Buzzard trapping plan abandoned

Buzzard trapping plan abandoned

Good. I don't see that the killing of young pheasants which are being wholly bred to be shot for sport warrants a cull of these wonderful creatures. It certainly doesn't present a clear problem for me and I've bagged a pheasant or two in me time. Bleddy Countryside Alliance, bunch of embittered, small minded landowners, chinless in-bred throwbacks, snobs and quasi 'country folk' and their demented, forelock tugging, lackeys and deluded supporters.

Don't like 'em. Long live the Buzzard.

Entente Cordiale - Hands across the Ocean. Part 1

Well not so much the Ocean the crossing between Plymouth and Roscoff, the English Channel or La Manche as I learned that the French call it. I have to say it was a smashing crossing, nothing like I remember it in the past. They seem to have found a way of reducing the vibration and the stench of diesel fuel which in turn leads to a reduction in puking. Not that that bothered me as I've got me sea legs. However, t doesn't make for a pleasant trip. These days the ferries are like a floating Weatherspoons except you can buy Toblerone and you get a very talented cabaret act laid on. During the crossing or cruise as Brittany Ferries call it I was able to brush up on me French. "Je Voudrais un Magners" The fella seemed to understand me. I also fell in with a lovely couple who were off on a tour of Britttany in their camper van. I told them about Devon's historic links with Britanny, how the Anglo Saxon invader had driven my ancestors across the water to settle in France and went on to the torpedo boat raids of WW2 and my experiences of dredging the harbour at L'Orient. They were very interested.
At Roscoff I met up with Piers of Tarka Taw Film and Video Services who was waiting for me at the Gare Maritime. He'd been staying at his parent's chateau which was nearby.  Piers got in a bit of a huff when he saw the state of me and bundled me swiftly into the back of the Renault Space wagon and off we went on our long drive all the way down to the French Basque country, the Pays Basque. Here we were going to liaise with a bloke called Jean Michel Mendieta, a Basque sheep farmer, cheesemaker and cider connoisseur  he people at TTF&VS have an idea for a programme called 'Farmer Swap" and they wanted to get it into development asap. The idea is that agriculturally minded people go and stay on each others farms, small holdings and compare notes on their lives, work and lend a hand about the place. Although, I'm not a farmer I am the closest thing they know to one and being their Mr Fixit in the Barnstaple area they thought I should be able to wing it.
Blimey it was a long journey. It took us all day. France it turns out from top to bottom is a bleddy big country and when you're on the motorway it just goes on and on and on. The thing that stuck in my mind was how flat it was down that west side. I was hoping to see chateaus, river valleys and vineyards. Nought just tarmac and ill looking spindly trees. Fortunately, I had some travel sickness tablets which I took with a couple of beers at a service station and bingo I knocked meself out for the last 300km. I don't think I missed much. I came to as we were driving along a twisty road that was winding through a valley with mountains up ahead, the evening sun was setting and we were surrounded by green fields dotted with red tiled, white walled farmhouses. There was snow still on the mountain tops and the shadows cast upon the rocks beneath all made for a spectacular vista.
In only a matter of minutes we were turning down a farm track and soon pulled up outside a tumble down farm house one side of which had completely collapsed but the other side look perfectly habitable. Pier commented that it was called French rural chic, I just thought it looked like Badger Bovey's place out at Chittlehamholt. Even more so when I spied the old caravan in adjoining hay barn. This it turned out was my lodgings as Piers had wangled the spare room with it's lovely mountain views, and rather comfy looking iron framed bed, writing table and en-suite shower.
From the start Jean Michel and his wife Claudette were very welcoming. No sooner had we unpacked the van we were shunted out onto the veranda with it's commanding views over an extensive meadow with the Pyrenees providing a backdrop in the distance. A vase of water was placed in the middle of the table and a bottle of pastis was opened. The Mendietas didn't speak any English and my French is basic but with gestures smiles, shrugs and a few Ouis and yesses we got by. Piers who is fluent in French translated when he could be bothered. After a few aperitifs we sat down to dinner and Claudette served up a smashing vegetable gratin made with stuff they had grown themselves. We were joined at the table by their two farm hands Clement a gruff old boy who muttered and spluttered his way through his supper and looked like he wasn't scared of hard work and a young bloke called Maxim,  a white rastafarian! He was a friend of the family who'd come down from Paris to get away from something unspoken. Maxim spoke English very well albeit with an accent which made him sound like a French Bob Marley. Everything was cool, everything. He looked like he'd never done a days work in his life but as was later proven, appearances can be deceptive and he worked like a Trojan.
It was a smashing evening. Everyone around the table eating and drinking together. No telly, it put me in mind of us all at Granfer Eddy's place up at West Down in the sixties. Very civillised.

From Mount Olympus to Ashford Strand

Well that was a bit of a flash in the pan. The Olympic torch zoomed past me at about 50mph in a bleddy van! What's going on there I thought to myself as I stood at the new bus stop down at West Ashford. (Thank you Devon County Council after years of petitioning they have eventually given us our very own  stop. People power) I was under the impression that the torch relay was just that, a linked run around the country for some 8000 miles, 8000 people running a mile each.

