DAY OUT IN DEVON

Armed with my liquid oxygen we journeyed forth to Sticklepath - renowned for its waterwheels. They make a strange noise - I was reminded of a steam train forever pulling into Howarth station but Joan would have none of it. 'It is definitely like plunging with a passer or posser or piercer' she insisted. We argued a bit about this over a National Trust teapot. We were not the first to do so, others have described it as a 'hollow thudding' or for the technically minded 'the muffled thudding of trip hammers',  Fortunately a man making spades in the foundry struck iron and Joan said 'that's clanking' and I heartily agreed to that. In retrospect I think Dickens in 'Oliver Twist' got it just about right. "'It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,' said Mr. Sikes."

And that provides a neat introduction to my next topic of interest.

Quite by chance while strolling ( and I mean that even with oxygen!) through the nearby Quaker burying ground and admiring a thatched summerhouse I came across the grave of Tom Pearce. You may recall the gentleman immortalised in the Widecombe Fair song.

Having no need for my polaroid lens to photograph Tom's grave, I deposited it on top of one of his contemporaries and on departing left it there. Fortunate for me then that a delightful little girl with a winning smile slipped it into her pocket and on my return and noting my distress asked me if I wanted it back. I was most grateful to her for her honesty and generosity of spirit. Unfortunately she was too young to appreciate the significance of Tom Pearce on whose headstone she was sitting, while her little bother playfully attempted to push the whole lot over.

It was not always so in Sticklepath. The John Wesley family, and this was unusual for Devon, were welcomed by this former Quaker settlement, which felt sorely neglected by their brotherhood at North Tawton, the central meeting place in these parts. Wesley records in his diary (1744)

"Sunday April 1, I rode to Sticklepath. At one I preached in an open space...A storm of hail and rain began while I was preaching but the congregation did not move. At five I preached again . Many of the poor people followed me to the house at which we lodged; and we could not consent to part until I had spent another hour in exhortation and prayer and thanksgiving." Which was not surprising considering that it was snowing on the moor, but that apart the Wesleyan influence grew while the Quaker settlement broke down. Now I'm all for non-conformity and independence but I would have fled Sticklepath in the late (19 from the Independent Order of good Templars and the JuvenileTemple counting the empties. Not that drunkenness is so much of a problem in the suburbanised 90s when you recall the good old monks on a daily allowance of a gallon of ale plus a gallon more of inferior stuff, a sort of keg beer I suppose. A tradition pissed down through the centuries - reeling churchwardens, masons and chimney sweeps. However, I don't want to talk about that. Sing along instead to Widecombe Fair.

"Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thee grey mare

All along, down along, out along lee,

For I want to go awver to Widecombe Fair

Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Guerney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobley & all, old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."

Now Tom was not altogether happy about this, to his credit, but he was over-ruled with the assurance that the animal would be returned 'by Friday or Saturday noon.'

But it was not to be and Tom grew anxious.

"So Tom Pearse he got me up to the top of the hill.

All along.......

And he seed his old mare move down a making her will,

With ............"

The animal had apparently been 'spavined' Bernard. Like a lame duck. A condition not unfamiliar to humans, a condition in which I now found myself in , a point of mental dissolution.

"So Tom Pearce's old mare her took sick and died,

All along.....

And Tom he sat down on a stone and he cried

With..........."

Eight men sobbing away over the demise of a knackered grey mare would have been a sight to behold or as Norway in 'Highways & Byways of Devon & Cornwall put it in 1898. "a warning too expressive to be forgotten against the cruelty of taking a dumb animal or even an inanimate cycle, to Widecombe-in-the-Moor. If a man will go , let him go on foot.' Quite so and it normally took about six hours, leaving at 5AM and arriving at 11.

Back to the song.

'But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair

All along...

Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career of

..............'

'When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night

All along......

Tom Pearce's old mare, did appear, ghastly white

W'..........'

'And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,

All along.....

From Tom Pearce's old mare in her rattling bones,

And from.....'

Poor old Tom Pearse - what did he do to deserve all this? Although versions of the song crop up everywhere in the south-west, Tom Pearse or Tom Pearce or Tom Pierce occurs in every known version except Helston Fair. And since all the other men except Tom Cobley came from Sticklepath it is I think safe assume that the man whose grave the little boy was intent on toppling was indeed the Tom Pearse. He is better known for summerhouse construction and the fact that he purchased the Quaker graveyard for £14 and donated it to the village. Perhaps that has something to do with it. Since he died in 1875 at the age of 81 and the song was apparently being sung in the 1850s, he must have been aware of it - enough to drive a man to drink if it wasn't of course for the Templars. Quite how the song was adopted by volunteers of the Devonshire Regiment as they marched off to the Boer War in 1897 I have no idea but with the ghostly white apparition of his mare and Tom's rattling bones & bagpipes I reckon Tom got the last laugh.

We repaired at leisure to the Skaigh woods and followed the River Taw past the old woollen mills until we could hear no more human noise, and slumped to the ground with the Sunday papers. I'd had enough exercise after a mile in the heat - there were butterflies in abundance confirming the general impression that it is indeed a good year for butterflies, and after 48 million years of minding their own business who would begrudge them that. Now I know they are outnumbered only by the beetles for whom I have an entire dislike, but I am a true supporter  of butterflies. To go forth and multiply is a time honoured way for minorities world-wide to fight back. Í am especially fond of their mouth parts, namely a long, coiled sucking tube, or proboscis for gathering nectar. With regard to my fast disappearing teeth, such an appendage properly grafted on would be a blessed relief. I am equally envious of the selfless way they assist pollination. The mind boggles that if while sitting down for fish and chips  I might accidentally brush against some male or female organs of say a Rockveiller, and produce puppies. This would be one in the eye so to speak for your winsome elsewhere wench. It was at this point in the day's proceedings that I realised that I had forgotten the sandwiches and brought instead a plastic container of lamb chops. 'That' said Joan 'was thawing out for supper.'

A small blemish on an otherwise fruitful August day and all life is so much better with my liquid oxygen set which I will have to hand over after my holiday, because of imminent bankruptcy.