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.
aditha@sundayobserver.lk |