Links to articles in this chapter:
Wishing Stone at Beeston
Wedding in the Family
Broadhempston Slide Show
Woodland – Beating the Bounds
Editorial
WISHING STONE AT BEESTON
I wonder if any of your readers can tell us anything about ‘The Cock Crowing Stone’ or ‘Wishing Stone’, as some children call it. For those who don’t know it, it is the large round flat stone which used to lie at the entrance to the lane, on the left hand side halfway to Beeston. I was sorry to see that it had been moved and put up in the hedge. Many generations of children must have kept the tradition of walking three times round it and then wishing.
As it has long been a village landmark and reminder of times past, couldn’t it be reinstated?
Jennifer Lambe, December 1978
WEDDING IN THE FAMILY
Please forgive me if I start by being rather personal. May I ask, are you feeling overweight? Have you put on a few pounds over Christmas? Perhaps you’ve thought of trying the Cambridge Diet, or the F Plan Beans and Bran, or the old faithful Weight Watchers? I’ve tried the lot, but the one that’s worked best is a new one called the wedding in the Family Diet. The magic formula is not high protein, or low fat, but ‘we’ll have the reception at home and do it ourselves’. Magic!
But, to begin at the beginning. Our eldest daughter, Kate, was always one for the boys. After her first day at primary school she told me that she was in love, that he was called Matthew, he had WHITE hair – he was actually ash blond – and had a lovely loud voice. Even as young as five she knew what she liked in A Man.
When she was a little older, she’d a succession of delightful and some not so delightful, young men, who arrived and departed with such rapidity that I felt like employing a uniformed commissionaire, to open and close the front door while announcing, ‘Those coming in on the right, those going out on the left’.
Then she met James and we endlessly heard James, James, James. We thought nothing of it, because we’d already heard Alan, Alan, Alan and Philip, Philip, Philip and John, John, John, et cetera in their turn ad nauseam. However, one evening, when Kate was away at college in Cheltenham, James phoned to ask if he could borrow a tile cutter. He called round after work to collect it and, while having a drink, the conversation took an unexpected turn. Something like, ‘Thank you, Roger, for lending me your tile cutter and, by the way, while I’m here, please may I have permission to marry your daughter?’
It was something of a surprise, but Roger and I went into overdrive, so while he shook James’s hand unnecessarily hard, I hugged him a lot – and may even have shed the odd tear. Roger went out of the room, I thought perhaps to blow his nose with emotion, until I heard the unmistakeable sounds of my husband SEARCHING. He’s a noisy searcher, mainly because he hopes that if he makes enough racket, I’ll go and help him. Having experienced the daft places where my husband’s secreted things, I stayed where I was and enjoyed my drink, while talking to James and savouring words like son-in-law.
The bumping and muttering reached a crescendo and then there was a yell of Eureka or something. And a dusty, cobwebby Roger appeared triumphantly brandishing a bottle of champagne that he’d been saving for an occasion, which this obviously was. I think it must have been the bubbly that brought the fatal words to my lips, because through a golden haze it seemed a lovely idea to have the reception at home and do it ourselves. The wedding date was 11th April 1987, so we had a year in which to plan it, which I actually found rather frustrating, because we couldn’t there and then send out the invitations, or stuff the freezer with sausage rolls and I wanted to do something.
The first practical thing we did was to compile a guest list. Roger and I made one, Kate and James made one and his mother and father made one. Together they looked like the first section of the London telephone directory. We all blue pencilled and as we cut names and reduced numbers to a fairly manageable quantity, we realised that having a wedding is a foolproof way of losing friends and making lifelong enemies.
