Doubling Down on History

          Last week’s solo outing in the campervan fed my fantasy of being in a time-travel machine. It transported me to a corner of Devon that reeks so heavily of heritage that I began to feel as if I had arrived in the past – precise date uncertain, but location definitely in England. I suppose notions of what constitutes Englishness vary according to one’s experiences but, from my perspective, its quintessence is embedded in that place – and purposely, I’m sure: not just for its own sake, but also for the income that flows from the pockets of visitors. Time-warped places such as this are usually found on the road to nowhere or buried in deep countryside, accessible only via a cobweb of single-track lanes (which is where dinky-size campervans come into their own).

          I began with a tour of Castle Drogo, England’s newest castle, built in the 1930s and an acknowledged Lutyens masterpiece. No medieval fortress or faux Norman concoction, this, but a massive modernist chunk of dressed granite dominating a high bluff over the river Teign. For all its forbidding presence, however, the interior is liveable – cosy, even – and has all mod cons, including what must have been the world’s first electric candles. Set on the dining table, they were originally connected by spikes to a dodgy wire-mesh tablecloth. Spilling one’s drink was a cause for panic – and not for fear of nasty stains on the linen. The man who commissioned the building was Julius Drewe, who founded Home & Colonial Stores, a chain of emporiums that brought him so much wealth that he retired at the age of 33 and set about cobbling together a fake noble ancestry dating back to the Normans. Now, Drogo belongs to the National Trust, whose commitment to the past is unquestionable.

          The campsite I found in a valley nearby can only be described as perfect – if you like the unkempt, improvised, picture-book 1950s idyll. There was an abundance of mature trees, a stream at the bottom of the field, chickens and geese ranging freely and birdsong augmenting the joyful soundscape of children running around barefoot. And, as the evening came on, a group of young families, notable for the absence of women, gathered to prepare supper. The dads were in their element, fiddling with a fire pit, while the kids, blissfully unsupervised, appeared not to be missing their mums who, I imagined, were either enjoying a girls-only luxury spa hotel experience or revving up for a hen party somewhere less salubrious.

          On day two, I drove to Chagford, a small town, both picturesque and thriving: there are four functioning pubs (all serving food): although there used to be eleven, this is still a healthy survival rate. There is also a posh wine shop and a deli, clues to the presence of London money derived from holiday-makers and second-homers. In the ancient church, built when wealth was generated locally from tin-mining and wool, the only other person there, a woman arranging a flower display, disparaged the incomers, saying they contributed nothing to the upkeep of the church, were not friendly to the locals in the street and didn’t know a weed from a cultivated garden plant. Later, at the village hall, where a craft fair was in progress and amateur local musicians were informally assembled to serenade visitors, I bought a savoury dish of watermelon, spinach and chilli (there were no pasties) from a woman recently moved to the area, then sat awhile to listen to the musicians, none of whom had Devon accents. The repertoire comprised familiar old songs, sung with varying degrees of competence, though I particularly enjoyed one man’s rendition of Little Feat’s Roll Um Easy.

          That night, being Sunday, the campsite had emptied of children. I drank scrumpy in the company of an inquisitive goose and planned my reluctant return next day to the 21^st century. I would take the slow, rolling route over Dartmoor, where nothing has changed since sheep were first introduced.