During the years we lived in Bristol the streets were gradually filled with road-markings, traffic-calming measures and pedestrian crossings. Gradually the message became clear: pedestrians had rights that should be respected, revered even.
What a contrast when we arrived in Crediton! Here, many streets have no pavements at all; others have a pavement down one side only, and even that pavement is liable to sudden termination just at the moment when a pedestrian's life is at its most exciting - road junctions, sharp bends, and so on.
Yes, I think the local authorities are to be congratulated: there are so few obstacles to impede the natural progress of motor vehicles, and drivers' freedom to command the roads and intimidate pedestrians remains virtually unfettered.
I love to cruise down the high street and watch pedestrians leaping desperately across the last eight feet to safety as I bear down on them, perhaps just giving them a quick splash from the puddles that form gratifyingly on rainy days. And when I'm in the mood, I can't tell you what a kick I get out of pausing to wave a cowering old lady across my path in a most gracious and condescending manner.
Yes, it strikes me that the councillors and officials must be a brave lot. How easy and cowardly it would have been to acknowledge that the high street is well-used by shoppers who often need to get from one side to the other; how easy it would then have been to decide to place a couple of pedestrian crossings at strategic points - say outside the Record Shop and Adams - and to make the high street simple and safe for pedestrians and sheer frustration for drivers. That's what they have done in just about every other town or city I have ever been to. But no, our local councillors resisted those easy options, and even provided a bit of entertainment for drivers by narrowing the road at a couple of points to tempt pedestrians into the paths of cars. I really can't say how impressed I've been.
Incidentally, someone told me that my irony would be lost on Crediton.
Monday, 16 April 2007
Wednesday, 11 April 2007
Psst!.......Are you in favour of Tesco?
On Good Friday morning I woke with a distinct hankering for hot cross buns. "Well we haven't got any," announced the other half of the bed.
"In that case, I'll go down to Tesco Express and see if they've had a little more foresight than we have," I replied.
"Huh! There's no way they'll have any left." Did I detect a tone of triumph?
Now, I'm not sure what I think about Tesco, but one thing I do like about them is that they really do try to give people what they want. In fact they seem to know what you want before even you know. Many a time I have wandered round one of their stores and been struck by a brand-new desire: tinned tomatoes that were organically grown in Andalusia; a kitchen towel that is not only moderately absorbent but is also printed with the colours of the England football team; mature cheddar cheese bejewelled with mint choc chips, and so on. The amazing thing is that very often, shortly after being struck with one of these strange desires, I come across its satisfaction prominently displayed on an aisle end.
So, anyway, I threw on what oddments of clothing the floor-drobe offered and skipped down to Tesco Express in search of hot cross buns. They had a whole, specially constructed cardboard rack of them in two varieties. It was then I noticed something very strange: the staff were dressed even more outlandishly than I was; for some reason Tesco had decided that Good Friday was Blues Brothers day and had clad its staff accordingly.
I took my precious hot cross buns to the counter where the checkout lady was only in half-hearted costume: black tie and white shirt under a Tesco uniform top.
"Blues Brothers day, eh?" I hailed her cheerfully. She merely winced, definitely not in the spirit of Belushi and Ackroyd. "And the connection with Easter?" I probed. She just raised her eyes to heaven, bleeped my buns and said nothing. I ran through the possible connections between Easter and The Blues Brothers: the beginning of Spring, the crucifixion of Christ, general exuberance? Nothing worked, and I have never worked out this mystery.
Of course, mentioning Tesco in Crediton is always risky. A number of people I have met have come round to the subject eventually and they are very non-commital until they know my views. I have come to the conclusion that if you oppose Tesco you are probably arty, nostalgic or old; everyone else is in favour. All I know is that when Tesco opened a huge store in our neighbourhood in Bristol in the late eighties about half of the local shops shut over the next three years. The ones that stayed open were - in the main - the ones that were any good. After a few years new local shops started opening, but they were selling different things: hair-cuts and meals mainly.
I find it hard to get passionate about the issue. I'm an Aldi and Lidl man myself. Build a couple of those and I'd be more than happy.
"In that case, I'll go down to Tesco Express and see if they've had a little more foresight than we have," I replied.
"Huh! There's no way they'll have any left." Did I detect a tone of triumph?
