Monday 6 th July.

Yet another packing up to do, another sad case of; “Goodbye for a couple of years”, and more feelings that we should have allowed more time here. It was getting a (bad) habit.  But, just before we left, only just too, our mate Rob turns up to see us, which was great. Unfortunately Linda, his lovely spouse, was otherwise engaged. Rob told us a tale, which I’m sure he won’t mind me repeating here.

Rob was on a job, he’s a sparky by trade, and wanted to get it certified. Due to circumstances beyond his control this meant getting an independent certifier in. So he rang the regulatory people, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, as is always the case when you ring these sorts of people. After a bloody long wait, a guy answers, and Rob explains the situation to him. “That’s no problem,” says the guy, “I just need to get your details. Your name?” Rob replies; “Robin Snashall,” and the phone goes dead. Rob, naturally was cursing at this, as it had taken an age to get through. Then the voice comes back on the line;

“Did you say “Robin Snashall?”

“Yes.”

“Were you in the navy?”

“Yes.”

“You may remember me, my name’s Mike Clarke*, we signed up together and spent the next two years on the same ships.”

Rob was gobsmacked, this was a guy who he’d spent some of his formative years with, they had both signed up for the navy at the same time, and become good mates, yet due to circumstance hadn’t spoken in the 45 years since they left the navy. So they swapped details and are now back in regular touch.

But it doesn’t end there…

Rob naturally was telling this tale of amazing coincidence to all and sundry, as you do. One of the last people to hear the tale was our good friend Howard. So Rob relates this tale of amazing coincidence to Howard, and Howard says; “Oh, I know him too.”

Now every one who knows Howard will tell you that, absolute darling of a bloke that he is, he is a little bonkers. Ok, a lot. So naturally Rob treated this news with, shall we say, a little scepticism. “So you are telling me that you know this bloke, a bloke who I knew 45 years ago, one who I’d lost touch with, and only managed to get back in touch with due to sheer coincidence Howard?” “Did he used to live on such and such a road in Salford?” asks Howard. “Ermmm Yes,” replies a startled Rob. “I used to live in the same street as him. I haven’t seen him since he left home to join the navy. We went to school together for years.”

And so the three of them are now back in touch.

*I cannot remember the name of the guy, this will suffice for now.

 

After this tale, and saying goodbyes to all, we drove down to the house for Lee-Anne and Bethy to remember what it looked like. Aidan was about, so the girls got the guided tour of his architectural masterpiece, we said our goodbyes to him to.

We drove into Penzance, looking for my old neighbour’s Kelvin and Claire’s bookshop. We found it with surprisingly little trouble, it’s gone up in the world, and now occupies premises on the renowned Chapel street. Luckily we caught Claire there before she could escape, two more minutes and she’d have been gone. Another catch up, abet brief, and more goodbyes. Great to see the pair of them though, if only for a short while. (K&C, you can come and visit us now Holly and Ben have moved out!)

We picked up some pastys from a local pasty shop, unfortunately these turned out to be too salty. What is it with Penzance and salty pastys? This is the second time we’d been let down buying pastys in Penzance, if they aren’t careful I’ll boycott them.

I had another nostalgic drive down the old A 39 between Penzance and Plymouth, this used to be my dream run (only in the other direction.) It used to be the road to our favourite climbing place, when leaving from Devon. I would have waxed nostalgic to Lee-Anne and Bethy about all the places, the memories, the days of yore I’d had on this road. But they were asleep, catching flies mouths wide open, so I just quietly gibbered to myself.

We got into Plymouth and eventually found somewhere to park in the Barbican. The place has been developed out of all recognition since we were there last, thank god for Sean! We went and had a cuppa at Capt’n Jaspers, which is thankfully still going. Then we went to see what was happening with Robert Leinkovich’s studio. Not a lot was the answer to that, and his mural is in a shocking state. For shame o Plymouth council for allowing it to deteriorate so.

Having sated ourselves on Plymouth (not rally I could have spent a week there) we drove on. We set Sean to take us to Mark and Jenny’s place in Ugborough. I only needed it to get us out of Plymouth, but the other two insisted on having it the whole way. We had got into the countryside outside of Ivybridge and were at a crossroads, in the middle of nowhere, with nary a house to be seen for miles, when Sean tells us; “You have reached your destination.” Huh? We were in bloody pixie land you half witted Irish automaton!