The next thing that we could sensibly get on with was Kate’s dress, so the bride and bride’s mother endlessly browsed round bridal shops to get ideas. Kate’s twin, Vicky, was giving her the dress as her wedding present and had commissioned a theatrical designer friend to make it. Kate wanted to have a few ideas of her own, but our browsing only clarified what she didn’t like. All the dresses we saw were overblown and looked like 1920s crinoline ladies that were popped over the telephone to hide it away – I can’t think why. Kate is not only short and slim and she’d been swamped by these over-flowered, over-ribboned, over-flounced and over lacy monstrosities. She met the designer and discussed style and materials and I tracked down a bridesmaid’s dress in Laura Ashley that was the right colour green for a spring wedding. I then metaphorically held my breath until I could get all my chicks together for a few days at Christmas, to see if they liked what I’d chosen, and if it suited them all.
Eventually they arrived from their various outposts of the Empire; Caroline from St Andrew’s very much JUST before Christmas because she was in her fourth year at University and had finals looming; Anna from Brighton, in her second year at University; and Vicky literally at the last moment on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. She was the icing on the cake, because she’d originally thought she’d only have two days off from the theatre – she works in the wardrobe of the Abbey Theatre, Dublin – and it was hardly worth the expense of flying home for such a short time. When she found she had longer, she and Kate and James plotted so that it would be a surprise for Roger and me. It was a lovely one, particularly as I was getting my knickers in a knot because Kate hadn’t arrived home by mid-afternoon after putting James on the train to spend Christmas with his family. When she finally arrived, she forestalled all my Mother Hen clucking of, “I’ve been so worried”, by saying that she’d been collecting my present from Bristol and I must go and look in the car NOW – and there was Vicky. With all my girls at home I was able to forget my worries a bit, so that Wedding in the Family Diet slipped, mostly with a thud on to my waist and hips!
After Christmas, my appetite disappeared magically when I found the designer was never in when I called and my frantic messages on her ansaphone were being ignored. Eventually I spoke to her and she dropped her bombshell. She was so busy that she couldn’t START Kate’s dress until March. We contemplated Kate travelling up to London for fittings in the month leading up to the wedding and at the very thought I lost another half stone. Fortunately, Kate agreed that it was too risky, so we had to think again.
Luckily, a friend heard of our problem and offered a solution. Her daughter-in-law had had her wedding dress designed and made by another friend of Vicky’s and she was willing to lend it to Kate, if it fitted and she liked it. I loved it – we ALL loved it. End of problem, until we tried the bridesmaids’ dresses with it, when with one accord we all went YUK. Kate’s dress was an unusual colour, a sort of creamy, apricot silk, which changed according to the light. The bridesmaids’ dresses were a flat green and looked ‘orrible.
My next move was to Laura Ashley in London where I would try to change the dresses for a different green, IF there was one. The night before I went I tossed and turned, wondering what I would do if they didn’t have another green dress. I walked towards the dress department in the Regent Street store with my eyes shut. Then I opened one bloodshot orb to a slit. There, shimmering on a hanger, was a green taffeta shot with apricot. Perfect with Kate’s dress.
The wedding was a long way off and then it was only a month away. Anna came home from University and she and I started cooking. The freezer filled with 300 sausage rolls, 400 meringue boxes of tiny savoury bites and crab and lobster cooked and dissected by Roger with devotion beyond the call of duty.
Anna iced the three tiers of the wedding cake, matching the tiny fondant roses to the exact colour of the flowers in Kate’s bouquet and the finished effect was pretty and delicate.
I felt anything but pretty and extremely delicate. For at least three months before the wedding, I woke every morning at 3.00 am and had a really substantial worry. There wouldn’t be enough food/drink, there wouldn’t be enough room in the house, people would be standing on each other’s shoulders, it would pour with rain, our guests would be plastered with mud when they arrived and so on and so on boringly.
On 10th April it poured. It had poured on 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th April, so this was no novelty. We’d hoped to cut the grass in the churchyard, but it was too wet, so in the wedding photos we’ve all lost our legs and look like a row of plastic gnomes. The house was ready, the flowers were done, they’d had their rehearsal in Church and Kate had had a bad go of pre-wedding heeby-jeebies, fortunately vented on Stephen, who was actually marrying them.
