Life On A Dartmoor Scrapyard - Peggy Harris

 LIFE ON A DARTMOOR SCRAPYARD - PEGGY HARRIS

Gentrification has a lot to answer for. Unless you're middle class and slumming it or you're living in downtown New York during the early 1970s, no-one likes to live in a crap hole. There's nothing wrong with a bit of tidying up, a bit of good housekeeping, or even a bit of modernization which is all things gentrification brings but the problem is the displacement. The pushing out or even the forced removal of the local populace to make way for a whole other and mostly much wealthier populace. With gentrification comes also homogenization and the flattening-out of culture where everyone likes the same things and behaves the same way. Where the only areas that cultural differences are exchanged are safe ones such as in the liking of culturally-different music or clothes. This then all leads to a monoculture, terminal boredom, the death of imagination and ultimately the death of any sense of real community.

Gentrification is mostly associated with cities but it also takes place out in the countryside where once-working farms and even chapels are turned into holiday homes or are bought-up by would-be developers, renovated and then sold at prices well beyond the means of local people.

Life On A Dartmoor Scrapyard by Peggy Harris is a collection of childhood memories and anecdotes from when the author did indeed grow up on a scrapyard on the edge of Dartmoor, near a village called Chagford. It's a collection of stories about a time, a place and of people that you just don't encounter nowadays, having all been squeezed-out and side-lined by economics and legislation. Leaving the world, it must be said, as a much poorer place.

To be clear, Peggy's childhood was never an easy one not least from having no mains water and no mains electricity, where the family's drinking water was fetched from the nearby river. We're talking the 1970s here. Her childhood was, however, a very special one and though money may have been in short supply she and her family were rich in the things that money cannot buy: a closeness to nature, the freedom to roam, the schooling in life-lessons and life-skills far beyond anything the national curriculum could ever imagine.

Peggy's father was called Sam, and that's him in the photo on the cover of the book. 'A gentleman and friend, known by all, loved by many' as it declares on his gravestone, having passed away in 1988. Sam Harris was the kind of character you would only find in the countryside. Devon born and bred. The kind of character that nowadays you very rarely hear of the one-time existence of let alone actually meet. The kind whose home and birthright has now been taken over by more often than not Londoners with more money than sense. 

'He often said that he never wanted to be the richest man in the churchyard,' Peggy writes 'As long as he had enough food to eat and enough money in his pocket to have a deal, he was happy.'

Sam was a legend and an example to us all of the heritage we are losing and are never going to get back, and Life On A Dartmoor Scrapyard is an ode to him. It's a love letter from Peggy to her Father, her Mother, her two brothers and also to her childhood self. It's a reminder of a time now gone. A funny and very wonderful picture of what it was to be young when the world was what you made it, not something you purchased online.

Apparently, the original print run of 1,000 copies of Peggy's book sold out in a fortnight and when she did a book signing at a local pub in Chagford she signed and sold over 250 copies, with people queuing up all the way down the road to get in and meet her. Which all goes to show, of course, an interest in if not a yearning for the world that Peggy describes from those who are aware that another world is possible.

John Serpico

All Saints - East Budleigh

ALL SAINTS - EAST BUDLEIGH

Am I a geek? Sure, we all like to throw bricks at coppers and burn down the suburbs with a half-closed eye but even a stopped clock is right twice a day. As they say. So, in my more contemplative moments I sometimes like to stroll down to the beach and just sit and watch the waves roll in as the ships go by on the horizon. On other occasions I like to take a look at the local churches, not to pray or any such reckless if not ridiculous thing as that but to simply have a mooch around. They're beautiful, ancient, old buildings and I appreciate them – it's as simple as that. If you ask politely and there isn't a health and safety issue, it's surprising how easy it is to even get up to the top of the steeple and look out at the view. It's always worth it.

The church in the village of East Budleigh, in Devon, goes back to before 1420, so it's an old one. Developed and built up a bit since then, of course, there's a lot of history to it not least it being where Walter Raleigh used to go as a child due to his father being the churchwarden. Another famous churchwarden there was Ambrose Stapleton who during his tenure involved almost the whole of the village in smuggling, an activity that was once rife along the nearby coastline and which he apparently organised with great skill.