We found the village, and M&J’s place not long after. A warm welcome was awaiting us, and over a bottle or two of wine, and the hommity pie I’d been predicting we’d be having since we left Sennen, we all caught up. (This is what I have come to define as “THE” hommity pie, no one else’s comes close.)

Lots of tales to tell, and one sad one unfortunately. Aapparently Spike, one of M&J’s twin cats was missing, presumed dead. Shame.

One amazing piece of news Mark had for us  was; “Clarkie phoned us yesterday. He’s flying back from Luxembourg to Ireland with his family, then flying back here to come and see you. He arrives tomorrow night at 2.00 am.”

Could the great gormless twat really be that daft?

We stayed up gassing with M&J until late, much good chat and catching up on our Devon friends and their exploits was enjoyed. Ok, late as in 11.00 pm, which was late enough for us.

Tuesday July 7^th.

After a lie in, and with Mark and Jenny having gone to work, we drove into Ivybridge to pick up some bits and bobs. Lovely little town Ivybridge, just the right size to have all you could need. We crossed a bridge in the town, and noticed the Dart was in full spate. Lovely river the Dart, a proper English babbling brook, and hanging over the bridge I got that old; “I could stay here forever” feeling which I get whenever I’m back in Devon.

We did some shopping at the local supermarket, as we had agreed to cook the evening meal for us all. Gluttons for punishment some people. The girls decided to have a day of dossing in front of the TV, so I left them to it.

I drove out through South Brent and Didsworthy, and onto the moors. God it was great to be back. Lost again, but back. I soon found a sign for Princetown, and followed that. As soon as I orientated myself I decided to go over to the impressive outcrop which is Vixen tor. Well almost all the way there, as a rancid piece of sheep shit by the name of Mrs Alford has blocked public access to it.

Although Vixen Tor, nicknamed by some as the “Sphinx of Dartmoor”, is private land, access was allowed by its previous owner for more than 30 years. However, when the land was bought by Mrs Alford, she closed the tor, claiming her insurers said she could be liable if anyone was injured while walking or climbing. When Vixen Tor was included on official maps showing areas open to the public under Right to Roam laws, it was contested by Mrs Alford. The Dartmoor Preservation Association says no one person should have absolute ownership of moorland.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/devon/4202855.stm

I knew this to be the case, I just wanted to leap over her barbed wire fence and shout obscenities at the top of my voice. So I did. If more people did this, she may have a change of heart about public access. So next time you are in the area, please do as I did.

I won’t tell you what I shouted, just think of a string of the worse words you know, and intersperse them with “Mrs Alford.” Though obviously my use of the vernacular would be more foul and better strung together than yours, as I’m an expert at this sort of thing, and a thoroughly disreputable human being. Feeling fully vented, I made off, luckily without any shotgun pellets in me.

The light was, yet again, as flat as a witch’s tit, so no great photographs.

At Merrivale I came across some recently sheared sheep, which had been sprayed pink. They were stood outside the pub there, so I took a photo of them, and I’ve called it; “Dartmoor’s only Gay Baa”. Little things please little minds.

On the road between Princetown and Yelverton I came across a neat and compact little tor, which for the life of me I couldn’t remember ever having visited, or seen even, and there’s me thinking I had visited them all. That’s the advantage of heavy drinking, your get to see new things all the time. Oh, and I remembered the next day that me and harness had been out to it on a couple of occasions looking for industrial remains. Shit.

I drove on to Leather tor, my favourite tor, though for the life of me I cannot tell you why it should be so. I ambled about on the top, there’s a lovely ridge climb over the top,  then took a walk over to peak hill with its magnificent views over Plymouth Sound. I chatted for a while with a couple of ramblers who were having a break on the top,  and made a fuss of their cute little dog. Coincidentally the guy out of the couple was just back in the UK, permanently, after living in Aus for ten years. He said he’d returned as he missed Devon. Just what I didn’t need to hear at that point, I knew exactly how he felt.

I got back to M&J’s in time to do my bit of the meal. I was doing the starter. (Asparagus, walnut, and blue cheese, on toasted baguette rounds, with lime drizzle, if you must know.) I didn’t burn it too badly, despite the haste I knocked it up in.

Mark and Jenny returned from work, and we shoo’d them out of the kitchen. I was already making a fair old mess without Mark pitching in and helping.

