July 6. Well I’m badgered!
I am at Tintagel and it is pouring with rain, as indeed it has been for virtually the entire week-end. We drove down on Friday morning to Wembury (Claire under her own steam), for the wedding of Diane Lethbridge, who made Taste of the West what it is, and David Hunt, who farms at North Huish near Avonwick. It was the second time around for both of them, but no less happy an occasion for that.
The reception was held at the Langford Court Hotel, a mile or so up the hill from St. Werburgh’s. Half of the South Hams farming community seemed to be there. I was expecting the conversation to be angry and about badgers, the BBC having leaked the news that morning that the gutless Minister of a spineless Government has, after dithering for months, finally decided to announce the decision that I know for a fact he made months ago: that there will be no official cull. But the mood was resigned, if not relaxed, and the consensus seemed to be that the best thing to do would be to say as little as possible, let the controversy subside and then just quietly get on with the business of dealing with the source of the infection – within the law, of course!
The hunting fraternity have shown how much can be achieved by stretching the law to its absolute limit without actually breaking it. I can understand the need for a ritual protest, and maybe even for some legal action, but I have never had much confidence in the likely effectiveness of an official cull, given the constraints to which it would inevitably be subject. Vaccination will no doubt provide a solution eventually. In the meantime, if a few thousand diseased badgers are humanely put out of their misery, most country people will be only too delighted.
On Saturday morning, when I went to introduce myself to my hosts at Wembury Cottage Certificated Location, I found them repairing some serious damage to the door of their garden shed. It turned out that a combination of bolt and padlock had proved no match for a badger determined to smash his way in to get at the bird food stored inside. Cuddly these animals are not. I took particular care to secure Carmen’s side door that night, lest word had got around the badger community that I was in the area!
Thereafter, it rained, and rained, and rained. We drove into Plymouth to meet up with an old friend of mine, Tony Oxley, in his favourite mid-morning haunt of the Dolphin on the Barbican. This was the pub made famous by Beryl Cook. Even at 11 in the morning, it is no place for the faint-hearted. Claire was all for ordering a cup of coffee. It would have made a wonderful subject for a Bateman cartoon! After that, more rain and a puncture. Fortunately, there were three
decent pubs within walking distance of the campsite.
I am at Tintagel and it is pouring with rain, as indeed it has been for virtually the entire week-end. We drove down on Friday morning to Wembury (Claire under her own steam), for the wedding of Diane Lethbridge, who made Taste of the West what it is, and David Hunt, who farms at North Huish near Avonwick. It was the second time around for both of them, but no less happy an occasion for that.
The reception was held at the Langford Court Hotel, a mile or so up the hill from St. Werburgh’s. Half of the South Hams farming community seemed to be there. I was expecting the conversation to be angry and about badgers, the BBC having leaked the news that morning that the gutless Minister of a spineless Government has, after dithering for months, finally decided to announce the decision that I know for a fact he made months ago: that there will be no official cull. But the mood was resigned, if not relaxed, and the consensus seemed to be that the best thing to do would be to say as little as possible, let the controversy subside and then just quietly get on with the business of dealing with the source of the infection – within the law, of course!
The hunting fraternity have shown how much can be achieved by stretching the law to its absolute limit without actually breaking it. I can understand the need for a ritual protest, and maybe even for some legal action, but I have never had much confidence in the likely effectiveness of an official cull, given the constraints to which it would inevitably be subject. Vaccination will no doubt provide a solution eventually. In the meantime, if a few thousand diseased badgers are humanely put out of their misery, most country people will be only too delighted.
On Saturday morning, when I went to introduce myself to my hosts at Wembury Cottage Certificated Location, I found them repairing some serious damage to the door of their garden shed. It turned out that a combination of bolt and padlock had proved no match for a badger determined to smash his way in to get at the bird food stored inside. Cuddly these animals are not. I took particular care to secure Carmen’s side door that night, lest word had got around the badger community that I was in the area!
Thereafter, it rained, and rained, and rained. We drove into Plymouth to meet up with an old friend of mine, Tony Oxley, in his favourite mid-morning haunt of the Dolphin on the Barbican. This was the pub made famous by Beryl Cook. Even at 11 in the morning, it is no place for the faint-hearted. Claire was all for ordering a cup of coffee. It would have made a wonderful subject for a Bateman cartoon! After that, more rain and a puncture. Fortunately, there were three
decent pubs within walking distance of the campsite. Dozmary Pool
It was still raining this morning when Claire returned to Langport and I set off for Cornwall. But by the time I’d reached Bodmin Moor (having decided upon an Arthurian theme for the day), the downpour had given way to periodic heavy showers. I stopped at Jamaica Inn and cycled across the moor to Dozmary Pool, into which Sir Bedevere eventually brought himself to cast Excalibur. It struck me as an unexceptional stretch of water, and even though the lowering skies leant the scene a somewhat ominous tone, I found it hard to visualise the brand being grasped by that arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful
as Tennyson has it.
