A space for contemplation

There are few places in the whole county more suited to a little thought, contemplation and reflection than Buckfast Abbey.  On a Sunday spent soaking up the rays on the South Devon coast, Lizzie and I lurched in-land to pay a visit to this gem of a site, nestled in the foothills of the Moors.

Beautiful Buckfast Abbey

Part of a Benedictine monastery, the site was first recorded as having an abbey in 1018, and was believed to have been founded by either Aethelweard (Aylward), Earldorman of Devon, or King Cnut.  In the 1130s, King Stephen granted Buckfast to the French Abbot of Savigny, and a newly established abbey was home to Savignac monks.  The Savignac congregation merged with the Cistercians following financial difficulties, and thus Buckfast Abbey became a Cistercian monastery - at this time, the abbey was rebuilt in stone.

Buckfast Abbey's Cistercian Guest House may have looked like this (source: Buckfast.org)

The abbey became rich during the medieval period, through fishing and the wool trade, and Buckfast was known to be one of the wealthiest abbeys in the southwest.  By the turn of the sixteenth century, however, it was in decline, and when Henry VIII's infamous Dissolution was put into effect, Buckfast only had ten monks in residence.  The abbey was surrendered for dissolution on 25 February 1539, when the monastic buildings were left for ruins, and the monks granted pensions.  Following this, the Crown passed the land to Sir Thomas Dennis of Holcombe Burnell, and was then bought by Samuel Berry, who constructed a mansion house there in 1806, on the site of the abbey's former west cloister.  The house and grounds passed on to Dr. James Gale in 1872, who sold the site ten years later, advertising it as "a grand acquisition which could be restored to its original purpose."  The advert worked - in 1882, the site was purchased by a group of French Benedictine monks who had been exiled from their own monastery.  A temporary church was constructed, and between 1907 and 1938, the new abbey church was built.  Buckfast Abbey was consecrated on 25 August 1932, six years before building work was complete.

A drawing by W. Gaucci, 1830, depicting the gothic mansion with
the old abbey ruins to the left (source: The Dartmoor Trust)

There's a definite air around Buckfast Abbey.  It's an air of peace, simplicity, and spiritual contentment.  We wandered around its beautiful interior, which is surprisingly light and airy, and includes the stunning Blessed Sacrament Chapel, added later to provide a place for quiet prayer.  The stained glass here depicts Christ at the Last Supper; it measures eight metres (26 feet) across, and was designed and made by the monks in the Abbey's workshops.

Blessed Sacrament Chapel window (source: Wikipedia)

Back outside, we strolled through the lavender garden, sweet and subtle-scented even in early spring.  As we sat with a drink (and a tasty homity pie) overlooking the grounds, I quite fancied that I could throw it all in and live there. Essentially, it has everything you need - enough food to eat, a roof over your head, religious fulfilment, and a relationship with nature and people that is pure, untarnished and innocent.  So you can keep your internet, playstation and 24-hour news channel; In a weary world of unrest, a visit here is an enlightening little glimpse into another way of looking at the world.

The Abbey's lavender garden

Sunshine and Sunfish

The first sunny weekend of the year, and time to get out and see what’s on offer following the crazy weather of late.  These sorts of weekends, rare though they are, can be a joy in Devon – the sun is shining, everywhere is being readied for the holiday season, but as it’s still too early for the tourists, we find we have the county more-or-less to ourselves.  We’ll hop on a train to Plymouth then…

We’re not regular Plymouth-goers – it’s a little out of our way from Exeter – but the city is well worth a day every so often and, if you can look beyond its harsh post-war architecture, there lies a city steeped in history.  They call Plymouth “the Ocean City”, a nod to the sea from which it shares a unique, intrinsic bond.  Quite fitting, then, that one of the first things we should run into is an art installation celebrating the ocean.  Lined up off Royal Parade in the city centre, fifteen ocean sunfish sculptures, each designed by local apprentices, and decorated by local artists and students, stand dazzling against the concrete.  Their existence is down to a project called Making Waves, which aims to encourage young people into apprenticeships, as well as raise awareness for marine conservation.  We’re lucky to have caught them all in one place – in a few days, they will be shipped off to locations all around the city, forming a public art trail, the likes of which gripped locals in Torbay and Exeter in 2013.  There's no space in this blog to show you all the designs I liked, but I'll get back to you later about which was my favourite.