Within a secret drawer of a communion table, a collection of ancient books were once discovered including bibles dating back to 1634 and a Book of Martyrs describing trials and hideous punishments meted out in that same century to local parishioners.

On all of the bench ends there are wood carvings of various past residents of the village dating back again to the early sixteenth century, along with carvings of coats of arms and angels. There is also a carving of a native American Indian in full headdress. Why? What's he doing there?

Meanwhile out in the churchyard, for such an old church there are surprisingly very few tombstones there. This is simply due, however, to burying past graves under ten feet of mud and starting anew with fresh graves being dug into the newly created mound. Like a high-rise cemetery.

How do I know all this stuff, you might wonder? Well, I've just read the booklet entitled All Saints – East Budleigh, written by Lilian Sheppard, which is basically a guide to the church. Published in 1978, it's probably now long out of print and only available from the dusty bookshelves of second hand shops along the East Coast of Devon. Ignored and not given a second glance apart from people like me.

Am I a geek?

John Serpico

Mark Rolle: His Architectural Legacy In The Lower Otter Valley - Alan Ford

MARK ROLLE: HIS ARCHITECTURAL LEGACY IN THE LOWER OTTER VALLEY - ALAN FORD

Am I a geek?

Rather than spending time down the gym or shopping online or whatever it is you're meant to be doing these days, I sometimes just walk around (with my head in the clouds) looking at the local architecture. I tell you, it can be a rewarding experience.

Of course, it's not quite the same thrill but just as rewarding can be reading books on local history, one such book being Mark Rolle: His Architectural Legacy In The Lower Otter Valley by Alan Ford.

Let me cut to the quick immediately and say yes, it's a weird and wonderful book. Essentially, the Rolle family once owned half of Devon and in 1842 at the tender age of six, Mark Rolle inherited the lot. By all accounts he was a very moral man of 'delicate constitution and retiring disposition', and in 1865 for no financial gain on his part started a building programme in East Devon, repairing and building new properties for many of his tenants.

And that's it, basically. That's what the book's about. It's almost as if it was written for me personally because who else might possibly be interested in reading about this?

If you walk around East Devon and look at some of the old properties here - in Budleigh Salterton, East Budleigh, Otterton and so on - you'll see a lot of them have a signature stone at the front inscribed with the initials MR, and then a date. These are the ones that Mark Rolle had a hand in building or repairing.

There's a subtext to this story, however, and that's all to do with the abject poverty that many of the farmers and workers on the Rolle Estate were living in at that time. These people were paying rent for the pleasure of living in what can only be described as hovels.

For sure, Mark Rolle had no obligation to improve their living conditions and so Alan Ford praises him for doing so but I suspect none of it would have happened were it not for the subtle machinations of Rolle's land agent at that time, Richard Lipscomb, who I would say is the true hero of the story.

This is indeed a weird and wonderful book containing a great number of lovely photos of local barns and cottages to boot.

Am I a geek?

                                                                                                                                                                              John Serpico

Devon Villains - Mike Holgate

DEVON VILLAINS, ROGUES, RASCALS AND REPROBATES -                                          MIKE HOLGATE

I always thought Exmouth had a rather shady past what with its historic opium consumption and its local, nefarious characters but Torquay in comparison is like Gotham City and it's there where all the real super villains have always congregated. I've only discovered this by reading Devon Villains - Rogues, Rascals And Reprobates by Mike Holgate in which every other story regarding sunny Devon's darker side seems to centre around Torquay. There must be something in the water down there.

Holgate's book is a collection of true-life tales of murderers, smugglers, pirates, traitors, fraudsters, robbers and scandal from across the County of Devon. Regarding Torquay, not only is it the home-town of Dr Stephen Ward (the scapegoat of the Profumo Affair), Agatha Christie (the ace detective writer), Robert Hitchens (the helmsman at the wheel of the Titanic when it sank), and George Whitehead (the first convict to escape from Dartmoor Prison in a car) but also where Oscar Wilde stayed before he was famously accused of being a 'sodomite' and where Bruce Reynolds - the mastermind behind the Great Train Robbery of 1963 - had his hideout. The Penguin, the Riddler, the Joker, and even Two-Face have all apparently been spotted down there also, so I believe.

Much more than these particular tales, however, what I found to be of interest were the stories under the chapter headed 'Traitors'.