Now, I'm not sure what I think about Tesco, but one thing I do like about them is that they really do try to give people what they want. In fact they seem to know what you want before even you know. Many a time I have wandered round one of their stores and been struck by a brand-new desire: tinned tomatoes that were organically grown in Andalusia; a kitchen towel that is not only moderately absorbent but is also printed with the colours of the England football team; mature cheddar cheese bejewelled with mint choc chips, and so on. The amazing thing is that very often, shortly after being struck with one of these strange desires, I come across its satisfaction prominently displayed on an aisle end.
So, anyway, I threw on what oddments of clothing the floor-drobe offered and skipped down to Tesco Express in search of hot cross buns. They had a whole, specially constructed cardboard rack of them in two varieties. It was then I noticed something very strange: the staff were dressed even more outlandishly than I was; for some reason Tesco had decided that Good Friday was Blues Brothers day and had clad its staff accordingly.
I took my precious hot cross buns to the counter where the checkout lady was only in half-hearted costume: black tie and white shirt under a Tesco uniform top.
"Blues Brothers day, eh?" I hailed her cheerfully. She merely winced, definitely not in the spirit of Belushi and Ackroyd. "And the connection with Easter?" I probed. She just raised her eyes to heaven, bleeped my buns and said nothing. I ran through the possible connections between Easter and The Blues Brothers: the beginning of Spring, the crucifixion of Christ, general exuberance? Nothing worked, and I have never worked out this mystery.
Of course, mentioning Tesco in Crediton is always risky. A number of people I have met have come round to the subject eventually and they are very non-commital until they know my views. I have come to the conclusion that if you oppose Tesco you are probably arty, nostalgic or old; everyone else is in favour. All I know is that when Tesco opened a huge store in our neighbourhood in Bristol in the late eighties about half of the local shops shut over the next three years. The ones that stayed open were - in the main - the ones that were any good. After a few years new local shops started opening, but they were selling different things: hair-cuts and meals mainly.
I find it hard to get passionate about the issue. I'm an Aldi and Lidl man myself. Build a couple of those and I'd be more than happy.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Solicitors, vets and butchers - but not necessarily in that order
Why are there so many solicitors in Crediton? I read that the crime rate is low, so what are they doing? Perhaps the divorce rate is lucratively high. Perhaps there are a lot of disputes between neighbours.
I also wonder at the number of vets. I suppose I might expect a lot of vets with agriculture all around the town; perhaps there are lots of cows and sheep to mend. But I saw remarkably few of those animals in the waiting room at West Ridge Veterinary Practice when I arrived with my daughter, clutching the family hamster.
Back in Bristol you just turned up in visiting hours, joined the queue and endured pet Beirut for the next hour or so: fat labradors snapping at hissing, caged fur-balls; grumpy rabbits thumping the walls of their boxes; pythons coiled around tattoed owners. Here in Crediton you make an appointment. "Peter to see the vet at 5:45," I announced as we strolled into the practice.
"Ah yes," said the receptionist uncertainly. "Peter who?"
"He hasn't got a surname," I replied. "He's a hamster."
Within three minutes we were already in the surgery with Peter being examined carefully by the new vet who was clearly very nervous around hamsters.
"How much will this cost?" I inquired.
"About £10."
"And a new hamster.......?"
Apparently - according to my daughter - this was not a line of thinking that was either acceptable or moral. Apparently I was confusing my thinking about damaged hamsters with my thinking about damaged cars.
Actually I am very fond of animals, and that is why I make regular visits to the two butchers in the High St. Incidentally, I am sure that they are, in fact, the same shop. I have often noticed staff from one scurrying along the road and disappearing into the other.
Anyway, I was waiting to be served the other day when my eye was drawn to the posters that render various meat-yielding animals in diagramatic form with their sections marked and labelled, e.g. topside, ribs, flank. Now that is callous. How would we feel if we visited the surgeon and he had similar charts of the human body marked up with his favourite cut lines?
I also wonder at the number of vets. I suppose I might expect a lot of vets with agriculture all around the town; perhaps there are lots of cows and sheep to mend. But I saw remarkably few of those animals in the waiting room at West Ridge Veterinary Practice when I arrived with my daughter, clutching the family hamster.
Back in Bristol you just turned up in visiting hours, joined the queue and endured pet Beirut for the next hour or so: fat labradors snapping at hissing, caged fur-balls; grumpy rabbits thumping the walls of their boxes; pythons coiled around tattoed owners. Here in Crediton you make an appointment. "Peter to see the vet at 5:45," I announced as we strolled into the practice.