As soon as the grub was on the table, bloody Kingman turns up in his hairdresser mobile. I’m sure he hides around the corner until he can hear the plates hit the table. Great to see the old fart again, especially as he’d brought me some gifts. In fact, only ‘cos he brought me some gifts. The food went down without complaint, and we got stuck into a few beers. Mark and Chas spent a great deal of time dissecting my every failure and frailty, much to Bethany’s joy.  Chas had to leave early as he was driving, but agreed to catch up again the next night at Mark’s local. Not that Mark’s local can really be called Mark’s local as I’m sure he only goes in there when I’m over, the great shandy drinking pouf.

Wednesday 8 th July.

It must have been a horrible thing for Mark and Jenny to wake up to, Clarkie asleep on their living room couch. But there he was, large as life, and twice as ugly. They sneaked off to work pretty sharpish, and who can blame them. (This was the day Mark was supposed to have taken as flex, we won’t hold that against him.)

Catching up with Clarkie was a hoot. He has a wealth of tales of things he’s stuffed up, large enough to rival my hoard. Currently he’s teaching in Luxembourg, though as the bloody country is so small he has to walk his dog in Belgium (I kid you not!) His good lady wife Katherine, who is as Irish as a very Irish thing, was back in Ireland for the holidays as were his kids. Clarkie should have been too, but had taken this slight diversion, including the cost of flights and a hire car, just to catch up with us crowd. Fair play to the man, full marks for generosity and general insanity. Once he’d awoke, he hadn’t got in until 2.00 am, luckily he’d found the key in the door which Mark had left, we decided to spend a day on the moors. I had intended to spend this day on the moors with Lee-Anne and Bethy, they were in full agreement that they would come along too, despite Clarkie coming. I did try to warn them about Clarkie, but they seemed to find him rather charming.

We drove out to the Dewerstone, through Cornwood and Shaugh Prior. I love that bit of road. The trees form a canopy overhead, and I was beginning to see why Lee-Anne had been amazed, and still was amazed, at how lush and verdant the UK can be. We eventually found the car park, and, after a slight detour (my fault,) we found the paths to the rocks. The Dewerstone is a pretty impressive rock face. Me and Clarkie had climbed here regularly when we worked together at Tavistock, and for some time after.

Two thirds of the way up the main face, about 100 foot up,  is a big niche in the rock, big enough for two people to sit in. “Do you remember we ended up sat in that niche for some time?” said Clarkie. I did, I remember it well.

It was my 28 th birthday, and Clarkie had promised to drag me up one of the classic lines of the cliff; “Climbers Club Direct” (HVS 5a), as my birthday present. We did the first two pitches without any undue problem, Clarkie leading of course. We were sat in the niche sorting the ropes out, when, as it often does in early January, it pissed down with rain. The thing was though, where we were sat was in the lee of the main face, the rain may have been howling down, but we were snug as bugs. “Let’s wait her for a while, see if it clears.” So that’s what we did, we rolled up smokes, sat in the niche and watched the rain pour down into the valley below. It was one of the most sublime moments of my life. My only worry was that Clarkie, being a clumsy bastard, who rolls the worlds loosest rollies, would set fire to our ropes. After half an hour or so the rain stopped, and Clarkie led up the final pitch. I was entranced by it all, I may have even bought him a pint later.

Thinking on this, I’ve had many such “Anderes Weltliches” experiences when out I the wilds, climbing, flying, in the mountains etc, with many of my mates. It certainly makes for strong bonds.

Clarkie said, “We were mad of course, we should have pissed off it before the crack ended up soaking wet and slippery.” Which brought that memory nicely back to earth.

Clarkie took great glee in telling Lee-Anne of the day when me and him soloed three of the routes here, all of which were in the region of 120 foot high.

We had just finished the last one, and were thinking of going to the pub, when I decided to try and do a small, (15 foot high) problem in a bay around the back, one which I had been working on for some time. I got maybe 12 foot up it, and was precariously balanced when my foot slipped off a hold, and I fell in a heap to the ground. (In the process giving my shin a nasty barking. I still have the scar.) I was rolling about on the floor, looking for sympathy, when Clarkie came over; “I bet you’re glad you didn’t do that quarter of an hour ago!”

Too right I was glad, if I had slipped at that time, I’d have been death distance from the ground, not 12 foot up.

The thought of it still makes me feel sick.

We drove on and stopped at The Dartmoor Diner cafe for a full English, which was good, not great, but good. We did Leather Tor, I had no problems being on my favourite tor yet again, and then pushed onto Princetown, to go shopping. Not what people immediately think of when they think Princetown.

