Summer in North Devon is strangely something us ‘locals’ look upon with trepidation. Aside from the strong likelihood of torrential monsoon like showers and the children at home for the holidays complaining of boredom… there is another phenomenon that fills us with dread…the imminent arrival of ‘The Grockles’.
Grockle is a colloquial West country term for tourists, made popular in the 1962 film The System; and as they arrive in their droves with their touring caravans, chemical toilets and B & Q barbeques, we all rather miss the tranquillity of the village out of season.
Over the years the traditional agricultural ancestry of the region has been slowly swept aside by the tide of tourism. As much as the local business’s welcome the summer influx of cash, high tourist season certainly marks a major change in the village. Tea-shops and café’s appear in what were once sitting rooms of tiny cottages; village fetes are held in abundance to entertain the visitors; and we suddenly find people with long lens cameras taking pictures through our windows. If my village neighbours are to be believed, there are indeed several shots of my Westcountry friends on cameras all over the UK, which certain specialist adult magazines would be proud to publish.
So it was with great misgivings, I set off from my cottage just outside the village to attend the summer hog-roast. Upon arrival I meet several local friends and exchange pleasantries, recipes and tips on the best foraging spots for local wild-food, before making my way to the beer shed. The queue is extremely long, filled with men wearing plaid shirts and work boots…I am in fact one of the few people not sporting a full ZZ top style beard. I inwardly curse at my city dweller flip flops as I tread in what appears to be a cow pat and take a cup of tepid cider and a huge hog roast roll before making my way back to the field to find a seat.
The band strike up the music for their first set, a hearty folk tune which gets toes tapping all over the field. I settle back in my chair with contentment, good music, lovely company, great food and not a Grockle in sight, ah, North Devon at its best.
The evening gives way to livelier music, the beer and cider flows, old ladies dance with rosy faced children, and I sit with my partner Sean and my daughter Issy, quietly getting what is euphemistically called ‘merry’. Several of the ‘men-folk’ decide a huge bonfire is in order as dusk begins to fall and I watch with great interest as the age old mating ritual of the male expressing his natural strength begins; a trial of competitiveness and capability ensues between the bantering men. It’s rather like watching a David Attenborough documentary…without of course a zebra being bought down by a lion…The men get the fire roaring with an alarming lack of regard for personal injury, any passing health and safety officer would certainly be reduced to tears by the scene; We cheerfully warm our toes by the towering inferno whilst an ash cloud akin to Vesuvius in full swing descends upon us.
Shortly thereafter, we spy our neighbour Richard walking through the mele with his wife and newly born baby; a maternal scrum quickly forms around the pram of cooing ladies, ooohing and ahhhing over the sleeping baby. I turn to speak to Sean and note with horror the unmistakable look in his eye; broodiness! Oh dear. I mentally rummage for words to diffuse the moment, but it appears I’m too late…”I’ve been thinking” says Sean – “Oh no” I think, “here it comes…the baby talk!” “We should get married”, he finishes. I breathe a sigh of relief, “OK”, I answer. And that’s that, no violins playing, no carefully thought out magical moment, no other words spoken in fact. A proposal that’s as simple, forthright and natural as the rest of our lives have become since moving here. He’s certainly no relationship god, but at least he knows I don’t need the bells and whistles that normally go with the words.
And so it was that the evening concluded, Sean and I, newly engaged…cheeks reddened by the local brew with the heady smell of cow pat on our shoes, walking home hand in hand through the sleepy village. And they say romance is dead!
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