Firstly, there's Sir Walter Raleigh who was born in East Budleigh, which is situated just a few miles along the coast from Exmouth. Raleigh's an interesting character particularly when you take into account where he's from, which is basically a small, isolated village in Devon. To this day there's hardly anything in East Budleigh but at the same time it has all you might need as in a good pub, a community hall, a village school, and a tiny community shop - all surrounded by beautiful countryside.

I used to go there quite often and just explore the back lanes heading out to the fields and woods, and I can see why Raleigh loved it so. Apparently he always wanted to move back there and if you think about it, Raleigh could have chosen to live anywhere in the world, really; but East Budleigh for him was the most beautiful place.

Courtier, parliamentarian, businessman, soldier, seaman, coloniser, explorer, scientist, philosopher, historian and poet; Raleigh was one of the most celebrated men (with a Devon accent to boot) of the Elizabethan age before he became embroiled in political intrigue that brought about his execution - betrayed by Lord Lewis Stucley, otherwise known as the Judas of Devonshire.

After winning favour with Queen Elizabeth by naming the State of Virginia in North America after her, Raleigh was bestowed a Knighthood but soon fell foul of her by secretly marrying one of her maids without first seeking the queen's permission. For his impudence Raleigh was locked up in the Tower of London and on his release in a bid to regain favour he set sail on an expedition to South America to find the fabled city of gold known as El Dorado. His mission failed, of course, but only because El Dorado didn't exist. It was a fable.

With the death of Queen Elizabeth his enemies at court plotted against him and let it be known he was against the accession of King James (and apparently he was, according to records discovered just over 20 years or so ago) so once again he was thrown into the Tower of London. Always on a roll, during his captivity in the Tower he spent his spare time writing a little book modestly entitled The History Of The World. When finally released years later, Raleigh once again set out on an expedition to search for gold, this time to Guiana. Once again, however, he returned empty-handed.

It was after this that Lord Lewis Stucley (the Judas of Devonshire, lest we forget) was offered a reward by King Jame's courtiers if he could present some damning evidence against Raleigh that might lead to his execution. He succeeded in this and Raleigh was arrested and sentenced to death.

Facing his executioner on the scaffold, Raleigh declined a blindfold, allegedly stating: "Think you I fear the shadow of the axe, when I fear not the axe itself? Strike, man, strike!" Upon his death, Raleigh's severed head was delivered to his wife and legend has it that for the rest of her days she carried it with her in her handbag. 

And all this from a short bloke (if the supposedly life-size statue of Raleigh in East Budleigh is anything to go by) born in a nondescript little village in Devon.

I must one day write a screenplay of Raleigh's life and submit it to Mel Gibson for filming. Or maybe a Bollywood version could be made if Mel isn't interested? That might be interesting. Either way, I think it's where my fortune might lie.

The second character of interest to me in Mike Holgate's book is the Duke of Monmouth, he of the long, curly locks who led what became known as the Monmouth Rebellion, otherwise called the Pitchfork Rebellion. Duke, as I like to call him, mounted an ill-fated challenge to wrest the crown from James II following the death of King Charles in 1685.

Travelling over from Holland where he'd been living in self-imposed exile, Duke landed at Lyme Regis before crossing into East Devon where he began gathering hundreds of men around him from each town he would enter; swelling his ranks to an estimated 4000 peasants, farmers and artisans.

It must have been a sight to behold, this rag-bag army of malcontents, dissenters and usurpers armed with pitchforks, scythes and muskets; marching through Devon and the West Country on their way to Bristol. The plan being to take Bristol and then head on down to London to take the crown, though unfortunately they never got that far.

Pitched against an army of Militiamen from Exeter and the King's own army from London, Duke's rag-bag army were routed and vanquished at the Battle of Sedgemoor. Survivors of the battle and rebel supporters were then hunted down and brought before the unforgiving Judge Jefferies in trials that became known as the Bloody Assizes, where for simply having the temerity to plead innocence was enough to get men hung, drawn and quartered.

Duke himself was also captured and taken to Tower Hill where legend has it that it took seven horrifying swings of the axe upon his neck before being decapitated. Legend also had it, however, that it wasn't really Duke who was executed but an impersonator used to confuse the enemy in battle and that Duke was actually biding his time to return to the West Country and once again lead the common people to war against the monarchy.