Stephen Peters has known all our family since the children were very young, so a touch of Miller temperament was no novelty. Kate was ratty over Stephen’s attention to detail, but this insistence on stage management, for want of a better word, was justified when the next day everything went without a hitch. (Stephen defused the atmosphere at the rehearsal by cueing the organist, my friend Dorothy, with the unlikely instruction to ‘Hit it, Doll!’)
On the day she played magnificently and the service was inspiring, not just for the young couple, but for all of us who’d been married for some time and needed to be reminded of our vows.
Sorry, I’m jumping ahead. On The Day, I woke at my usual time of 3.00 am and sneaked out of bed to check on the weather. It was dry which was a good start. As I snuggled down in bed, I suddenly felt, not terrified any more, but thrilled, excited, expectant – all good feelings and I wanted it all to start right then. From that moment on, I was happy all day. To everyone’s astonishment, I didn’t shed a single tear.
By 9 o’clock we could see it was going to be a fine day and a marvellous gang of willing helpers had arrived and formed a production line. My god-daughter and a cousin filled 300 vol au vents or vool ao vongs as a friend used to call them. We had butterers and spreaders of sandwiches and another cousin stood by with an electric carving knife, looking I may say like something from the chain saw massacre. She provided the finishing touch by slicing off the crusts, producing neat little isosceles triangles to warning cries of, “Timber!”.
The food was ready plated and trayed and cling filmed, the champagne chilling, and then it was time for me to bath and dress, and the car was waiting to take me to Church. I looked at the gorgeous bridesmaids, at my distinguished husband, immaculate for once, in morning dress (with socks that matched) and at the beautiful bride whose eyes were ready to swim, and even then I didn’t bawl. I don’t remember what I actually said, but it was something as matter of fact as possible, like, “See you in Church, old fruit”.
After that my responsibilities were over. I’d promised my family that I wouldn’t fuss or interfere at the reception, but would leave it to the team of Eileen Pitts, Ruby Smith and Carol Pitts who would be in charge, and I kept my word, and of course everything went beautifully without me.
Elizabeth Miller, January 1988
BROADHEMPSTON SLIDE SHOW
The first show of the Broadhempston Society was a great success and congratulations go to Moira Mellor and the Dartington Hall Archives on the slide show of old photos of the village shown in the Church.
We are indeed lucky to have someone like Moira who has spent hours and hours interviewing people, borrowing old photos, now recently taken off for slides, then putting it all together and writing up all the history and finishing up with a superb commentary! I was surprised and pleased that so many people enjoyed the Show, considering the fact that they were not living in the village when the photos were taken. I was particularly interested in the photo of the Atwills working on the Elm Park stonework. Years ago, I worked with the late Owen Atwill and heard all about how the Summer House and gate piers were built. It was primarily the idea of the then owner, Donald Morrison.
The grey limestone all had to be weathered and was gathered from Tor Newton and Torbryan and brought to Elm Park on wagons which had a layer of straw on the floor for protection. As viewers will see, no jointing can be seen and I have admired this work ever since. I cast eyes on it and consider that stonework of this nature is very rare indeed. This method apparently has been adopted in recent years as will be seen at Orleigh Road, Ipplepen, the difference being that it is done with any old stone and a long way from the same craftsmanship.