You see as Lee-Anne’s minister is in charge of the local prison and other places for locking up baddies, Lee-Anne wanted a present for him on the prison theme. So where better to find one than the home of Dartmoor nick? There was a gift shop in town, we went in, but quickly exited. Why have a gift shop in the middle of Dartmoor selling gifts from…errmmmm… Africa? Idiocy.

We went to the prison museum, a good exhibition considering the limits of its subject matter. There Lee-Anne got a few “Property or Dartmoor Prison” mugs, so she was happy. There was the Dartmoor moorland Hotel, now an exhibition on the moors to also visit, and in there we got Mary a present there of a Dartmoor Hare box. But more importantly, I got a picture of myself with a waxworks Sherlock Holmes, and a book on “The Hound of the Baskervilles, what thrills! (A book about the book, “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, if you see what I mean.)

After this we were trying to find our way to Haytor when we got lost, and ended up in Ashburton, no mean feat. So we switched Sean on, and he got us back on track.  We climbed Haytor, I got some HDR shots of the rock, which I think are rather good. Then we went onto Bonehill rocks, Dartmoor’s premier bouldering venue. Clarkie got a bit carried away after managing to top out on a few low lying  problems, and tried to climb a large crack. Deciding that the top move was; “a bit awkward” as he put it (legs shaking like jelly), he then had to down climb it again.

I didn’t take the piss.

Much.

Then Bethany found a letterbox, much to everyone’s astonishment. Then I found one, then Bethy found another. They were all over the place.

We drove on to Hound Tor, we checked first that Alan’s tea van “The Hound of the Basketmeals” (ouch) would be around until we finished. Clarkie insisted I took a few photos of him in front of  the climb (suspension flake VS 4c) on which he damn near killed himself. I was happy to oblige, fond memories. here’s the tale again, for those of you who have forgotten:

Me and Clarkie were out doing a bit of climbing one day, when Clarkie took a shine to doing a route called “Suspension flake (vs 4c)” It was well within his ability, though the guide does mention that it’s a bit difficult to protect at the top.

Clarkie set off up the rock, and I belayed him from on top of a tall boulder, to get a better view of the climbing. He got to the top without too much problem. However his last bit of gear was someway, death distance in fact, below him. He swung out on a good hold and managed to rest a tape on top of a rounded flake, it looked about as much use as an ashtray on a motorcycle. He then grunted and groaned, and sweated and swore, as he tried to clip it. Just as he clipped it, he came off the rock and screamed. I threw myself backwards off the boulder to try and take in as much slack as possible, and as I hit the deck Clarkie swooped over my head, his feet skimming me and the ground. I lay there looking up at him. The tape had held! My taking in the extra few feet of slack by diving off the boulder had stopped him within inches of the ground. In fact I had got more bruised than he had, the tosser. We both laughed and I lowered him two feet to the deck. He was just talking about going back up, as the gear was still in place, when a gust of wind blew the tape off the hold and the karabiner hit him on the head.

We decided to call it quits for the day.

We got down to the van and had teas and excellent home made tea breads. This is the life eh?

We drove back to M&J’s to find Mark was sitting out in the garden, semi clad. Not a sight I would have wished my 14 year old to see, but she’s got to realise the awful truth about old men some time. I coaxed Jenny into the garden and tried to get a decent shot of the two of them together. I would have too, but Mark kept doing obscene things to Jenny, and she reacted accordingly.

We were eating in the pub that night, so once we’d all scrubbed up, we made our way down there. We hadn’t long sat down, I think Clarkie was getting the beers in at the time, (that would be timing it right,) when Charlie appeared outside, a mysterious woman with him. Charlie introduced us all to Barbara, and I must now say what a pleasure it was to meet her, and how brave she was coming into the lions den of our circle. I do hope Chas warned you what we were like? She more than held her own fortunately, and I don’t think (I’m pretty sure,) I didn’t stick both my bloody big feet in it as I typically do when meeting new people. The beers were first rate there, Doom Bar and bass.  The evening is summed up quite nicely in one of my photos, in which each and every one is wetting themselves laughing. Probably at me. After some reasonable pub grub and a few good beers, we retreated to M&J’s to continue on the beers, and to continue the great chats.

Good I do miss that camaraderie when I’m down here. I don’t think I will, or can even, make friendships to the depth of those I have with UK mates, even if they do pretend to hate me. (I’m sure they are pretending.)

Thursday July 9^th.

