RUMBLINGS AND GRUMBLINGS, 1910.

(image courtesy of http://www.richardrochester.co.uk/)



From the Exmouth Journal January 15th 1910:

"The herring fishermen of Exmouth have met with very little success this season, poor catches having been the order throughout, while many men have been working their boats at a loss. This is most serious because the majority of local fishermen depend to a very great extent on the proceeds of the herring fishery to tide them over the lean period of the year.

"It is suggested that the heavy gun practice which is indulged in by warships in the neighbourhood is responsible for the absence of the fish and there appears to be something in the idea. The vibration caused by the firing of a heavy capital gun can be felt for miles on the water and would naturally affect herrings coming into the bay to spawn and, while it would drive the majority away, the spawn of those which remained would, in all probability be broken up by the vibration."

Across the century one hears the rumblings of war and of the great guns and the grumblings at the bar of the Volunteer.

THE PARSON AND THE CLERK ROCK

This is from the Exmouth Journal of 19th June 2009 with the somewhat bizarre original punctuation. (All those commas!!!) This is,however, the best telling that I have found of this rather silly ‘legend’ and now that it is over a hundred years old I suppose it must be considered a genuine antique. It is, at the least, much better told here than in the late Llywelyn Maddock’s ‘West Country Folk Tales.’


“A curious legend attaches to the Parson and Clerk Rock,. It runs as follows:-

The Rector of Dunchideock was a parson of the old type; he loved wine, he loved good living, and he loved the Chase. He had ambition, too, and thought that the Bishopric of Exeter was not out of his reach. In both his serious and lighter purposes his clerk was always present, and shared all his carouses, as well as his clerical duties. Dunchideock lies at the foot of Haldon, the hills separating the Exe from the Teign, and here runs the road between Holcolmbe and Dawlish. On a dark night it was difficult to keep the track, but the parson and clerk knew every foot of the road between Exeter and the Warren. The Bishop of Exeter was dying in Dawlish and three days in every week the horses were saddled at Dunchideock, and the parson, with his faithful clerk, galloped over the heath to Dawlish.

One afternoon the news reached them that the Bishop had suddenly become worse, and was on the point of death. “Hurrah!” roared the parson, and he and his clerk set off to be, as they said, “in at the death,” and “I’ll be Bishop of Exeter.” The horses were brought and the parson and clerk rode off. “Confound it”, said the former, “it will be dark in half an hour.” As he spoke thick, dark clouds rose up over the moor. The mist rose from the Exe, and hid the valley. The clouds spread murky blackness, and a moan came from the moor. Again they cursed the darkness, and drops of rain fell. The parson beat his horse; the clerk did likewise. The wind howled and the darkness increased. In vain they endeavoured to find their way; the lightning flashed, the thunder re-echoed, and the air was black as pitch. “May Satan take us to Dawlish,” cried both the riders, “for we shall never get there by ourselves.” A furious roar of thunder followed this expression, followed by the galloping of a horse. The parson and clerk reined in their horses – they were plucky fellows – and waited for the rider, who came up close to them, but so black were both that they could hardly be distinguished from the blackness of the night. The parson roared out his trouble, and asked the way to Dawlish.

The black stranger told him to follow the sound of his horse, and trotted off. The parson and clerk followed close behind. On they rode unril they could hear the sea dashing against the cliffs, and judged they were near. Suddenly their guide stopped before a large house, and invited them to enter. When they had done so they found a brilliantly-lighted saloon, and a splendid supper laid out, and a large queer-looking party assembled. Thanking their host they sat down, without noticing the grins and leers of the other guests. Black-jacks began to circulate freely. The parson sang songs with decidedly profane choruses. The night wore away in revelry, when one of the party said that the old Bishop was dead. Up jumped the parson and clerk, with many curses, and called for their horses. They went out. The waves were dashing furiously against the cliff, and the very ground shook with the violence of the wind and sea. They mounted their horses, and the supper party gave a diabolical shout of laughter.

The parson struck his horse, but it would not move. The horses of clerk and parson stood motionless. At last they gave one fearful plunge. The house disappeared; the guests dashed away with yells of mirth; there was a dreadful shock, and neither parson nor clerk were again seen alive. The good people of Dawlish, coming out next morning early to see what damage had been done by the storm, saw that the sea had dashed down part of their red cliff, which had broken in two as it fell; on the larger portion the dead body of the parson was found, on the smaller that of the clerk.”

THE CUSTOMS OFFICER'S BOY

It was the dark evening of Thursday 27th November 1872 and Mr Matthew, the chief officer of Customs for the port of Exmouth was working at the dock. Helping him to measure a stack of timber were his two sons, George and Joseph. At half past five Mr Matthew told his son, Joseph, to scoot off home and tell mother that he and George would be home shortly looking for their tea.

Joseph needed to take the narrow path that ran by the dock edge. There were no lights and there was no fence and by now all was black as pitch. Young Joseph felt his way forward but somehow he slipped and fell into the dock. His head struck timber and, although he was a strong swimmer, he sank and drowned.

A half hour later Mr Matthew and George arrived home unaware of Joseph’s fate. When they did not find him at home they immediately suspected what had happened and went back to the dock and spent the night searching for the lost boy but to no avail. Before dawn others joined the search. The dock was dragged and the body was found in thirteen foot of water at the dock gates. There were two dreadful bruises to the face.