"Ah yes," said the receptionist uncertainly. "Peter who?"
"He hasn't got a surname," I replied. "He's a hamster."
Within three minutes we were already in the surgery with Peter being examined carefully by the new vet who was clearly very nervous around hamsters.
"How much will this cost?" I inquired.
"About £10."
"And a new hamster.......?"
Apparently - according to my daughter - this was not a line of thinking that was either acceptable or moral. Apparently I was confusing my thinking about damaged hamsters with my thinking about damaged cars.
Actually I am very fond of animals, and that is why I make regular visits to the two butchers in the High St. Incidentally, I am sure that they are, in fact, the same shop. I have often noticed staff from one scurrying along the road and disappearing into the other.
Anyway, I was waiting to be served the other day when my eye was drawn to the posters that render various meat-yielding animals in diagramatic form with their sections marked and labelled, e.g. topside, ribs, flank. Now that is callous. How would we feel if we visited the surgeon and he had similar charts of the human body marked up with his favourite cut lines?
"I'll cut along this dotted line down your flank. And here around your loin." How would you feel? I know I'd feel as nervous as a vet with a homicidal hamster. By the way, it turned out the family hamster was a girl.
Friday, 23 March 2007
Making connections
When you first move somewhere new everything is strange. You feel like you're walking down other people's streets, shopping in other people's shops, sending your kids to other people's schools. Then, gradually, some of the many strange things around you start to join up with each other and this somehow gives them the illusion of familiarity.
Last night we went to QE lower school (the maturing ruin up on the hill) to see the massed local primary school choirs in action. Our nine-year-old daughter was in there somewhere. Anyway, the conductor and composer of the evening's main event was Elfyn Jones. I had already met Elfyn at the Arts Centre where I have persistently gate-crashed the Measure for Measure workshops on the off chance that someone might recognise me or at least make an attempt to include me. Elfyn is the production's musical director - a gentle, talented, neatly-proportioned chap who taught us all to sing and to inject an assortment of metal items with rhythm. So Elfyn has become one of my tenuous reference points. Yesterday morning - to my great surprise - I bumped into him in a corridor at work. He looked at me blankly. "You don't remember me out of context, do you?" I suggested. When I described the relevant context he looked like he felt he ought to remember me. That's a good start, I thought. And then I saw him again that evening at QE. I begin to feel as if people who know Elfyn must know me.
Anyway, the concert. Fabulous. And witnessed by a throbbing mass of delighted parenthood. It was all cheerfully compered by a Rotarian who rejoiced in a bow-tie and shiny waist-coat. To raise some funds, raffle-tickets were sold on the door and I splashed out on 30 tickets. Can't lose, I thought smugly. The raffle draw came towards the end of the evening and there turned out to be numerous prizes: a bar of soap, an insulated flask, a plastic duck, and so on. At first I was outraged that I wasn't winning but soon I began to feel relieved. "And the last prize," the Rotarian announced, "is the best: a one-and-a-half hour full body massage. And it goes to pink ticket 206." I'd won! I proudly waved my ticket above the assembled masses and waited for the delivery of my prize. Eventually I spotted a grey-haired gent making his way towards me, wriggling through the crowds. "Oh, oh," I thought, "Here comes the masseur." I began to take off my clothes - cautiously.
Last night we went to QE lower school (the maturing ruin up on the hill) to see the massed local primary school choirs in action. Our nine-year-old daughter was in there somewhere. Anyway, the conductor and composer of the evening's main event was Elfyn Jones. I had already met Elfyn at the Arts Centre where I have persistently gate-crashed the Measure for Measure workshops on the off chance that someone might recognise me or at least make an attempt to include me. Elfyn is the production's musical director - a gentle, talented, neatly-proportioned chap who taught us all to sing and to inject an assortment of metal items with rhythm. So Elfyn has become one of my tenuous reference points. Yesterday morning - to my great surprise - I bumped into him in a corridor at work. He looked at me blankly. "You don't remember me out of context, do you?" I suggested. When I described the relevant context he looked like he felt he ought to remember me. That's a good start, I thought. And then I saw him again that evening at QE. I begin to feel as if people who know Elfyn must know me.