Perhaps Mel (or "my good friend, Mel", as I perhaps should get used to calling him?) Gibson might be interested in a screenplay for this?

Mike Holgate's book is a decent enough introduction to these and other so-called villains, rogues, rascals and reprobates; and if at times it reads like a page on Wikipedia and if at times his featured character's connection to Devon is a bit tenuous then it can be forgiven. The point of what Holgate's written is to gather these tales under one book so that the reader can gain an overall view, and then follow up elsewhere on those found to be of most interest. That's what I did, anyway. 

And the more you dig, the more you discover, and the more you discover, the more you want to know. And the more you know, the more interesting the world becomes.

Or it should do.

John Serpico

The Devonshire Dialect - Clement Marten

THE DEVONSHIRE DIALECT - 
CLEMENT MARTEN

Yer! Duz us tok prapper Engliz dan yer in Deb'n or what?

Or to put it another way: I say! Do we talk proper English down here in Devon? Yes or no?

Not so very long ago when visiting Exmouth, if you wished to understand what the natives were saying then a book such as The Devonshire Dialect by Clement Marten would have been essential.

On entering any local tavern, for example, the bar would inevitably fall silent as everyone turned to see who the 'vurriners' were. 'Vurriners' as in foreigners, and to be 'vurrin' you didn't necessarily have to be from another country; you could just as well be from another town or parish within the same county.

You'd be approached by the landlord and asked to lay your guns on the table which could be meant metaphorically or to actually physically do so. As soon as it was established you were harmless - or armless - and you'd ordered your cider then everyone would resume their rudely interrupted conversations. At this point you might cast an eye around the tavern and take in the customary pentagram chalked on the wall above the log fire and then wonder what fevered language was being spoken by the people there. There'd be no talk of bagging a pheasant or any such civilised matter but simply a constant stream of surreal comments:

"Yer! I snores, I do. I snores so loud I wakes mezel' up but I think I've sorted it now. I sleep int' udder room, an' no mistake...."

"Yer! I got wan foot bigger an udder but my mate eez complete appasite eez got wan foot smaler an udder...."

Or anecdotes (as relayed in Clement Marten's book) such as the one about a young man walking down a lane at night with a young lady. He's carrying a piglet in one hand and a lantern in the other. The young lady suddenly starts to cry so the young man says to her: "Yer! Wat be 'bout maakin' awl thick awl scritch ver?" So the girl says "Wull I be vrit y'um gwain taak 'vantage o' me." So he asks "Ow c'n I taak 'vantage ov ee?" "Wull", she says "Yu mite ztart kissin' an cuddlin' o' me." So he says "Doan't ee be sa maazed gurl, ow c'n I be kissin' an cuddlin' uv ee, way a peg een wan 'and an' a lantern een t' other?" "Wull," she says "I cud 'old the lantern ver ee'..."

Was this the sound of cider tripping off the locals' tongues or had a block from the Tower of Babel somehow embedded itself in the depths of Devon? For any passing 'vurinner' twuz a right experience, an' no mistake.

But as renowned writer and aficionado of all things opiate William Burroughs once pointed out: language is a virus. And as we all know - viruses mutate. So nowadays the Devonshire dialect of old is changing though unlike a lot of other places in the country it's not heading down the path of Thames Estuary mockney, Australian soap opera inanity or gangster Jafaican patois. The Devon accent still sounds like music to the ear even when the person talking is threatening to "stave yer 'ead in, my babber - an' no mistake".

Many of the old Devon words are also still in use to this day so for example, David Cameron could be called a 'strapper'; meaning an unskilled person - an odd-job man - often applied to someone who undertakes a job for which he's not qualified and ends up making a mess of it. Holiday makers - particularly the type who are a nuisance and block the country lanes with their caravans - can be called 'grockles'. Whilst anything from the invasion of Iraq to the plans of Exmouth town council can be called a 'Saltash rig', meaning any enterprise that has been unsuccessful and summed up as "a wet arse and no fish".

So the answer to the question about whether or not we talk proper English in Devon is a most definite 'Yes'. Though we might be at the end of an age - and Clement Marten's book is a nod to a bygone era - it's a mighty fine thing that we retain our accents and our words and that we don't talk in the same way as everyone else.

An' no mistake.

Language is a virus from outer space

John Serpico