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 The
Barnstaple trip was typical of those we do best, with a
knowledgeable local guide to show us the hidden places – like
the rear courtyard of the almshouses - and get us into some of
the locked ones – such as the Chapel of St Anne and the
Guildhall. On this wet and windy Sunday, we were shepherded
through the streets by yet another Wodehouse character,
gimlet-eyed, superbly moustached Long Tom Evans. With waxed
jacket, flat cap and walking stick, he looked like a sheep
farmer…until he mustered stragglers with a stentorian ‘Oyez’
instead of ‘come by’, displaying his more urban role of Town
Crier. He proved to be full of information, impeccably
imparted, often from the centre of the road.
 Lunch
at the Royal and Fortescue Hotel meant ribsticking fare in
vast quantities, to be walked off at the sculpture park.
For some reason, I’d imagined a flat lawn dotted with
sculptures, but Broomhill clings precariously to the side of
one of Devon’s deepest combes, its many steep, zigzagging
pathways just faint trails in wild woodland.
The artwork was everything from poor or incomprehensible to
zany, haunting and monumental. I’m still yearning for an
elegant, cantilevered white stone bench, that sat next to a
pool in which were huge beer-bottle caps, pretending to be
tropical water lily pads. A unicorn, frozen at the point of
being startled into flight was exquisitely positioned at the
entrance to a wood, and an immense steel dragon loomed
threateningly over a children’s play area.
 This
trip was arranged by George (wouldn’t you know it, with 3
refreshment breaks!), and seamlessly carried out by Jill;
thanks are due to both of them for their hard work.
Fran Pitt |
