this kind of live but lack the means to be able to do it, apart from a couple of times a year. So in order to satisfy their yearning they seek gratification in purchasing outdoor equipment and devouring these kind of telly programmes, longing for the day when they too can live the dream. Of course that's all it is a dream mark my words it won't seem so bloody lovely when you're stuck out isolated out at Hartland, on a wet and windy Wednesday in November. It's Straw Dogs territory out there and all. Lifestyle porn, the penny dropped. Still he seems like a nice enough bloke turns out one of me brother in law's boys knows him and has nothing but praise for his surfing skills
After I skipped through a few more episodes I can confirm that Mr Dorey maintained his enthusiasm throughout but did little to improve his hunting and gathering skills and in the end to cap it all the bleddy van broke down, so it had to be driven back down here on the back of a truck. This left me scratching my head. How does a bloke who professes to live a life devoted to surfing and vanning off the A39 somewhere manage to get himself a TV programme. I had my suspicions and all I can say is they were, after a little light googling, soon confirmed. Turns out a few years back in London he was a big noise in the advertising industry. Apparently he created the Wrigley's adverts at the start of a soap opera called Hollyoaks, what ever that is. The bugger is a fully paid up member of the mediaocracy.
All this put my mind to wondering how far I would get in the world of the media with my own camper van tales?

Glastonbury 1976

Back in the seventies I spent quite a bit of time in and out of VW vans. Loads of people in the area had them as they were very practical. In a VW van, not necessarily, a camper, you could fit a few bales in it, bags of feed and even from time to time a couple of sheep. For that very reason shepherds tended to use them. They were also good runners and once you managed to get at the engine quite easy to maintain. Mind you the bodywork would crumble away after a while as, rather ironically, they hate salt air. Wes Twardo ran a succession of them for years and I remember fondly one evening going out to a dance at Alverdiscott where we ended up pushing one of the buggers most of the way out there and back again. On the smaller hills we had to climb out walk up to the top behind it, push it over the brow and then jump back in again before freewheeling down the other side juddering as Wes tried to get the motor running all the while belching out sooty little clouds of exhaust. It wasn't too long before he went down to Croyde Motors and traded it in for a more reliable model. This was the time when I'd just come out of the merchant marine, the glorious summer of 76, so I was looking at ways to supplement savings. Someone, I think it was Stokey, who has always had a keen eye for business suggested a practical venture whereby we we all piled into the van and headed off to South Molton to Hancocks where with pooled cash from assorted giros and money made from hay baling we bought as many flagons of cider as we could afford. We then hit the open road, heading off up the A303 to Stonehenge, where after paying off the Hells Angels, Ivor's brother put a word in with 'em, we sold our cargo to the hippies and bikers. Where, after certain 'overheads' were taken into account we turned a healthy profit. As a bonus we had a rare old time up there on Salisbury Plain I spent most of the days ogling the dancer from Hawkwind. I haven't seen anything quite the like before or since and I was a man of the world! Besotted I was, still am. We then headed to Thatchers at Sanford to pick up some more juice and then stopped in at Pilton, Worthy Farm or Glastonbury as they call it now of course back then it was just a few marquees in a muddy field full of cows and a stage set up on a flatbed tractor trailer and some beer crates. Here we managed to offload a few more gallons and then back home via Sammy Inch's where we invested in more cider. During the final stages of this particular journey which came to be known as the cider triangle the new van turned out to be as much of a death trap crate as the previous one, I clearly recall pushing the bugger up through Bampton, then Currry Rivel and as we were coming into South Molton the brakes couldn't take the load and we ended up slightly losing control, careering into the Quinces honey farm sign. We tried to make a quick get away but the van started rolling back down the hill slowly squeaking to a halt in front a rather irate honey farmer. We had to pay him off with some cider and a load of jam jars which we were going to use as glasses.
Back here in North Devon we then spent the best part of that halcyon summer motoring around asssorted campsites and coatstal car parks selling cider to the surfers. Of course back then the surfers were a different breed to Martin Dorye and his mates, mostly they were bleddy mad, wall eyed crazies rather unwholesome types, bikers, nascent punks, post hippy speed freaks, Aussie 'lifeguards' and South African draft dodgers. Often as not, as they repaired and shaped their own boards, they'd be off there heads on noxious resins. They were a devil may care outlaw community far more righteous than today's surfer types many of whom are more than likely to be middle management sorts from Godalming. I call this latter group floaters as they just bob up and down all day long and don't catch any sort of wave or are dislodged by the strongest rip. Bloody posers. We spent the summer all squashed in the van sharing a busted up 7 ft bermuda board and a briney damp piss smelling wet suit. Oh happy days.

Gala day in North Devon

2011-02-10T13:28:00.000-08:00

It transpires that due to lack of sponsorship we may not be having the Carnival this year but who really cares about that. I do but not many others it would seem. The fact of the matter is to go by the perceptible thrum of eager expectation the folk of Barum would rather celebrate the opening of the new Tesco's. Not being one to let such things pass I thought I'd drum up a pretence to go along and take a look. The pretence came along in the shape of a mini-bus load of ladies from the depths of the Taw Valley who always need someone to cart about their shopping when they hit the streets of town every second Thursday of the month. True enough, as soon as you walk in the door it does make you feel as if you are not in North Devon which to my mind for half the shoppers isn't a problem as the brummie accent seems to be rather prevalent. I know I have complained about it before but I do say now it does tend to give Barum a bit more of a livelier and brighter aspect, especially when you come in on the train. The area was beginning to look a bit sore on the old eyes. Of course I have a family connection with what was once the old coal yard sidings so much so that I said to a few of the old dears as we were passing along the fresh produce aisle that it was funny to think that a part of the store was actually built over what was my Great Granfers bean rows. Having been there today I do think that Barnstaple Town centre will survive as for one thing John Patt's onions and peppers are cheaper as is Mr Withycombe's beef.
Let Tesco's sponsor the Carnival! All in all I'd be happy with that.

Slightly dodgy for the slightly unaware folk

However, I do feel obliged to add one slight note of caution. The travelator. To my mind Barum is not quite ready for this particular mode of conveyance as we have only just got used to the conventional escalators in BHS and Marks. My Auntie Gertie, who'd come along from the ladies from the Lapford Lunch Club got whisked up the top where she got all in a tizz and she couldn't face going back down again. So, Trevor Tucker the van driver had to find Mr Pugh the shop manager to see what could be done. Mr Pugh explained to him him that this was not a one off situation and dear old Gertie was not alone, as since the store has been opened, three days now I think that is, there have been so many minor injuries and subsequently because of concurrent insurance claims Tescos actually is having to consider the economic viability of keeping the store open in it's present form. Mr Pugh was happy enough to take Gertie down in the goods lift and he assured us all that for the time being, at the very least, they are going to make a hazard warning announcement advising that all heavily laden, slightly dodgy on their feet persons over 25 should make a risk assessment before embarking on the slide up to the cafeteria and on to the flat screen telly area. Mr Pugh did say that should you ring the bell by the fag counter he or a member of his staff would happily take you to the next level. He also gave us a couple of complimentary Mile's new blend teabags in mini tea caddies to be going on with by way of recompense and we were all very happy with that. Lovely bloke.

Cultural highlight......

2011-02-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

True grit next Tuesday

2011-02-07T05:03:00.001-08:00

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