Village Mysteries

          As our two-week residence in the South Devon village of Slapton comes to an end, I’m inclined to remark that there’s more to the place than meets the eye. The obvious attractions – vernacular architecture (e.g. thatched roofs) and a pretty setting in a narrow, wooded valley running down to the coast – are augmented by an adjacent nature reserve and its associated Field Study Centre. So, holiday makers and students alike boost the village’s economy, helping support its two pubs and its volunteer-run community shop.

          Slapton has a slow feel to it – the narrow, steep and winding streets discourage through-traffic and can accommodate no vehicle larger than an Amazon delivery van. There are no yellow lines because there is nowhere to park anyway. There are no streetlights because this is a designated ‘dark skies’ area – great for stargazing on a clear night, but tricky without a torch when it’s overcast and you fancy a pint. Just like other bog-standard, rural English villages, there is a church at its heart and a pub hard by. Yet Slapton has an intriguing extra dimension.

          A village this small surely doesn’t need two pubs, so why is there a second one the other side of the church? And why is it attached to the base of a seemingly random medieval tower?

           Then there’s the ‘big house’. One might expect to find such a residence inhabited by the local lord of the manor, but this one is hidden behind a high stone wall inset with a couple of disused Gothic-style doorways, next to one of which is propped a hand-painted slate sign, “The Chantry”. Above the wall, an ornate balcony protrudes from the house, its old iron brackets flaking with rust. To one side of it, there is a similarly styled and dilapidated footbridge, covered in clinging vines, that passes over the road and connects the house to the churchyard via a small, mature wood, surrounded by yet another stone wall.

          From what little can be seen of the house, in its 18^th century iteration, it is elegant and imposing, yet shabby and in need of maintenance. Who lives there? The distressed descendants of the medieval lords? A modern-day Miss Havisham?

          Most of the answers are readily found in historical accounts. In 1372, Sir Guy de Brian founded a religious college in Slapton. It was a Chantry, a nice little earner for the church, whereby wealthy individuals were scammed into a pay-to-pray scheme. They were persuaded to endow a chapel, thereby providing a living for monks and priests whose job was then to pray for their benefactor’s soul. The resulting credits could then be cashed in at the Pearly Gates to reduce their time in purgatory.

          Henry VIII abolished all that – possibly for Trump-like motives – confiscating the assets and dividing them up between himself and his supporters. Perhaps he presaged the view of Frank Zappa who, when asked during a TV interview how he would define the difference between an established religion and a cult, replied “The amount of real estate they own”.

          Typically, the new secular owners abandoned the ecclesiastic buildings and used the stones for their new house. In this case they left the tower intact because it was a bit difficult to demolish or, more likely, because they found it useful as a lookout for the Barbary pirates who were active hereabouts at the time. As for the pub at its base, speculation has it that it was built for and by the construction workers hired by Sir Guy de Brian. Another reason not to demolish the tower?

          As to who lives in The Chantry today, I have no information to offer. I should have asked down at the Community Shop, where I might have got the lowdown. Still, I leave the place feeling pleased that it has a little touch of mystery about it, adding a little piquancy to future visits.