On many occasions previously Mr Matthew had pointed out the danger of the dock having no lighting and no fencing. Only after Joseph’s death were steps taken to make the docks safer.

'TO THE VALE OF LYMPSTONE'

In the August of the year 1908, Mrs Alice Fildew of Estuary View, Exton, had the gratification of seeing her verses printed in the local paper, ‘The Exmouth Journal’. It was not the first time she had tasted literary success. In 1890 she had sent verses to the great and famous soprano, Adelina Patti, who had replied by sending to her a signed photograph inscribed ‘to Mrs Alice Fildew with many thanks for charming verses. – Adelina Patti Nicolini.’ In 1901 her verses on the death of Queen Victoria, ‘Victoria, sweet mother, name peerless through ages.. &co.’ appeared in ‘The Devon Express’ and no doubt Alice enjoyed many other triumphs of which I am not aware. As a poet and songwriter Mrs F. clearly shared a Muse with the great Sir Walter Scott. The century that interposed itself between her work and his was to her as nothing. What follows is the third stanza of her four stanza work ,‘To the Vale of Lympstone’:

And yon – there, how pleasant in rich, pastoral beauty,
Stands ‘Nutwell’ the Court of fam’d Drake’s glory’d name,
Where, hard by, I’ve watched the last gleam of rare sunset
Expire mid refulgence of sky-glow aflame.
Whilst o’er the calm Est’ry floats stately yon pennant
From Powderham’s old castle and Church as of yore!
Where near sleeps that good Earl - of Devon’s best (lineage)
’Neath the dear, hallow’d spot by the wavelet-kissed shore.

Is ‘yon – there’ preferable to ‘yonder’? I wonder. The word at the end of the penultimate line is obscured. It’s not ‘lineage’ but I’m blessed if I can work out what it is.

Well, another century has passed and ‘yon pennant’ is still to be seen floating from Powderham Castle across the ‘Est’ry’ ‘as of yore’, at least it floats whenever the Earl is at home. Rumour has it he hides in cramped quarters and dark passages at the back of the house while the trippers scuttle about. And we still have plenty of ‘refulgence of sky-glow aflame’. You should have seen it last night.

A DAY BY THE EXE

These verses by 'NN' of Lympstone were first published in the Exmouth Journal 0f 5th September 1925.

One fine day we resting lay
At noontide by the Exe,
A paradise which Nature
In lovely garb bedecks.

The bullfinch red sang overhead.
The sky of blue serene
With honeysuckle bright was hid,
A glorious scented scene.

Bathers in sunlit waters lazed.
A cool breeze murmured by.
The seagulls with their snowy breasts
Were wheeling in the sky.

Within our view the rich red cliffs
Of such tremendous height.
When the golden sun is sinking
'Tis such a wondrous sight.

The brilliance of the sunset sky
merges to glowing red.
The Lympstone fishing fleet sails out
Seeking for daily bread.

O but 'twas a glorious sight
For any eye to see,
The variegated boats and sails
All dancing on the sea.

So if you want to come and stay
Where hearts are blithe and free
You couldn't choose a better place
Than Exmouth by the sea.

Who was this NN? A young Norton perhaps. He or she, my bet is on she, did well. 'The seagulls with their snowy breasts' could be Yeats. Let's hope that the Lympstone fishing fleet came home with some bread.

SOME BAD VERSES

Throughout the 1920s, Albert Ash Allen and "R I P" wrote consistently bad verses for the readers of the Exmouth Journal. I am allowed to say this. I have written plenty of bad verses myself. These though by "R I P" , squeezed in between advertisements for Miller's Motor Coach Tours and Grey Flannels for Town or Country in the newspaper of 23rd April 1927, in all their innocence, almost work. From the evidence of his verses "R.I.P." sounds like he might have come from Salcombe, (Does anybody know?) But one Devon estuary is as good as another I suppose.

Up to a point, I sort of know how the old chap felt. I never do seem to see anyone I recognise in Exmouth these days.

VISIONS OF THE PAST

One spot alone in all the earth .
comes back to me where'er I roam,
my little town, my place of birth,
that bears for me the name of home.

For often will the fancy stray
amid the scenes of long ago,
the same old rocks are there today,
I see them like a passing show.

There stands the Bolt, whose grim old head
though aged yet is still unbent,
whose rocks were there when sea o'erspread
the chalky downs and cliffs of Kent.

I see the Bar, now gleaming white
where relics of the drowned lie
whose voice lone widows hear at night
nor ever hear without a sigh.

And there the harbour where the tide
lays bare the flats where shrimpers go
and likely spots where cockles hide
or wily prawns dart to and fro.

Then up the creeks at harbour head
where now the tidal waters flow,
each one an ancient river bed,
but who can say how long ago?

I see the schooners as of yore,
swing slowly with the ebb and flow
and I can hear the sailors roar
their chanty when to sea they go.

There too, the boys, young sailor men,
companions in adventures bold;
the years are shed 'twixt now and then,
and I forget that I am old.

But now that I am home again
no well known voices do I hear,
for friends of old I look in vain
and I am but a stranger here.

And some within God's Acre lie,
for some the legend,"Lost at sea,"
and yet, for me, they cannot die
while they come back to memory.

R.I.P.