Mogging south across the Tamar, a Devonian risks becoming a foreigner in his homeland but the Royal Ivory 4/4 is a passport to anywhere and the
run to Cornwall is scenic, whichever route I take. The A30 dual carriageway north of Dartmoor is quickest with some newly
surfaced sections to enjoy. The A38 Plymouth route is less appealing, both routes have trammelled nearside lanes which don't suit sliding pillar suspension and cause this 4/4 to weave aboutlike a rabbit fleeing a whippet, until I nudge her into the fast lane, where the heavy goods don't go.
Lostwithial Bridge
Lostwithial bridge across the river Fowey
River Fowey
Lostwithial Station
Sidings left to nature
The Kings Arms
The Library
Buildings here are colourful, a mix of local stone, Schist, Granite and Delabole slate. such that this little townscape blends perfectly into the landscape. Moss and lichen flourish in good clean air washed in over the Atlantic.
Hath A lease for 3000 years written in stone
I thread the Mog between granite parapets of the medieval granite bridge crossing the Fowey at Lostwithial. I wonder what it meant to be the driver of a horse drawn carriage,subject to tolls all the way to London, armed with flintlock pistol; prepared to blast off at anyone who dared halt progress along the kings highway. The Morgan defends itself with twin tone horns, a good turn of speed and ample four-square agility.
The Methodist Church
40 shillings fine if your forget to shut the gate
Lostwithial Bridge
Golant
Morgan at Golant beside the Fowey
Gridlocked Fowey - by the bakery - tried treacle tart.
At Fowey Carnival week is grid lock week. Full car park, barred up loos and nowhere to go. A beer lorry delivery brings me to a halt directly outside the Quay Bakery. A treacle tart and fruit scone helps pass the time. Ahead of the red car in front of the Morgan is a white panel van making a delivery to the local pub and parked across our paths. Remonstrating with the driver can be seen another driver complaining through the van drivers open side window, each of us delayed also did in turn until, eventually, the van moved on.
Polkerris The drive
Tribute is the Cornish ale of choice, The Kings Arms, the king of local pubs and there is the river Fowey, best discovered by small boat or wandering on foot towards the sea, planned with an eye on the weather.
A brief pootle up the A30 to Honiton, then down the Fairmile Straight towards
Beer for a morning snack. Nobody told us it is Carnival Week at Beer but the
park is not too full and Hurricane Bertha has blown out its rain overnight.
We find a
hole and witness a car being bumped in the car park, then leave a note while the culprits drive off without stopping!
Bacon butties, or a hot pasty,
flap jack and tea or coffee at Keno’s’ beach-hut café and a relaxing hour in the hot sun;
later a stroll through the craft market and a gander in Beer Gallery. Pricey
artwork here for sale with small pictures £500, larger ones upwards of £1,500! To raid or not to raid my pension pot next April, that is the question!
Methinks Helen would prefer an Aran
knitwear jumper for her birthday. Lovely hand knitted garments at the craft
fair; 1/3 the price of the equivalent shop article.
We carry home a nice fillet of Plaice from the beachside fish shop for tea. This seaside gem remains our favourite watering hole of all those in Devon. Wooden fishing boats to be seen hauled up the pebble beach across slippery poles drenched in cooking oil. Beach huts for hire and deck chairs if you prefers not to sit on pebbles. The cove is sheltered beneath the cream coloured cliffs of Beer stone.
A few miles further along begins the Jurassic fossil coastline.
More happy faces, more dance, more music, soon to be over for another year.
The sixtieth anniversary of the Festival will be celebrated with song and dance until late.
Health
warning.
My scenic
excursions are due to be rudely interrupted shortly due to a medical procedure
on my lower bowel. Nothing to do with the firm ride of the 4/4 suspension I
hope - surely more likely to be due to changes to my diet and advancing years.
At the
RD&E hospital I was examined by a very kind consultant who explained the
procedure, donned disposable gloves and squinted up the junction using a sort
of viewing scope. That’s step one. Step two he explained, required a further
procedure to check beyond the U bend.
The routine final
procedure for removing said little bits of my bowel using a gun at point blank
range. Nothing to get too alarmed over – the gun is one that draws the
offending bit under suction up into the barrel and then slips a little rubber band
over the tip of the barrel. The band thus deployed, left in place so as to
restrict blood supply would soon drop away and be expelled along with the ugly
little sac that intruded just there.
I explained that I had already had nasal
polyps removed. “Wrong end - no
connection at all”. Great I thought that’s
all right then.
Follow me down this favourite scenic route due south from my Devonshire home. A side road near Aveton Gifford floats on the mud bank of the river Avon, edged with guide poles so that driving into the sticky stuff is less likely.
Along the way is the lower Dartmouth ferry, Blackpool Sands and Slapton Ley.
For those who might not have heard of the Dartmouth lower ferry: Two vessels are coupled together with two stout ropes. The ferry itself just a flat box shape with a hinged ramp at each end for vehicles to drive on and then off again at the other side of the estuary. The ticket man collects your fare in his leather pouch. No engine for propulsion is on this floating box, just hydraulic gear to raise and lower the ramps. Attached along one side is the little tug which is not exactly fixed, but loosely tethered about its bows by the two ropes already mentioned. The ferrymaster pilot pulls, pushes, shoves and heaves the ferry by seamanship alone.
Not only does he get to the other side, he also manages to avoid a second identical ferry as it alternates back and forth, in all wind and weather.
Morgan is the last British car maker
on this planet because it’s a resilient little beast and so very fit
for purpose. A perfect example of survival of the fittest. Driving down memory lane it dawned
on me that Darwin’s theory of evolution may be applied not only to the
Morgan; but also to the animal, vegetable and mineral of it's constituent parts, even to the entire cosmos.
One binary star a few thousand light years away in the constellation Sagittarius is overdue to expel its heap of charged particles and electrical energy in our direction. The axis of spin happens to be perfectly aligned with planet earth. If
the cosmic spotlight comes tomorrow my Morgan could be stripped down to its last cog and sprocket before I get my chance to wear it out. The Morgan projected onto the face of the moon - a shadow of its former self, grey tinted Molib Denim.
The day dawns bright and sunny, the hood is off and the lights all show green.
Scuttling through the lanes past Yettington and Otterton we head off for an eccentric Sunday morning to this wonderful music festival. The crocket lawns are sparkling with morning dew and the early arrival assures us of a good parking spot. The car park attendant offers us a prime slot where he may keep a watch on the venerated vehicle.
Past Pinn Farm, over the next hill and here is Sidmouth
Ice cream, Cheesy chips, Cornish pasties, sticky buns, iced coffee and sun shades. A wide brimmed hat to keeps the sun off.
Down beneath the Beech tree canopy
Safe in front of the hut beside the crocket lawns.
Coffee and toast for breakfast
The Morris Man
The Lifeboat Man
The accordian players
Lots of happy faces
People watching here reaches its zenith as all tastes are catered for and everyone is so happy.
Rowers rowing off shore, Dinghy sailors sailing, sunbathers, kayakers, and so many musicians preparing to strum, pluck, blow, thump or beat. If your choice is a tin whistle thats fine, if its a trombone thats good too. One little girl is sitting beside the beach railings practicing her percussion set which includes a plastic bowl, bongos, and an up ended plastic crate.
Amongst the Morris dancers the colourful attire is all bells and whistles - anything goes - one lady is cross dressed like an Ostrich with knobbly knees while a gentleman walks by in the garb of admiral Nelson complete with his chelengk (that hat).