Not that Tennyson placed the scene in question anywhere near Bodmin Moor. His preference was Loe Pool, near Porthleven, not least because it fits in well with Lyonesse being the site of Arthur’s last battle. For myself, I prefer the claims of Slaughter Bridge, near Camelford, where there is now a modest Arthurian centre. I drove past it on my way to Tintagel, having previously paused at the pretty village of Altarnun. With its handsome church (founded, you’ll recall, by St. Non, the mother of St. David, who gives his name to neighbouring Davidstow) and a head of John Wesley, by the renowned Cornish sculptor, Neville Northey Burnard, it is one of
Cornwall’s hidden gems.
It was still raining this morning when Claire returned to Langport and I set off for Cornwall. But by the time I’d reached Bodmin Moor (having decided upon an Arthurian theme for the day), the downpour had given way to periodic heavy showers. I stopped at Jamaica Inn and cycled across the moor to Dozmary Pool, into which Sir Bedevere eventually brought himself to cast Excalibur. It struck me as an unexceptional stretch of water, and even though the lowering skies leant the scene a somewhat ominous tone, I found it hard to visualise the brand being grasped by that arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful
as Tennyson has it.
Not that Tennyson placed the scene in question anywhere near Bodmin Moor. His preference was Loe Pool, near Porthleven, not least because it fits in well with Lyonesse being the site of Arthur’s last battle. For myself, I prefer the claims of Slaughter Bridge, near Camelford, where there is now a modest Arthurian centre. I drove past it on my way to Tintagel, having previously paused at the pretty village of Altarnun. With its handsome church (founded, you’ll recall, by St. Non, the mother of St. David, who gives his name to neighbouring Davidstow) and a head of John Wesley, by the renowned Cornish sculptor, Neville Northey Burnard, it is one of
Cornwall’s hidden gems. St. Non's Parish Church, Altarnun
Such is the fame of Tintagel, that it surprised me when I got here that it is just a village. After raining all afternoon, the weather lifted for just long enough for me to visit the castle. It was officially closed, but still mostly accessible, thus saving me the £4.70 entrance fee. The place may be full of tat (although it’s a lot better than it was) and its Arthurian pretensions distinctly thin, but it does undoubtedly have a touch of magic about it, which the legendary editor of the Western Morning News, R.A.J. Walling, describes much better than I ever could, in his excellent book “The West Country”:
“The realism of history has no part in the emotion inspired by Tintagel. If these walls were built sheer on the edge of the cliff by some prosaic Norman baron, what of it? The heroism of the British king, his high emprise, the fervour of the lost cause nobly fought, the idealism of an immortal story are the things we recall looking out upon the great ocean and up and down the serried cliff-bound coast with its rich coat of vandyke and emerald and sapphire; and if we come here on a night of moonlightevery seabird whose wings or whose cry we hear will be for us the spirit of Arthur which, embodied in a Cornish chough, haunts the scene of his mortal glory waiting for the moment when he shall in a new avatar lead the British race to victory over their Saxon enemies.”
There speaks the true voice of the Celt!
Such is the fame of Tintagel, that it surprised me when I got here that it is just a village. After raining all afternoon, the weather lifted for just long enough for me to visit the castle. It was officially closed, but still mostly accessible, thus saving me the £4.70 entrance fee. The place may be full of tat (although it’s a lot better than it was) and its Arthurian pretensions distinctly thin, but it does undoubtedly have a touch of magic about it, which the legendary editor of the Western Morning News, R.A.J. Walling, describes much better than I ever could, in his excellent book “The West Country”:
“The realism of history has no part in the emotion inspired by Tintagel. If these walls were built sheer on the edge of the cliff by some prosaic Norman baron, what of it? The heroism of the British king, his high emprise, the fervour of the lost cause nobly fought, the idealism of an immortal story are the things we recall looking out upon the great ocean and up and down the serried cliff-bound coast with its rich coat of vandyke and emerald and sapphire; and if we come here on a night of moonlightevery seabird whose wings or whose cry we hear will be for us the spirit of Arthur which, embodied in a Cornish chough, haunts the scene of his mortal glory waiting for the moment when he shall in a new avatar lead the British race to victory over their Saxon enemies.”
There speaks the true voice of the Celt!
"King Arthur' Castle", Tintagel
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