No one told me that they'd be on and off a fleet of coaches for the best part of the jaunt. To my mind that's a bit of a cop out, not really part of the Olympian spirit is it. Mind you, I reckon they should run all the way from Greece these days they'd probably have no shortage of volunteers at the Hellenic end. So there I was, standing beside of the road with me Devon flag, excitement building as I could hear approaching sirens, moments later a phalanx of police motorbike outriders hove into view, closely followed by a Coca Cola truck blasting out rap music, a Lloyds bank bus with scantily clad ladies clinging onto a platform on the back and for some reason a lorry with a screen on the side with Samsung written on it. Then a couple of coaches decked out in London Olympic badges and stickers thundered past pursued by a Metropolitan police van filled with rather sinister looking coppers dressed in black combat gear and military style helmets. A smaller van followed up, this I later learned was the flame transporter. So, I suppose at a stretch, I could say I'd seen it. Seconds later they'd all disappeared around the corner by the Braunton Inn and that was that. I must admit it was an unusual sight to behold along Ashford Strand on a Monday morning.
A bit mazed and confused I called up Annie Cawood and told her what had occurred it was she who told me about the peculiar logistics behind the relay. Daft that's all I can say. We arranged to meet later in The Marshals as a few of the Lunch Club had decided on such an illustrious occasion to convene an extraordinary meeting.
I suppose I should have looked a bit more closely at the itinerary but I wasn't exactly feeling at my best yesterday and this morning. I had a two day hangover due to having spent Saturday up at Exeter  down at the Devon County Show as a guest of Taw Tarka Film and Video Services. Over the course of the afternoon I fell in with some Canadian Mounties, who have proved to be a real crowd puller this year, and after a few pints of Barum I got to explaining North Devon's link with St John's Newfoundland the beaver trade and the cod fisheries. They were all very interested one of them even claimed to have roots in Barum. Shapland was his name!
So basically the idea of a couple of pints appealed and I'd already felt as if I'd missed out on something special so I got on me bike and pedaled into Town an see what was going on.
They were all in The Marshals. Charlie Street, Ian Stokey, Wes Twardo, Ken Tisbury and old Annie Cawood and all. Blimey they weren't half jabbering on, high on the occasion and evidently a few pints of cider and orange. I was soon up to speed with the morning's events. The flame had gone out for the first time in Torrrington, the stilt walker had fallen over on the Strand and Frankie Biederman's trousers had fallen down during his stint with the torch. True.
I told them about my misunderstanding and I think I managed to convince them of the validity of my torch relay experience and we agreed they probably appreciated my support as I stood alone waving me flag on a rather barren stretch of road. Annie, whose from out that way, pointed out that I saw more of it than the people of South Molton as the town had been completely by-passed by the procession. Mind you that was probably for the best, as the sight of the flame may regretfully have given some it's citizens half a mind to burn a witch or two.
As we were talking BBC Spotlight came on the TV and we all watched the happenings on the big screen. At that time the torch was limping through 'Combe. Until that is along the High Street, just before they got to Oxford Grove, the flame was passed over to well known local Christian and ex-triple jumper Jonathan Edwards. We agreed that this was a canny move on the part of the organisers as to be better safe than sorry they'd got someone who could run fast if required. It was amazing that going passed McColl's some scally didn't skulk up to him to ask if he had a light and any change so that they could get a bus into Barnstaple to visit a 'friend' in hospital.
The last we saw of the relay was a long shot along Combe Martin High Street framed within a view out to sea, there were crowds and crowds the and the sun was shining brightly. Smashing. It gave me goosebumps. Ah Devon.

Diners left mixed-up as scrambled eggs off menu

I’ve been abroad for a bit, first time in years so I’ve missed out on whats been going on in recent weeks. As soon as I got back to Barum I gave Anne Cawood a call to see if she could bring round the Journals that I have missed all the time I’ve been away. Blimey, there’s been plenty going on and I feel as if I’ve been missing out on a quite a bit. Turns out, I have a lot of catching up to do.

I couldn’t help noticing this story as I have had a similar experience myself up there at Sainsbury’s  cafe. I feel there is a lesson to be learned somewhere in this story.

A bloke called Danny Wooliams, a local estate agent, was amazed when staff at the cafe refused to cook him and his lady friend scrambled eggs. Oddly, they told him that the scrambled eggs hadn’t been delivered that day but they would happy to do him a fried one. Young Danny by this stage was beside himself as it turns out it was his friends birthday and he wanted to treat her to a Full English. Now, myself I like an egg on egg breakfast and last week when I was staying in a hotel in Orthez France mind you I got a few queer looks when I went along the breakfast buffet and asked for fried, scrambled and poached eggs all in one bagette but the French fella seemed happy to dish it up. I suppose France is a country known for it’s cooking. Lovely. Anyway, Danny was so perturbed by this state of affairs that he went to seek out the store manager, he was hungry, disappointed and desperately wanted answers. The manager explained that the egg powder for scrambling had not been delivered that morning. At this point Danny’s suspicions had been confirmed. Sainsbury’s use powdered egg for their scrambled dish. The manager went on to explain that bizarrely they don’t have chefs up there, they only have cooks whose culinary skills only extend to heating things up. Danny was bemused by this and rather predictably he puts it all down to health and safety concerns, nothing to do with the fact that he is actually in a sandwich bar next to a supermarket and not down at the rather fine breakfast buffet in the Royal and Fortescue Hotel.

So there it is, the lesson to be learned. If you actually want a cooked breakfast patronise an establishment that actually cooks one. The Fortescue’s breakfast while bleddy lovely is a little on the steep side and also you have to dress up a bit when you go in there. I’ve been turned away by the liveried doorman several times when I’ve turned up in my waders. No for me it’s the Market Cafe all day breakfast which tickles my fancy. Very good value all served in convivial surroundings. Also upon request they’ll be more than happy to do you you an egg on egg platter.