And why is it a landmark? Read on.
Part of the problem is that nobody will say they own the figures. Circencester Urban Council, which commissioned them, is defunct. But surely its powers were inherited by somebody, whether the Cotswold District Council or Circencester Town Council.
For heavens sake, one of you, get on with it.
Oliver Hill and friend
This rather charming fellow is a ruddy duck, and the government is gunning for him. Read more on http://asletblog.dailymail.co.uk/
I ought to show where Lydford is; it’s here:
This was a picture I took at exactly this time last year, showing that it doesn’t always rain on Dartmoor:
The flowers are called milkmaids.
And I love this sign which looks as though it has spent too long at the Castle Inn (excellent pub, by the way, and the only place you can get an internet connection. I’ve had to spend a lot of time there.) The name of the street commemorates the mint that used to be here in the Saxon era. Alas, the name itself doesn’t have quite that pedigree: it was dreamt up in the second half of the twentieth century. The site of the mint isn’t known.
But enough photographs…
They do make me want to be in Devon though. Not before Easter, sadly. Still, I’ll be in the Cotswolds tomorrow: not so shabby as the boys would say.
Why not take a look at my lastest book on the life and architecture of the Arts and Crafts Country House http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Arts-Crafts-Country-House/dp/1845136802
We meet young Frank Fry in the Vestry Minutes for 1914, planting some of the yews that are still in St Petroc’s churchyard at Lydford. He was born with the century, and so just a lad of 14. He would probably have been a thatcher if he had lived. That was the trade followed by both his father Frank and his grandfather Edmund; in fact Edmund had been thatching one of the Lydford cottage roofs in 1903 when he slipped, fell off and died.
I visit Dick Petherick, brought up in Lydford but now retired, in his house on the outskirts of Tavistock. He is named after his uncle, R.J.Petherick, who died on the Somme in 1916. Dick has twenty or so photographs that will help me. R.J.Petherick’s father, Herbert, was a builder. A square-faced man in a bowler hat, his clothes have the rough look that working men’s clothes always do have in photographs from before the age of dry cleaning, when there was only a brush to take the mud off. This man lost his wife when the last of the children was born and a female relative, Aunt Mary, from the pool of women who always seemed to exist for such services, arrived to take charge of the family; a white-haired spinster of determined mein.