My family moved to Devon for work reasons in 2024. They are presently living in a rented farmhouse in a village surrounded by farmland and hilly common land. They rented in order that they could sell their own house without undue haste while settling into their new employments.
The views from their living rooms are of an ancient ridge and hill fort with farming land in the valley lowland between. They have enthusiastically embraced the village life and the community spirit that exists there. In fact, they are so happy in their present environment that it will be a serious wrench for them to leave, when they do, eventually, buy another house of their own.
I have made several visits and have been enchanted by the surroundings, the verdant open countryside and the healthy aroma of cattle. “Oh be joyful” as I was always told in my youth that describes the particular smell that derives from cattle dung.
The Battle of Britain event (held high up on the ridge) and later, the annual village fete and flower show were an especial joy, because it was such a poignant reminder of those far off days of my younger life when such local events were a commonplace and solid evidence of community life as once it was used to be lived.
The local parish magazine, lovingly produced by the dedicated team of the village committee, is circulated regularly to each household. It contains everything from articles written by local people about their lives, past and present (and are a delight to read); upcoming village events; Church services and celebrations and trade advertisements from local people alongside the more “official” information from the local Council pertaining to the village. The whole is beautifully bound in covers illustrated with beautifully drawn pictures relating to the time of the year of publication. There are also advertisements from local farmers who offer meat parcels as and when they have them available to sell in season. Last Christmas the turkey on our table had been hatched, raised truly free range and prepared for the table locally within the village domain.
The parish church where the bells are still rung regularly (to which the farm dog, endearingly, sings along) takes me back more than sixty years to a time when the local church in the town where I grew up was still a central part of our lives. However, today I doubt whether one in one hundred in the streets where I once lived, even hear the bells, let alone answer their call to attend the services (if the bells are even rung nowadays!).
A striking feature of this village is the peacefulness. It is still a working farm area, but apart from the occasional tractor and farm machinery in season, the overriding atmosphere is one of absolute tranquillity. Cows and sheep are to be heard when they are resident in adjacent fields. A multiplicity of birds visit the garden to feed on the bounty that the family puts out for them.
Amongst the wide and varied collection are several pheasant (all given names and known by the variations in their plumage and habits). Even the cat has embraced life as a “country cat” and contentedly ranges about doing all the things that makes a cat a cat!
But above all is the absence of traffic roar and siren blaring that is so prevalent in the town where I have resided for the last 28 years.
This morning, I went with my family to join in the school (pre-holiday) Easter service in the church near the school. They had devised a table display showing the three crosses and the tomb. The children read the Easter story out, sang the hymns and read the prayers. The Vicar took them through the whole thing and it was a joy to witness. How comforting to see a Christian observance with no suggestion of DEI involved.
On this particular Devon visit, I have been privileged to have been introduced to the “renaissance” of the local pub. Some years ago, the grandmother of the farmers who presently own and operate the farm (upon whose land the house is sited that is presently being occupied by my family) decided to remedy the deficiency of the lack of a pub being available to the village.
Accordingly, she turned the back parlour of her farmhouse into a pub. There was even a traditional pub sign erected outside. I do not know how the licensing laws operated at that time. When she died, the pub fell into disuse.
However, the local Council decided that it was an amenity that they wanted to see reinstated. Therefore, they willingly granted a renewal of licence to the present generation of the farming family to operate it. Thus, it has been restored, restocked and re-opened. During the restoration period, a temporary pub was run on certain evenings in the village hall. This ensured that on the re-opening night of the original pub, it had an enthusiastic reception because the clientele changed location (a few hundred yards up the lane).
My own experience on entering, was a revelation! Not since the late sixties have I visited a truly “local” pub. A short walk of approximately 100 yards brought us to the door. The buzz of the patrons as we entered was an instant, atmospheric regression to “past times”! It was immediately obvious that most of the customers were known to one another as they were also known to “Mine Hosts” Roger and Sheila. (Not their real names but to preserve their own privacy and location, I have given them aliases).
The bar itself is relatively spacious, when one considers that it was once a private parlour. Four tables and chairs including a large traditional “settle” along with the customary stools and a few side chairs, the assembled company at the time totalled some thirty patrons. We were lucky enough to find seats at the last remaining table. There was a log fire burning in the modern but extremely effective wood burning stove. The whole atmosphere was warm, convivial and inviting.
The “piece de resistance” (apart from the excellent beer) was the addition each table of some fiendishly difficult wooden puzzles, along with some large versions of the bent nail puzzles that used once to be included in the Christmas crackers of my youth. Those puzzles were the ultimate “ice breaker”. People struggling with some puzzle or other were being instructed by those who had previously “cracked” the solution. Conversation buzzed good naturedly and reassuringly. Because the patrons were all “local”, there was absolutely no fear that the puzzles would be “misappropriated”.
I am given to understand that “Mine Hosts” have a collection of such puzzles so that they may be rotated from time to time to keep the “puzzling” fresh. A quintessentially English pub being run by locals for locals. Open three nights a week it is a satisfying and comforting reminder that our “Englishness” is still available to us if we are prepared to rediscover and nurture it.
In fact this whole area has something of “the Land that Time Forgot” about it. Far removed from the hideousness of the life that presently exists in my native and seriously over-crowded Kent, I drink in the tranquillity contained in this pocket of wonderful bucolic life, that is rapidly being squeezed out of other areas of that inspirational Country that I loved. The Country that used to be, unashamedly, called “England”.