Cinderella comes to town.

Our village pantomime is always heads above all others in the locality, so here are some heads... 

Waiting for his sister to appear on stage.

The Fairy Godmother (aka Fairy Nuff).

Grommit.

Stuffit.

Ugly Sister Chardonnay.

Ugly Sister Rioja.

Buttons.

A special mouse.

Baddy Prime Minister (boo, hiss!).

A mouse and a horse.

Cinderella.

Baron Hardup.

 

Hooray, a dry day for a walk.

Out for a walk today from Princetown. Just under 6 miles of easy and dry walking. It was good to be back on the moor after what seems a long time.

A straightforward out and back route from the centre of Princetown across the moor to Nun's Cross Farm. A good footpath for most of the way which, or so I learnt, was the old road to Ivybridge, that lies some 10 miles to the south. Not the sort of route to take at night in bad weather.

No birds, no flowers but good weather and lots of big skies.

No, not one of our group but a soldier out on a timed 25 mile 'yomp, back to the barracks in Stonehouse. We were passed by quite a few and, it has to be said, some looked as if they wouldn't make it.

More sky. But look, no rain.

Nun's Cross Farm, not worked since the 1950s and now used as an outdoor centre for schools and youth groups. Apparently, the rangers were installing a composting toilet for the residents. It seemed a lot of effort when an earth closet could do the same job.

Looking south westwards to Plymouth Sound in the distance, about 10 miles away. The visibility was excellent and we could make out the Eddystone Lighthouse.

With a little cropping and enlargement, we get a better view of the two structures on the rocks, more of which below with a close-up downloaded from the internet.

The Eddystone Lighthouse is on the Eddystone Rocks, 13 miles south west of Plymouth. The current structure is the fourth lighthouse to be built on the site. The first and second were destroyed by gales. The third, also known as Smeaton's Tower (completed in 1759),  is the stump on the right. Its upper portions have been re-erected on Plymouth Hoe.The fourth and largest of the Eddystone lighthouses was completed in May 1882 and is on the left, with its helicopter landing pad giving it a nice flat top. It is, of course, fully automated now and is powered by solar panels.

This shot looks as if it's of the inmates heading back to Dartmoor Prison after an afternoon in the quarry. It's not, of course, it's the group winding its way back to the Fox Tor Café for refreshments.

 

 

Trump and Bassaleg

The badge that accompanied me all through my grammar school years
(September 1959 to July 1966). It's sewn on my pyjamas now.

The Republican Presidential campaign is beginning to remind me of the election of Captain of the Sports House (Tredegar House in this case. One of three in the school: Tredegar, Ruperra and Ebbw) we used to get at Bassaleg Grammar School back in the 1960s. Every year there would be a few candidates for this not-taken-too-seriously-by most-but-taken-deadly seriously-by-some role. Typically, the candidature went along these lines...

There would be Andy (everyone is a product of my imagination if anyone from the old school reads this), the captain of the rugby team and perennial candidate for every student office going.

There was Keith, the ever serious violin player in the school orchestra and Oxbridge certainty with top marks for everything he did. He also was the only senior boy who willingly wore his school cap every day.

And there was Dai, who was one of the boys. He was smart enough to get good grades but didn't think that trying too hard was cool. He smoked, loved a pint, managed to hold a place in the rugby team, was naturally witty and was selective about the rules he followed

Every year we'd troop into the Hall and have a hustings where all the candidates would make a short speech to try to gain our votes.

Andy would promise to really motivate the House and to get us to follow a strict training regime. His speech was always followed by polite applause.

Keith would claim that as the smartest pupil in the school, he was obviously the most qualified to be Sports Captain. He promised to work hard to make sure that this year would be the best year ever for Tredegar House. His speech would be followed by light clapping and a few sniggers.

Dai promised to make training optional, there would be crisps every day for lunch, longer breaks and even if we didn't win, we'd have fun losing. His speech was followed by wild applause, foot stomping, and a chant, “Dai....Dai.....Dai”.