Ocean sunfish (source: Wikipedia)

A short stroll from the city centre brings us to Plymouth Hoe, where the breeze hits you straight off the sea, and I fancy you can taste the maritime history.  This is home to Plymouth’s fantastic, humbling war memorial, bearing the names of several thousand sailors who lost their lives in war, a testament to the city’s naval heritage and bravery.  Beyond the memorial, Plymouth’s most famous son, Sir Francis Drake, looks out on an ocean from which he made his fortune (and a green, on which he payed his bowls), whilst across the way, Smeaton’s Tower provides perhaps the city’s most famous landmark.  The lighthouse was finished in 1759, cost £40,000, and was largely the work of Cornish tin miners, who built the tower out on the dangerous Eddystone Rocks.  The Douglas Lighthouse superseded Smeaton’s Tower in 1882, and the people of Plymouth paid for it to be dismantled and reassembled on the Hoe, so grateful were they for the countless lives saved.

Our stroll along the Hoe gives way to the massive naval defenses of a once-mighty empire, and we descend down to the Barbican and our destination, the National Marine Aquarium.  Locals will remember when this aquarium first opened, and I recall how excited I was on my first visit, wide-eyed and fascinated as I was taken on a journey from the marine life of Plymouth Sound, around the coasts of Britain, through the deep Atlantic and into the tropics.  Today, the aquarium has lost none of its charm, and the life contained within its walls is simply stunning.  There are no sunfish, but the sharks, rays, octopi, seahorses, crabs, lobsters, and jellyfish make for a vibrant couple of hours.  

The star of the show, the beautiful Loggerhead Turtle named Snorkel, punctuates our visit to the aquarium.  Washed up on Sennen Cove beach, Cornwall, in 1990, it was discovered that her eyesight was so poor that she could not hunt for food, and a decision was taken not to release her back into the wild.  At 25, she should have many years ahead of her, a life that could have been cut so short had she not been found 24 years ago.  She's everybody's favourite, and you can see why - her serene, peaceful presence is mesmerising.

A day in Plymouth - well worth it if the weather's good, and if you like your maritime history, marine wildlife, or just a good old bask in the early Spring sunshine.  And as for which sunfish was my favourite... Well it could have been any of them, but I think this one just captures the spirit of our day in the city.

Family War Heroes - Wilfred Roy Major (141709)

February 1943, and wintery Europe finds itself in the grip of a cruel war's fourth year.  The continent has endured perhaps its bleakest ever period, but in the last month, there is a glimmer of hope, and a feeling that the tide of the Second World War is turning – British forces have captured Tripoli from the Nazis, whilst in the east, the Red Army has scored a decisive victory in one of history’s bloodiest battles, Stalingrad.  It is 25 February, and at RAF Ridgewell, Essex, a young RAF pilot officer, attached to 90 Squadron from the Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, catches up with the war latest in the newspaper.  Wilfred Roy Major, better known as Roy, has just earned his wings, and has flown his first mission over Germany with Bomber Command.  Tonight he flies his second mission, a dangerous bombing raid on the German city of Nuremberg.  It is the first night of a new ‘round-the-clock’ Allied air offensive that will see American aircraft pound German cities by day, with British bombers attacking them by night.  It is a devastating bombing tactic, which will claim thousands of civilian lives, as the war reaches its most terrible of conclusions.

Short Stirlings in flight (Source: WW II Vehicles)

It is 8.39pm, and Roy Major’s Short Stirling, BF410 WP-E, taxis across the runway and takes off, along with 337 other aeroplanes from airfields in the southeast – 169 Lancasters, 104 Halifaxes, and 64 Stirlings.  The 1000-mile round-trip will take five hours, during which they will encounter anti-aircraft flak and, even more menacing, German Messerschmitt fighters. If the bomber and its crew survives, they can expect to land back on British soil at around five o’clock in the morning.

Approaching Nuremburg at 15,000 feet, the crew spot the fires already blazing in the north of the city, and in the neighbouring town of Furth.  These fires were started by the flares of the 'pathfinders', dropped to mark out the target, so it could be more easily identified by the main bombers.  On this occasion, poor weather has led to some inaccuracy, and the northern fringes of the city, along with the aforementioned Furth, are bearing the brunt, along with the surrounding countryside. 