Lee-Anne’s first words to me on my awakening were; “Kill me now, please.” Not our usual morning greeting, so I imagined something was up. There was. Lee-Anne had washed a pair of Bethy’s new “Blue Banana” jeans, all on their own. No problem. Except when she loaded M&J’s machine to do a normal wash it must not have drained fully. Most of the clothes that went through came out unscathed, apart from a beige mini-skirt of Jenny’s, which came out looking like it had measles. “It’s bound to be her best/favourite/ heirloom/irreplaceable one.” Bugger!

We drove into Ivybridge, grabbed a pasty for breakfast, and took advice from a dry cleaner chap who said that “Colour Run” would get shot of the offending marks, so we went and bought two bottles of it. We drove back. Clarkie was still asleep on the settee through al of this drama. We followed the instructions, and waited. Nothing changed, the skirt was still spotty. We tried a second bottle, same result. Ok, Clarkie had to depart back to Ireland. We agreed the plan of driving to Exeter to have half a day with him, and also to try and find the store the skirt was from, in the vain hope of being able to replace it.

Then panic number two occurred. I was going to phone Alan and Jo, the people who we were next going to inflict ourselves on, to make arrangements for our arrival. But I found I hadn’t brought their number with me; “No worries, I e-mailed everyone’s numbers to myself!” Borrowing Mark’s laptop I hooked up to the net. Yes I had e-mailed everyone’s numbers to myself, everyone’s numbers except…

Looking them up in the phone directories, both online and whitepages, yielded no result. Looking up Jo’s name and “Devon” did give me the hospital department she works in number so I rang them. “Oh no, Jo’s not here today,” was the reply. Kindly though, the lass on the other end did let Jo know we were trying to contact her, by phoning her on her mobile, and eventually we did manage to get in touch, and arranged to see them the next day.

Panic number three came when we realised that the Jamie Oliver menu’s we had got were for the day, not the evening sitting, and also we’d left half our presents for people in Aus back at Sennen. We rang Janet. She kindly agreed to mail them, on.

I was watching TV whilst everyone was getting ready to go to Exeter, and came upon a report on the first Ashes test, which was supposed to be starting in ten minutes time. The BBC reporter was reporting from outside the ground. How fucking sad is that? Big money has bought out cricket to such an extent that the BBC cannot even have a reporter inside the ground!

Clarkie followed us to Exeter; “We’ll meet outside the Cathedral if we get separated.” I couldn’t shake him off though. First stop in Exeter was another branch (the only other one I believe) of “Blue Banana”, so as Bethy could expand her burgeoning wardrobe. We then found a branch of “next”, for where the skirt in question had originally come. We looked for an age, no joy. We described the skirt to an assistant; “Oh I remember them, they were very nice. But we stopped selling them about two seasons ago.” Hells teeth. We got a voucher, and prayed.

We sat in the lovely cathedral close, and Clarkie treated us to tea and cakes at a posh cafe. We took a stroll around the cathedral itself, god I love that place. I found that by whacking my camera settings up to 1600 asa, I could take photos without using the flash. I took lots.

The time came to bid a fond farewell to Clarkie, it had been a hoot to catch up with him again, and thanks for making the big effort old son. Then we had to go back and face Jenny, eek!

We got back, and Lee-Anne spiled the beans. “Oh that old thing, you shouldn’t have bothered. I’ll have fun spending the voucher though, thanks!” Was Jenny’s benevolent reply. Sorted!

That night we decided to go to the other pub, The Ship. It’s a queer old place, not really pub like at all. The waiter who served us looked like he had bought all his clothes from a demob shop in 1949, even though he was only in his thirties. He had a demob haircut too. But the beer was good, and the food was fine, the company first rate, and we had a pleasant evening of chat and reminiscence. Chas didn’t turn up, which was a shame, as we were all looking forward to meeting Barbara again. (Ok, and Chas.)

Funny thing is, if you think about it, both ships in the village are named on a nautical theme, The Ship and The Anchor, though the sea is fucking miles away. What goes on there then?

We made our way back to M&J’s, under a perfect evening light, on a still Devon summers evening. Not hard to be jealous of M&J for their life here. Nicol, the jammy bastard, had, the previous day, let us know that he had agreed with his boss to go down to a four day working week, and that his and Jenny’s weekends would now run from Friday afternoon to Tuesday morning. Not a good way to make friends Nicol.  I knew we would still technically be staying in Devon when we stayed with Alan and Jo, but not really in “my” Devon.

I knew that leaving this part of the country would be a huge wrench, but more fun and friends would step into the breach.