It was at this point that Penry M Rees MA, our beloved headmaster, would step to the podium, his gown billowing and his moustache bristling, to demand quiet. We would then get “The Speech”

“This is a very important election that will determine how successful your House will be in the future. This is not a popularity contest. You must elect someone who is serious, not a clown”.

Dai never won the election. The students, properly scolded, would vote for Andy or Keith - the serious candidates.

Donald Trump is campaigning by telling people what others will not. He is saying things others are afraid to say. He is being outrageous and people love it. He reminds me a lot of Bassaleg's Dai.

The press and the political elite are Penry. 

“Trump is a clown, this is not a popularity contest, this election is very important and will determine how successful the country will be for the next four yea

In my humble opinion, Trump won’t win the election; he won’t even win the nomination. He is not a clown, he is very smart but would not make a good President. He upsets too many of the wrong people. He will shake things up. He will put focus on topics others try to skirt because taking a position on them would cost them votes, but he will not be elected. In fact, I don't think he really wants to be President. Yes, he wants to win but I'm not convinced he wants, or could cope with, the constraints that would follow. Most politicians pussy-foot around an issue to try and make everyone happy.  Trump will not pussy-foot around anything. He will p**s people off. He will say what he means and not be apologetic for it. He is not ashamed of being rich and successful but he is not a clown. 

But don’t worry Mr Rees; "The Donald" is not going to get the nomination. The Republicans will, when it comes to it, go for someone who is very serious and knows how to say something without really saying anything. They will go for a politician. Or not. 

 

Revolting in Exeter

A very interesting and inspiring day at the South West Regional Amnesty International Conference today in Exeter. A full programme of talks and workshops on various aspects of human rights. As ever, there is absolutely nothing better than hearing of the experiences of people on the front line and, today, Aida Baijumanova from Kyrgystan told us of the trials and tribulations of living in this so-called parliamentary democracy in eastern Asia. Some people are extremely brave when they stand up for the rights of others, especially when they have so much to lose, including their livelihoods and, possibly, their lives. We face nothing like that in the UK and that makes it all the more important to support them in what they do. When asked whether or not our letter writing activities made any difference, her answer was an unequivocal "yes". Yes, those being harassed value the fact that their plight is not unknown or unsupported. Yes, the authorities take heed of the letters of complaint they get as knowledge of their crimes could adversely affect the flow of funds into their country.

 

Another key speaker was Steve Symonds talking passionately about various aspects of the current refugee crisis. The bottom line for the UK? We could and should do more. And with his words echoing in our ears, we headed off to the Cathedral Green to demonstrate in support of refugees outside of the cathedral. I'm there at the back obscured by a placard. A very orderly British style protest but we managed to attract a lot of attention and raise awareness of the issue. A very satisfying day and a renewal of commitment to the cause of human rights.

In praise of apple juice

I love apple juice: in fact, I have a suspicion that apple juice is partly responsible for me keeping so trim in my advancing years. When I say apple juice, I don't mean the stuff that looks, and smells, like horse pee that you get in cartons from the supermarket. I mean 'proper' cloudy apple juice with a known provenance. Luckily, the West Country is full of orchards and getting a decent bottle is not difficult.

 

I get my regular fix of juice from Derek who runs Tamar Valley Apple Juice. The fruit is collected over an area within a few miles of us and pressed down at Hatton Quay on the Tamar, again just a few miles from us. He knows my taste for a sharper juice and he generally keeps a few bottles 'under the counter' for me. He presses apples from various sources and, delicious though his juice is, it's not that often that I can get a single variety bottle. You can imagine my delight (perhaps?) when, during a recent walk through Throwleigh in Devon, we came across a road-side stall selling some interesting blends of varieties that aren't grown around here. Tommy Knight was one I hadn't come across before and was a nice tangy tipple. The Winter Peach/Summer Stibbert combination was interesting. Bags of apple flavour with a subtle dry finish. Both were very more-ish and worth seeking out again. It pays to keep your eyes open for local produce and try it when you can. You never know what pleasures you can come across in the most unexpected places.