Nuremberg (Source: German Tragedy of Destiny)

Wilfred Roy Major’s bomber has dropped its load, and the crew is looking forward to returning home.  A cup of tea.  A soft bed.  English soil.  But then there is a stutter, an almighty jolt that throws the crew violently around their tin can.  The engines cut out.  Have they been hit by flak on their return journey?  Have they suffered the attack of an enemy fighter?  We don’t know the cause, but Short Stirling BF410 WP-E is falling frighteningly out of the sky.  Sergeant J. Carrick is the first to bail out of the aircraft.  He is also the last, parachuting to the ground whilst the machine nose-dives into the countryside, taking the seven other crew members to their deaths.  Sergeant Francis John Miles, the pilot, Sgt Arthur Vivian Derrick Hines, the flight engineer, Sgt George Pettinger, the navigator, Sgt John Henry Dyer, the bomb-aimer, Sgt William Hughes Bevan, the wireless operator, Sgt Eric Howeth Holmes, the air gunner, Sgt Wilfred Roy Major.  Aged 21.  On only his second mission.  A volunteer.  One of nine aircraft that did not return home on that terrible night.

Memorial to 90 Squadron at RAF Tuddenham (Source: War Memorials Online)

Sergeant J. Carrick was picked up by the German authorities, and spent the rest of the war interned in Stalag 8B (later 344) Lamsdorf prisoner of war camp.  He had the Prisoner of War Number 27633.  Wilfred Roy Major and the rest of the crew are buried at Durnbach War Cemetery, Bad Tolz, south of Munich.  The vast majority of those buried here are airmen shot down over Bavaria, Wurtemburg, Austria, Hassen and Thuringia, brought from their scattered graves by the Army Graves Service, as well as those killed whilst escaping from prisoner of war camps, or who died towards the end of the War on forced marches.  Wilfred Roy is buried close to the cemetery’s Stone of Remembrance, in Coll. Grave 11, H 1-7.  His connection to me is through my grandfather, who was Wilfred Roy's cousin.  

  

Wilfred Roy Major's Forces Record

First name:  Wilfred Roy

Initials:  W R

Surname: Major

DOB: Circa 1922

Age: 21

Nationality: British

Date of Death: 26/02/1943

Information: SON OF WILFRED DOUGLAS AND IVY MAY MAJOR OF EARLEY, READING, BERKSHIRE

Rank: Pilot Officer

Service Number: 141709

Campaign Medals: War Medal 1939-1945, 1939-45 Star

Service: Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve

Regiment: Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve

Battalion: 90 Squadron
Commemorated: Germany

I love hockey!

And so, two weeks after the Winter Olympics began its crazy set of events in Sochi, we reach the climax of the Games – the men’s ice hockey final in the Bolshoy Ice Dome.  I’ve enjoyed ice hockey for a number of years, and it’s great to see it brought to British television, even if it is only once every four years.

Bolshoy Ice Dome, Sochi

So, who do we fancy for the gold medal?  It’s hard to bet against the defending champions, Canada, especially after their moral-boosting win over the USA in the semi-finals.  On the flip side, I’ve been watching the Swedish team with some interest – the Buffalo Sabres are well-represented here, with defensemen Jhonas Enroth and Henrik Tallinder both playing in yellow.  They're both cracking sides, each capable of winning gold so, like with all sports, it depends who turns up on the day.

Canada beat the USA in a thrilling semi-final

On the subject of colours, I had a brilliant find yesterday – this amazing Finland hockey jersey for only £16 from everyone’s favourite bargain store, TK Maxx.  Well, what’s a fella to do except buy it, especially when I have such a great collection to maintain; I’m hoping it will one day be as good as the sports shop in Banff!

A bargain buy!

Sports shop in Banff, Alberta (2011)

I’ll hopefully be enjoying a really good hockey final today, and as my photo might suggest, I’ve decided to nail my colours to the mast.  Not that it will go down ever so well with our resident wolf dog, Diefenbacker, a proud Canadian from Alberta. 

Diefs

Divided loyalties at home

Good luck Sweden, and all the best Canada!  Now let’s play hockey!

An hour's stroll around Chichester Marina