The great escape

Writing home from the UK:

by Aditha Dissanayake, UK

Imagine the streets on the Monopoly board as real streets with red double Decker buses, pavements littered with cigarette butts, shops called Harrods, Woolworth and pubs called The Shakespeare Tavern and everyone calling you 'luv'.

Everything is so real, almost too real, that seated in an open air bus, on a sight-seeing tour of London, plying down Oxford Street, a chilly breeze swiftly removes the cap on my head. I wonder if it's still there on the middle of Oxford Street, ever so many miles away from home, sad and desolate? Sad? Desolate? No! Not if you are in London, no matter how far away from home you might be. For, as Ben Jonson said, when a man grows tired of London he grows tired of life'.

Ask me...or better still...wait till I come home to read all about my ramblings in London to find out if he is right or not.

Right now, though, let's move on to Devon, to Buckland-in-the-moor and how I ended up at the Dartmouth prison.

Devon first. Everybody familiar with Thomas Hardy would be pleased to know that even though Hardy tried to spotlight the changes that were taking place in the countryside, industrialism taking over the quaint traditional methods of farming etc, that in Devon, with its untamed, yet wonderful countryside consisting of wild moorland landscapes, sparkling rivers and grassland reminding one of a patch work quilt in green done by Nedra Vittachi, look much the same since Hardy's protagonists, Tess and Jude walked across moors such as these.

There are still farm houses that sell homemade cider, places like the London Fryer serving potato-chips with the catch of the day , (it was Haddock last Sunday). Visiting a retired couple in Paington, you are certain to be treated to a Devonshire cream tea - fresh scorns filled with clotted cream and jam.

Moving inland you come across sheep grazing on picture post-card hamlets, thatched cottages and tranquil country churches.

Leaving the worries of whether I would be granted leave or be sacked within the next few weeks for being physically absent from the Sunday Observer momentarily behind me, on Sunday I find myself on the A 38 Devon Expressway, through Ashburton and up the deep and narrow lanes to Buckland, making an escape to peace and tranquillity.

Before that though, comes a visit to the Dartmouth prison well, the Dartmoor prison museum to be exact. Situated a few meters away from the Dartmouth prison, the museum houses fascinating weapons created by the prisoners who had attempted to escape using toothbrushes and matchsticks to make knives. It was interesting to find out that in the 1800s England had transported its worst criminals overseas to Australia and other lands.

Peace and tranquillity

Interesting too to stare at the ornaments made by the inmates, which were outside for sale, and wonder who had created them. Would he be in for life, for murder? Would he be a brutal rapist? Whatever their crime might have been they seemed to be blessed with ample amounts of creativity as well as a sense of humour.

On a wooden plaque priced at o10 someone had craved a cat and its staff live here. My favourite, though was the one which read I kiss better than I cook.

Unique features

Moving on to Buckland-on-the-moor, even though I see the name announcing its existence, its not easy to find the village, for apart from the few thatched cottages by the stream the Church and the community hall higher up the hill most of the inhabitants seem to be scattered in farms and cottages through out the wide, green landscape. Not surprisingly because a leaflet in the church says there are only 75 souls at the moment in Buckland.

This church called St. Peters' and making you recall the church in the book The English Patient, sits on the ground as if it had appeared ready made from the granite beneath.

An unforgettable feature here is the church clock, installed in the early 1930s, a gift from a certain William Whitely, who, dedicating the face of the clock to his mother had replaced the numbers with the letters spelling My dear mother.

Though only three miles away from Ashburton and therefor not far from the quite heavily populated Newton Abbot and Torbay area, Buckland is up and away from people and traffic, and has enough breathtaking cenary, bowls of steaming tomato soups and chocolate ice creams to lift any one's spirits to the skies.

Specially this prayer, which I came across in St Peters' church as the clock struck twelve on Sunday afternoon, just right to write home about, now that I am thousands of miles away from you, dear readers. Catch you in New York, for this is where I would be next week on this round (almost) the world in thirty-nine days journey of mine.

Till then, as the beaming lady at the London Fries would have said Take care my luvs. I said a prayer for you today I felt the answer in my heart I didn't ask for wealth or fame I know you wouldn't mind I asked him to send treasures of a far more lasting kind.

I asked that he be near you At the start of each new day. To grant you health and blessings...

I asked for happiness for you In all things great and small But it was for His loving care I prayed the most of all.

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