A sunny February day

Our first sunny day for a while and it coincided very nicely with two short riverside walks along the Lynher and the Tamar. Wouldn't it be wonderful if it was like this for a while? But I wouldn't put any bets on it

Sometimes the view is so good that you've just got to get out of the car and take it all in. This is looking down the Tamar towards Saltash, Devonport and Plymouth, all underneath the early morning mists.

At the starting point of a short walk I lead under the 'Walking for Health' umbrella. One and half miles along the River Lynher from New Bridge in Callington. Look, a blue sky. No rain and no wind. Strange but pleasant.

In the afternoon of the same day, my IWC and I walked the mile and a half along the river from Calstock to Cotehele and back, stopping at the halfway point for refreshments at the tea shop on Cotehele Quay. The photograph shows Calstock Viaduct with the Cotehele Folly Tower under one arch in the distance. Those with keen eyes might be able to make out the roof of Cotehele House under the last but one arch on the left.

If I had a boat, I'd definitely want to do business with the Calstock Boatyard.

Maiden Hair Ferns lining the walls of the lime kilns at Cotehele Quay.

The viaduct in the afternoon sun from the highpoint of the riverside track.

The viaduct from the Cornwall bank looking upstream. It's amazing to think that all the blocks used in building the viaduct were all made on-site on the right bank, just under the structure.

A moment in time

This is becoming quite a habit: yet another dip into Dolph and Mabel's Post Card Treasure Trove and we come across this mysterious photograph. It is a photograph rather than a card and has only "Bert and his friends" written on the back. No indication of time or place. It is obviously a loaded charabanc about to set off, or coming back from, an outing to the seaside or the countryside or a race meeting or some such.  It is almost certainly a pub trip, and I'd guess that the pub in question is the one just behind the "chara". Unfortunately the pub sign is too indistinct to read, apart from 'inn' and that's not a great help for identification. Where was it taken? Given that the photograph was among a pile of Cornwall related memorabilia I'd assumed that it must be from down here somewhere. But, and here's a puzzle, Mr Google tells me that the single letter registration plate of C1077 shows a West Riding number and can be dated some time between 1902 and 1912, when the single letter Cs were superseded by a double letter combination. It was a well-known fact that the charabanc was so uncomfortable that it was only used for relatively short journeys. That, combined with its top speed of 20 mph, would suggest that this photograph was taken somewhere up north, rather than down west during a long distance excursion. But where? And by whom? And who was Bert and what was his connection with Dolph and Mabel? So many questions, no answers and no way of finding out. I find this very frustrating. Mr Google, you have let me down this time. Probably too busy avoiding tax to bother with my little query.

Putting all these unknowns to one side, it really is a fascinating photograph. Look at that line of, let's assume, Yorkshire faces - as doughty and as solid as you'll see anywhere in the UK. Which one is Bert? Unfortunately there are no family resemblances that I can make out, so he remains anonymous. Look at the splendid collection of headwear: a man would be undressed if he didn't have a cap on his head at all times in those days - including in the shower (and I've got a true story about this to relate sometime). And look at that charabanc, a Leviathan amongst its contemporary motorised transport midgets.

It is eighty or ninety years since charabancs were seen on English roads and my younger readers may be wondering what they are. They are simply very early motorised coaches, with the name originating from the French char à bancs ("carriage with wooden benches"). Their demise is rather sad: the modern-day hen-night stretch limo just can't compare to these magnificent beasts. It would appear that their journey to obscurity has reached the terminus - in 2011 Collins Dictionary finally removed "charabanc" from its lists. The word just exists in the memories of old fogeys like me, not, I hasten to add, that I've ever had a ride in one.