Anyway, the concert. Fabulous. And witnessed by a throbbing mass of delighted parenthood. It was all cheerfully compered by a Rotarian who rejoiced in a bow-tie and shiny waist-coat. To raise some funds, raffle-tickets were sold on the door and I splashed out on 30 tickets. Can't lose, I thought smugly. The raffle draw came towards the end of the evening and there turned out to be numerous prizes: a bar of soap, an insulated flask, a plastic duck, and so on. At first I was outraged that I wasn't winning but soon I began to feel relieved. "And the last prize," the Rotarian announced, "is the best: a one-and-a-half hour full body massage. And it goes to pink ticket 206." I'd won! I proudly waved my ticket above the assembled masses and waited for the delivery of my prize. Eventually I spotted a grey-haired gent making his way towards me, wriggling through the crowds. "Oh, oh," I thought, "Here comes the masseur." I began to take off my clothes - cautiously.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
The first four months
I moved to Crediton with my wife and two of our children on Nov 10th 2006. Our oldest three children had to be cut loose to continue their 'education' at various SW universities.
Moving was a shock for all of us. At the beginning of May 2006 I would have predicted that I would still be living in the Bristol house we had inhabited for 25 years until the moment they carried me out feet first in my burn box. Then I whimsically applied for a new job in Devon and - to our collective shock - got it. Crediton was the best we could find in the short time-scale available.
One reason why moving was a shock was that we had lived all our lives in big cities - latterly in Bristol where IKEA was our corner shop, but we were both brought up in South London. Life in a small town was going to be a complete unknown for all four of us. The first thing that struck us was how windy and wet Devon was, and having a house that was as leaky as a harmonica meant that a sort of weird Stockhausen-style symphony was coming through the doors and windows every day. When the wind died down, it was just quiet - very quiet. It wasn't that our old neighbourhood in Bristol was wildly noisy all the time, but any of a variety of background noises were pretty much omnipresent: the chattering of the hovering police helicopters; the shrieking of domestic arguments; the thump-whoomp of the bass from passing tinted window cars; and behind everything was the constant swish of traffic on its way in and out of the city centre along the M32. Crediton was quiet - except for the wind, and the birds, which we didn't have in Bristol.
So how have the first four months gone? In a blur really. We've tried to adjust to our new neighbourhood: we've used the local shops. Isn't Adams fab? We've religiously visited the monthly farmers market and paid their double prices with a cheerful grin. We've developed a preference for the Trawlers Catch over the chip shop opposite. We've gone on the walks around Shobrooke Park and down to Sandford. I've got a bit involved with the Arts Centre. We're becoming part of the place, slowly and unsurely, but we are getting there.
If I ever continue this blog I'll tell you how we get on in this interesting project of transplanting from big city to small town.
Moving was a shock for all of us. At the beginning of May 2006 I would have predicted that I would still be living in the Bristol house we had inhabited for 25 years until the moment they carried me out feet first in my burn box. Then I whimsically applied for a new job in Devon and - to our collective shock - got it. Crediton was the best we could find in the short time-scale available.
One reason why moving was a shock was that we had lived all our lives in big cities - latterly in Bristol where IKEA was our corner shop, but we were both brought up in South London. Life in a small town was going to be a complete unknown for all four of us. The first thing that struck us was how windy and wet Devon was, and having a house that was as leaky as a harmonica meant that a sort of weird Stockhausen-style symphony was coming through the doors and windows every day. When the wind died down, it was just quiet - very quiet. It wasn't that our old neighbourhood in Bristol was wildly noisy all the time, but any of a variety of background noises were pretty much omnipresent: the chattering of the hovering police helicopters; the shrieking of domestic arguments; the thump-whoomp of the bass from passing tinted window cars; and behind everything was the constant swish of traffic on its way in and out of the city centre along the M32. Crediton was quiet - except for the wind, and the birds, which we didn't have in Bristol.
So how have the first four months gone? In a blur really. We've tried to adjust to our new neighbourhood: we've used the local shops. Isn't Adams fab? We've religiously visited the monthly farmers market and paid their double prices with a cheerful grin. We've developed a preference for the Trawlers Catch over the chip shop opposite. We've gone on the walks around Shobrooke Park and down to Sandford. I've got a bit involved with the Arts Centre. We're becoming part of the place, slowly and unsurely, but we are getting there.
If I ever continue this blog I'll tell you how we get on in this interesting project of transplanting from big city to small town.
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