Local man buys clock off of e-bay

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

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

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......

True grit next Tuesday

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Into the woods to defend our ancient liberties

Hands Of Our Forests or HOOF

I have been muttering on about this for  a few weeks now and no one seemed to be paying me much attention. However after watching Countryfile the other evening where the pitfalls of this particular area of govenment policy were clarified in a report entitled Craven Investigates, fronted by John Craven himself,  I am upping the auntie. I have been inspired to take matters further and to actively campaign to oppose this policy. Judging by Mr Craven's report it turns out I am not alone and my consternation, which was soon whipped up into a tumult of anger by the fiery rhetoric of Mr Craven, is shared by a good fair few. I have decided that this is to be my particular redoubt of opposition and I am going to make a stand. It's the last straw. Even though in the great scheme of things it may appear to be a relatively small cut back and with all the assurances of leases and the rather specious notion of community groups and charities running their local woods or soft soaping as I call it, a fairly inconsequential one. I don't see it like this. 
Like many of these smaller current cuts, the closing of  libraries, the cuts in air sea rescue flights, the coastgaurd service and here in Devon the latest cuts in funding to Women's Aid refuges it can be seen as being rather snidey and asocial. A policy more than likely dreamt up by some hideously zealous myopic cave dwelling monetarist mandarin.
Of course the Government members themselves are not going to be gravely put out by such proposals as obviously they come the classes that would generally benefit from such a sell off. If they aren't from the aristocracy or landed gentry themselves then they are more than likely closely related to 'em and  would have no problem guaranteeing their own access to the countryside as they own great bleddy swathes of it or have chums that do.
As of now I shall no longer be doffing my cap or tugging my forelock. To the woods!

Should you be a fellow traveler you'll find all you need to know in these places.

http://www.woodlandtrust.org.uk/en/campaigning/save-ancient-forests/Pages/fc-disposals-act-now.aspx?WT.mc_id=fc

http://www.theforester.co.uk/news.cfm?id=37724

Also, rather ironically the United Nations have declared this year 2011 to be the year of the forest!

http://www.un.org/en/events/iyof2011/index.shtml

What Countryfile failed to point out and which serves as as a corollary to this situation is that with all the cuts in local government public rights of way stand to be further compromised by a council's lack of funds to be able to ensure the up keep of footpaths and the compliance of landowners to the legal guarantees of public access. In recent years Devon County Council has keenly implemented a policy of redefining footpaths, legally persuing landowners who fail to recognise or impede public rights of way and they have spent a great deal of time and money reinstigating and improving the paths. I fear that all these good works will be undone in the near future as whily landowners will seize the chance to put up fences on disputed land, surreptitiously disguise signage and disregard the right to roam.
The other afternoon me and the old boy walked across the fields from Asford to Bradiford in order to have a couple of pints in the Windsor. A few years ago you would not have been able to do this without coming across a bog, chaotic fencing or having to walk along the road. Now we were rather amazed to see that the council have put duckboards across the boggy bits, put up new stiles and someone has taken down the fencing that last time I went up there surrounded that most famous Barum landmarks Triumphal Arch. Now you can walk over the top of the hill, through the arch and along the path to Bradiford no problem. This has opened up a whole new aspect to the area and puts another drinking establishment at our disposal so we are no longer stuck with the Tarka Inn or the trek over to the Ring 'o Bells, I hate to say it but, mark my words, in the near future such usage of an ancient byway may not be as enjoyable or as practicable to negotiate.