750 posts and still at it

As is customary, I mark every 150th post by producing a hard-backed book and this post will end up in the collection spanning numbers 601 to 750.  Apart from it being a vanity project (no, Carly Simon was not singing about me but the lyrics fit), I do this in the hope that one day someone in the family might be vaguely interested in learning a little about one of their forebears (and if that happens to be you, hello and have a good life).  It's also timely to consider why I’m still blogging after all this time (since January 2010 actually, since you ask). Here are a few reasons:

1. I like writing. There’s a little narrating voice in my head as I write, sometimes talking sense, sometimes talking absolute rubbish. But more often than not, I listen. (What do you mean, you don’t have that? That's a shame. You are definitely missing out).
2. Why not? No, really: why not blog? For me, blogging has always been fun. I’m an introvert living an extravert’s life, in many ways, and writing allows me to socialise in a very comfortable way.
3. It’s fun to pick new themes. Sometimes the voice in my head gives me a subject and I'll see if I can write something to fit. It's fun when it works and, to be honest, it's still enjoyable when it falls flat (and believe me, it does fall flat quite often).
4. Some thoughts are better written. Or, to be more accurate, I find that the process of translating thoughts into writing helps me to better shape my response to whatever the subject is. Sometimes, having to articulate thoughts verbally gets in the way of clarity of expression. It's difficult to edit what's just come out of your mouth!
5. The blog as a journal. The content has become an archive of my life and my little online room. I share it with the world, true, but at the end of the day, I’m blogging just for me.
6. You! By comparison with the output of some bloggers, I’m not popular by any stretch of the imagination, but I know I have a handful of steady readers. And I’d be a pillock not to acknowledge (and thank) you for that. So thanks! Allow me to buy you a coffee the next time we meet.
7. And because....if I wasn’t still blogging, I wouldn’t be able to say "I wonder where the narrating voice will take me over the next 150 posts?".

The tragic tale of Maria Fassnauer, the Tyrolean Giantess.

Another dip into Dolph and Mabel's Post Card Treasure Trove and I come across one that disguises a very sad tale of exploitation in the name of entertainment (Today we've got Celebrity Big Brother, The X Factor and Britain's Got Talent which do exactly the same). The post card refers to the visit to the Plymouth Palace in 1907 of Maria Fassnauer, billed as Mariedl the Tyrolean Giantess.

She was born in 1879 in Austria and from the age of three she grew at an incredible rate and by 15 had reached a height of 7' 10". Soon she was “discovered" and found local notoriety as the “tallest female person of Tyrol". She left school early and worked on the family farm until she came to the attention of side-show operators who wanted her as an exhibit in the very popular 'freak shows' of the time. They pressured her parents constantly and offered to pay the family well for permission to put the young girl on display but although her parents urgently needed the money, they initially refused all offers. Almost inevitably, Maria eventually yielded to the constant stream of propositions and began a seven-year tour across Europe, accompanied by her 'normal' sized sister. She was the star attraction at fairs, festivals and music halls and was described in newspaper advertisements as the “tallest woman who ever lived”. By all accounts, she saved the money she earned to give to her parents, spending very little on herself. In all her appearances she wore a traditional peasant costume and Tyrolean hat, designed to make her appear even taller and more grotesque. Despite being in the limelight Maria led a very isolated life. The side-show operators did not allow her to show herself in public outside of her performances as that would lessen the mystery and reduced their profits. A deeply religious woman whose letters to her parents are full of her loneliness and homesickness, Maria would regularly visit churches, in order to pray. “Come one, come all! Come and see Mariedl, the giant woman of Tyrol, the Monster for Millions" was the cry. Her weight and height meant that it was hard for her to stand for any length of time and she suffered from ulcerated legs, but as no-one wanted to see a sitting giant, she was made to keep moving whilst on view.

