I’m writing this from Exmoor, where indeed you wouldn’t come if you wanted wall-to-wall sunshine and cosmopolitan chic. However, if your tastes ran to wide open spaces, distant views and a surfeit of tweed, you just might.
On our first day we rode from Withypool along the river Barle and came to Tarr Steps. These huge steps formed from two ton stepping stones make a medieval (grade 1 listed) clapper crossing of 180 feet across the Barle and have been essential to stock farmers, hunters and walkers for generations and generations.
On our second and particularly disobliging day, in the rain and the wind, we stayed inside and played scrabble (renamed squabble) and did silly crosswords, which indeed did make us cross; and of course eating and drinking too much. Very anxious about the weather because the Exford Show was the very next day, Wednesday, August 9, the very big local day
The field it was to be held in was very close to where we were staying, and 24 hours before was just a wet soggy field, although it was high and so drained well. A miracle happened and by early the next day this field was fenced into a million rings, garlanded and tented into the magical showground which attracted most of that area of Somerset and Devon to come and cheer and jeer, and show and be seen. Wonderful shopping, eating, drinking opportunities presented themselves.
Gosh, people work so so hard to make events like this work, And then, after all day facing their public, they have to pack up their stalls and take everything home, so thank God the sun shone for them all.
My family have all got masses of dogs, so we all foregathered at the dogs show ring. It was £1 a pop to enter any of the 12 classes. ‘prettiest bitch’, ‘prettiest dog’, best working type’, ‘best rescue dog’ and so on. By an extraordinary oversight or miscarriage of justice, my perfect little dog got passed over in all classes. My family all laughed cruelly, but I put it down to the long grass, she’s tiny and could barely be adequately appreciated. Just as an unwelcome postscript, my husband’s dog won a second in her class, and the crowing is unattractive to witness, even now.
The next day a meet was held in the show field, and the grandchildren all got caught up in the excitement, although their father saw more that anyone I think -see the main photo.
At the end of the weekend we were invited to south Devon, which to my eye is not quite as attractive, although it has to be said that neither areas have any litter. Amazing and impressive.
We were kindly taken out to the Greyhound at Fenny Bridges for an evening meal, 11 of us. Having jostled for position and wriggled our bottoms into our seats, the waitress went round us all for drinks orders. Coming to my 18 year old 6′ 3″ grandson Arty she insisted on ID. He was perplexed and hadn’t got any on him. My son, his uncle, quite brilliantly we all thought produced a photo of Arty’s passport from a very recent French trip. But no, the poor waitress had to appeal the photo to the manager, who refused the evidence of his own eyes! So not wanting to tarnish the atmosphere any further, hero grandmother (moi) drove him lickettysplit to our rental for his driving licence.
We all wondered later how much more proof positive could you get than a passport photo? They are just fine for booking air fares, but clearly drinking a deadly pint in Devon, in the very bosom of his family, is off the scale. Off what scale, we none of us could quite fathom, but we reckoned it was just another layer of bureaucracy. A pity really, as my grandchildren would, I’m sure, all grow to be obedient foot soldiers of the realm, but operating a very visibly ridiculous piece of legislation like that is certainly not going to encourage them to toe the line blindly.
But hey, what do us oldies know of anything now in this mad, mad world.
Image Credits: Col Everett .