Percy Braund, March 1989
WOODLAND – BEATING THE BOUNDS
We all enjoyed a lovely day and beautiful views when 22 past and present villagers plus one from Exeter and one from Bovey Tracey walked the boundaries of Woodland. This event took place on Saturday, 14th October, and the walk began at the Rising Sun. It is only when participating in such an event that you realise the vast size of each Parish. The walk took place from 10.25 am to 4.00 pm, stopping for a short time at Purcombe Cross for lunch. This was kindly prepared by Tuppence Hanson and consisted of hot pasties and rolls filled with cold meat and salad, freshly made jam doughnuts and coffee (scrumptious!). The total distance was 11.5 miles and the walkers varied in age from six years upwards.From the Sun we headed north through Down Farms, up Coombe Hill and along Pitley Lane. We then touched Tor and Dipwell Farm top fields to Whistley Hill. Once at the top, we descended down the valley in front of Hoopers Hayes and crossed the River Hems to enter Purcombe Copse. At Purcombe Cross we decided to uphold tradition and bump a small boy on a stone. As no one volunteered, a stick was used instead. After a much appreciated lunch and rest we marched on along the Broadhempston road, tracking the boundaries through Levaton Farm and Tor Newton, bringing us out on to the Denbury Down Road. From here the remainder of the boundary travels along the road all the way back to the Sun.
I think it fair to say we were all glad to approach the finish line, a little bedraggled after a couple of showers but the satisfaction of the achievement outweighed it all.
Everyone who walked enjoyed this social as well as educational outing, so roll on 1996 when we can do it all again!!!
Anon, November 1989
EDITORIAL
I am writing this on top of a ladder, while scraping paint off a ceiling – and no, I’ve not secretly been doing a YTS, or whatever it’s called now, with Billy Smart, as a trainee contortionist. I am, of course, writing it in my head. Anything to alleviate the jaw cracking boredom of the job. Buckyette Spring Cleaning has started, and I’m not enjoying it.
My negative feelings about this ritual go back a long way. My childhood memories of spring cleaning are of extreme discomfort, and a terrible, antiseptic, cold smell. Our house lost it’s warm welcoming atmosphere, and became bare, chilly, denuded of curtains, carpets and rugs, furniture pushed into unnatural positions, and all unfamiliar and alien. My father, I remember, wandering around from room to room, vainly trying to find a spot where could smoke his pipe and read his newspaper in peace, with my normally even-tempered mother snapping at his heels like a Border Collie, until he was eventually driven into the garden, whence she perversely followed him, to envelop him in clouds of dust, as she bashed seven bells out of a rug, draped tent like over the washing line. My job was to clean all the brass, a hateful job, and even now I only need a whiff of Brasso, and my skin creeps at the memory of that horrible, dry, powdery feel to my hands. Looking back I know that all the misery and discomfort was unnecessary. My mother was an efficient housewife, who kept everything spotless and tidy, despite her untidy family.
I only spring clean because I have to. At this time of year we prepare for the start of the holiday season. We redecorate, this year three bedrooms, and we also have to move out of our bedrooms into cramped quarters at the back of the house. It’s not too bad now, but when the children were young it was a mammoth task, which I tackled when they were all at school. Plastic sacks bulged with rubbish. If left to their own devices, they lovingly hoarded headless dolls, old comics, jigsaws with half the pieces missing, moth eaten jumpers, odd socks, and even party balloons partially deflated into unappetising wrinkliness.
I suppose I haven’t explained why I’m standing on a ladder scraping the ceiling. Our ceilings have always been prone to skin problems. They began with infantile eczema, which was bearable, progressed to adolescent acne, which was more difficult, but now in maturity they have full blown psoriasis.
It all goes back to the days when ceilings were lime washed, and when painted over the lime wash causes blisters, blebs, stys, scabs, pimples and pustules to erupt alarmingly. The only remedy Is to remove every vestige of the old stuff, seal it, and then paper, and the result is a treat – as smooth as a baby’s posterior, and worth all the effort. Worth all the effort, I say, but for us it’s a necessary evil connected with our business. For most people spring cleaning is an archaic and needless ritual inherited from our mothers. It’s 1991!
Housewives of the world unite! Strike a blow for freedom, for yourself, for your families. Metaphorically throw down your paint brushes, and like the Mole in ‘The Wind in the Willows’, cry, ‘Blow Spring Cleaning’.
Elizabeth Miller, March 1991
The above militant cry does NOT apply to spring cleaning our Churches!