It all started as a 9-mile walk up the Granite Way bike path from Lydford to Okehampton. I stopped in Bridestowe (BRID eh stow) a few miles out to mail some items at the post office and use a toilet."Sorry, luv," the postmaster shakes his head. "There's no public toilet in Bridestowe. The nearest one is a mile down the road."
A mile? Yikes. My bladder can't wait that long. Bushes notwithstanding, I hit upon the idea of relying on the good graces of a B&B that I pass on the way out of the village.
I knock on the door, a smiling woman greets me, and I tell her my plight. I not only get hustled immediately to the upstairs bathroom with a hearty, welcoming laugh from the proprietress, but am happily, purrily greeted by her year-old Maine Coon cat, Barnaby, and then invited to stay for tea with her (Janet, at right in the photo) and her friend Trisha.
We are joined soon after by Janet's grown son, Alex, who rounds the kitchen corner and greets us all with "Oh, god, it's the coven" before sitting with us at the round dining table.An hour later, we are still there, laughing ourselves silly over the image of hefty women in Spandex and overly short shorts creating their own wedgies, Janet's inadvertent Princess of Wales imitation (wearing a cotton skirt against sunlight on the stairs for the delivery man), Bush, Blair, stupid foreign and domestic policies, and US and UK TV programs.
It was all terribly non-politically correct and hoots of fun. There are very few people I've met who are more straight-shooting than British "coven" biddies. They also enlightened me about the British armed forces where men are encouraged to question orders that trouble them. Alex had served in the first Gulf War and now works for British Gas in Egypt and surfs the Devon coast and fixes mom's B&B toilet seats when he's home.
Janet and Trisha have been friends from their time working for the Royal Marine Academy on the Dartmoor moors. I have easily missed the worst of weather on these moors, where, the ladies tell me, winter winds double people over and rain comes sideways and ice builds up around flag poles so thick a man can't wrap his arms around it.
The 9-mile walk itself was easy--a bike path is flat and paved most of the way, and the route is well signed. I found a tasty snack of wild strawberries en route, took in some lovely views of Devon from the Lake Viaduct (that's where I am in that photo), and shared the day with very few other mammals--only the occasional sheep or bicyclist.
Got into Okehampton in time to buy my YHA (hostel) card for future use and to watch a dozen girls team up to help each other on a climbing wall at the hostel. I was as impressed with those who chose to retreat when they got stuck, as with those who made it all the way to the top. There was no teasing or ridicule, only "You can do it, Theresa!" and "She wants to come down--give her some rope." I'd like to try that at REI sometime.Wandered around Okehampton and now understand why every person I've met who doesn't live here grimaced when I said I was going there. It's good sized, has all the right shops, some old buildings, but no spark. Nothing to set it off, no real sense of town identity.
Tonight is another local football game in the World Cup, England v. Trinidad & Tobago, and I want to catch the game before I take a bus home. But none of the pubs on the main road catch my eye as an interesting prospect.
I ask a local fellow who is closing up his jewelry shop where to see the game.
"Wouldn't know," he says apologetically, latching the expandable iron grill that secures his doorway. "Don't watch football, and I don't drink, so I don't go to the pubs."
Great. I happen to ask the one teetotaller in all of Okehampton how to find the best bar in town.
I thank him, press onward, then spy a group of young footballers coming up the street. All are in their late teens/early twenties, dressed in white and red England jerseys, one draped in a flag of the Cross of St George, all loud and rambunctious and arms wrapped around each other and singing some kind of team song.
I enter their circle, laughing. "Just the people I need to meet. Where's the best place to watch the game?"
"The Prat" spouts a blond one near me. "Definitely The Prat." An arm goes round my shoulders, and I am spun on my heels in the other direction. "Come with us. Best place to watch any football."
"How's the food?" I am almost yelling to be heard above the tumult of his friends.
"Oh, the food's terrible. But you don't go for the food anyway, do you? You go for the game, to be with your mates and cheer England on!"
This statement is met by raucous cheers. What Okehampton lacks in luster it makes up for in English pride.
"So you're a school team, then?"
"Not a school team. Okehampton's team." More whoops and woo-hooing and group kisses on the cheek.
"The Prat" is the Pretoria Vaults pub, down a side street near the top end of town center. It has an enormous projector TV, with standing-room only viewing, right inside the main entrance.We are greeted by a crush of young 20-somethings, also all in red and white or wrapped in St George flags, chanting, singing, being the biggest fans in the place.
My group escort carves a way toward the back end of the bar and I hang onto a shirt tail to keep track of them. They are already totally psyched for the game, and the hugging, cheek kissing and draping of arms around mate's heads and necks continues in earnest as they settle in for a view the game from across the room.
They stand on chairs, exchange more hugs and kisses and beers that they pour over each other, pass wallets and cash overhead to order more bottles and pints, chant chants, whistle and holler to friends across the pub, and then sing the opening chorus of "God Save the Queen" (to the same tune as "My Country 'Tis of Thee") at the top of their lungs once the game starts.I stay long enough to get the feel of things--the boys have already forgotten their charge in their enthusiasm--and then step back from the press of bodies to watch the game at another, quieter screen at the back of the pub, where the grown-up men (also sporting white and red clothing and an occasional Union Jack) watch a smaller projection TV, and where I am less likely to get beer poured all over me.
I order the only food the pub offers--a hot Cornish pasty--and eat it while standing in an open doorway that offers fresh air and leads to a household yard. Two five-year-olds with squirt guns make a game of dousing us guests with water--I become a prime target nearest the door, and I playfully shoo them away. They finally give up when I keep an active eye on the doorway so they can no longer ambush me.
Wanting to sit down instead of stand for another hour, I finally leave The Prat through a back door and go to the Plume & Feathers pub, which is quieter and downright cozy. Only a few adults are gathered around tables and the bar here, but they're just as vocal about good and bad plays as any youth at The Prat.
England wins 1-0 with a goal at the very end of the game. "Well done," say I, and head for the bus home.