By 1913 Maria had had enough of her life as the “Monster for Millions” and returned to the Tyrol. Emotionally and physically damaged, she spent her last years on her parents’ farm where she died, only 38 years old, on 4th December 1917. Nowadays she is remembered through a rather mundane carved statue in a folk museum in Berlin. Perhaps better to be remembered this way than not at all?

Chagford break: two walks

I've written about seven bridges and five churches around Chagford; now it's time to describe the main reason for our January break - two walks.  

The first walk started in the lee of Kes Tor at Batworthy and was a circular route that took us to the Long Stone on Shovel Down, across the North Teigh to Scorhill Circle and Buttern Tor, then to Wonson and Gidleigh and back to our starting point. Our guide book said it was 7.5 miles, my GPS logged it around 8.5 and it felt like around 10. But it didn't rain.

Kes Tor. Our guide book said "head for the nipple" and that's what we did. We didn't make any boobs with our directions and managed to keep abreast of the route instructions.

The Long Stone on Shovel Common. About 3 meters in height and associated with a number of stone rows that converge on this monolith. Exact age unknown but estimated to be around 5000 years. It's also known as the Three Lads because its side are engraved with the three parishes it forms the boundary of - DC (Duchy of Cornwall) which can just be made out on this side, GD for Gidleigh and C for Chagford.

Lots of archaeology on Shovel Down and here are two double stone rows, one directly ahead and the other veering off to the right. With hut circles to the right of us and hut circles to the left off us, we bravely strode on into the Valley of the Teign.

The stone row that veers off to the right in the photograph above. At one end of it was a circle of stones - a hut, perhaps, or something of ritual significance?

The Tolmen Boulder on the banks of the North Teign. Formed by erosion, one myth claims that anyone who does manage to pass through the hole will have immunity from all rheumatic disorders. We didn't try as the river was in full spate and we're not daft enough to risk falling in. And, besides, our aching joints wouldn't let us be so acrobatic. Oooh, maybe we missed a trick.

Scorhill Circle, one of the largest on this part of the moor. Despite the lens flare, I think this photograph gives a feel for its surrounds.

A bit of rubbish wall building. It would have taken just as much effort to lay the stones properly. Only 3/10, I'm afraid.

Unexpected findings by the wayside Part XXV: why a coffee jug in the hedgerow? A minimalist café? A branch of Starbuck's perhaps?

Since the passing of the anti-smoking laws, 'smoking stations' of varying degrees of grandeur and comfort have sprung up outside of pubs. Here, at the Northcote Arms in Wonson, a delightfully rural solution has been found. A few old chairs and a tatty table place in a horse box. I wonder if anyone has thought of closing the doors when the smokers are in full puff, driving them to a remote spot on the moor and leaving them there?

Unexpected findings by the wayside Part XXVI: a gert big gun. It was pointed at Cornwall.

The route of our second walk. From Fingle Bridge and up one side of the Teign and down the other. Four miles of level walking and a nice contrast to the previous day's exertions.

In its heighday, nearby Castle Drogo used the power of the River Teign to generate electricity through a turbine. I liked the contrasting colours and textures of this sluice gate machinery.

Navelwort or Umbilicus rupestris. Very, very common in damp places and obviously finds a bed of moss to its liking. The fleshy leaves are nice to nibble on if you fancy a snack whilst out on a walk.

A grinning tree. Happy that it wasn't raining, perhaps?

I've mentioned, in a previous post,  the 'Teign Spirit' outdoor art installations along the river. They are still there and just as evocative on the second/third viewing as they were on the first. This is the one entitled 'The Mill'. A fire destroyed nearby Fingle Mill in 1894. The photograph depicts the scene as if it has just happened, with the miller's wife and children having escaped the fire.  

A rubbish photograph of a goldcrest, our smallest native bird. Its yellow crest can just be made out. It was a fidgety little devil and that's the best I could do before it flew off.