Memories of Downderry

Holidays in Downderry

Uncle Tim owned the left side of Tremmor Cottage, next to St Nicolas Church, as a holiday home. He would let it out privately to friends and family. Subsequently he changed his holiday venue to the house next door - Firside Cottage. Unfortunately he took up permanent residence there a few years ago.
Thus my last family holiday in Downderry was six years ago. However, some of us did visit Downderry for a day this summer while staying in Dartmouth. It was great to be back after six years.

Downderry will always be a great figure-head of my nostalgic childhood memories as we used to go there for family holidays almost every summer.   

HOLIDAY MEMORIES

I have many happy, if rather boozy, memories of Downderry! I first went there in 1983 until my final visit in 1996, where I had 12 fantastic holidays there, most of the time in glorious sunshine. I went with my parents each year (apart from one) and I  was amazed by the beauty of the place. That stunning sea view as you take that sharp hairpin bend on the road from Torpoint is just purely magical, and is something I never grew tired of. The most, most stunning view I have ever seen.

We stayed at Eddystone Cottage, the home of Jim and Elsie Mercer where they ran a wonderfully friendly guest house. The views from the patio and from the sun lounge of the sea were awe inspiringly beautiful. At night, the flickering light of Eddystone Lighthouse could be seen. On a clear day the lighthouse was visible even though it was some 8 miles off shore. Our last visit in 1996 brought us bad news - Jim and Elsie were selling Eddystone Cottage and were moving back to Lancashire in retirement. They live in the town of Leyland, near Preston to this day.

I have many happy memories of walking and sitting on the beach. I would walk to Seaton (followed by refreshment at The Smuggler's Inn) or the other way to Shag Rock towards Portwrinkle.

As I said previously, I had many 'boozy' memories of Downderry! Most of those memories involve time spent in the old Eddystone Country Club - it sounds posh but it certainly wasn't. But it was homely and friendly. I must say that the Downderry locals were a delight to spend time with and to drink with I spent many a happy session in 'The Eddystone' with Jim Mercer and others such as June and Bryan and a delightfully eccentric old Yorkshire gentleman.  With me living in Lancashire you can just imagine the banter! One time, The Eddystone ended up making me quite ill after a Sunday session - 20 odd pints of Stella does that to you!

Sadly, I learnt of the closure of The Eddystone - it had been bought out in the 1990s by a shady property developer. A disgrace. As far as I know, nothing much has been done with the site. So that meant that drinking sessions were reserved for The Inn on the Shore. It was good in there but nothing matched The Eddystone Country Club. I dreamed of my almost annual Downderry summer holidays, which left me with so many happy memories. I have not been back since 1996 - until now.

I have been married for just over three years now and my wife, Debra, has never been there. However, we did go to Cornwall for our honeymoon. But we were based in Newquay and we were on a coach tour so a visit to Downderry was impossible. This year, we are returning to Cornwall and we have booked in for three nights at The Inn on the Shore, before travelling up to Newquay for a week. I cannot wait to see Downderry again, although, much has changed. so I hear. It has gone all up-market and 'yuppified.' I hate that. I have seen the photos of The Inn on the Shore - which has changed so dramatically.  However, I am determined to enjoy my first visit to Downderry in some 13 years. I can still view that magical scene as I turn that bend and witness the awesome sea view. My wife will see that for the first time, I hope she is mesmerised by it as much as I was.

I wonder if any of my drinking buddies are still around? Jim and Elsie Mercer returned there for a brief visit a few weeks back and said that a lot of the people they had known had died off. The passage of time, sadly, does that.

So next Thursday, the 30th of July 2009 (we actually leave home on the Wednesday the 29th, staying overnight in Devon) we will arrive in the wonderfully uplifting seaside village of Downderry. I am sure there will be someone who recognises me. I intend to take those beach walks, I intend to take refreshment in The Smuggler's, I intend to partake in a session or two at The Inn on the Shore. I intend to make more memories to take home with me of the wonderful, magical, amazing village of Downderry.

Hessenford

I have just read the memory of the fishing trips and the use of the jeep to tow the fishing boat down the beach to launch it into the sea at Downderry. I also remember that jeep as if it were yesterday. My Grandmother, Marjorie Buckley, was the Headmistress of Hessenford School in the 40's and 50's (maybe into the 60's before she finally retired) and I spent alot of my youth living with her and on family holidays in Hessenford. I spent 9 months with my Grandparents towards the end of the war, as my home town, Redditch, had been badly bombed by the Germans. My Grandather died, I think in 1947, and is buried in the graveyard at the Hessenford Parish Church, St. Annes. in 1953 most of the summer term and summer holidays were spent there, taking part in the festivities organised for the Coronation and celebration of the conquest of Everest. (Sir Edmund Hillary's death, ironically, was announced only 2 or 3 days ago). The Coronation events were held in the school playgoung and also in one of teh fields belonging to Farmer Lane. One of my jobs, when spending protracted periods there, was to go by bus to Downderry to change the accumulator batteries used to power the radio. From what I recall of the radio shop, it was on the main road through Downderry, somewhere near to the path that led down to the beach, but on the opposite side of the road. It was not unusual for my brother and I to walk along the beach from Seaton to Downderry, if the tide allowed, having already walked down the valley from Hessenford to Seaton. Many happy hours were spent swimming in the river, just upstream of the mill race. The village pump, sited in the lane leading up the side of the Copley Arms towards the Church, was still in use at this time. That was another duty we had, to fetch containers of water. I spent my honeymoon in Hessenford, at a guest house owned by Mary Sandys, in 1963 and met her in a chance meeting nearly 40 years later during a one hour visit to the village. She told me that she was the last remaining native resident living in the village of all those that were there in the 40's, 50's and 60's. The family names that I recall from that time were, Sandys, Stephens, Jeffries, (farmers from up the Old Valley) Kitt, Lane (the farmer), Alford (also farmers), Pote (or is it Poat?), Gwillam, Painter.
What has happened to all of these people?
Dave Styler. 14 January 2008.

Fishing with Billy

Billy was a hero to we boys. In the daytime you could go crabbing with him; at night, out drifting. He drove an old open jeep and at times you would see five, six or even seven boys clinging to parts of this ex-US vehicle as it bounced its way up the slipway, or tore through the Cornish lanes on the way to Looe, where he kept his bigger boat, the "Ella".
A shake, or an alarm clock at 5.00am. Pull on my boots and a thick woollen jumper. It would be pitch dark, nothing stirred in the village. As I made my way the five hundred yards to the centre of the village, my heart would be in my mouth; every shadow a threat, every noise a danger. Then, through the night, the clumping of heavy sea boots: "That you D'Arcy?", the comforting sound of Billy.
As we launched the boat, using his jeep and a clever device that lifted and lowered his open boat into the water , off the beach, the sea spray would sometimes dribble down my neck and a cold, pre-dawn wind, cut beneath the several layers of clothes to make me shiver. But we would never let Billy know we were suffering: he might not invite us again. As the little engine chugged us clear, through the rocks, dawn would be slowly lighting the eastern sky. Billy would be standing in the stern, tiller between his legs, the yellow of his oil skins, reflecting the slightest glimmer of light.
Four or five hours later, loaded with crabs and an occasional lobster, we would surf up the beach to be met by boys who hadn't done that dark, pre-dawn walk and, perhaps, some curious holidaymakers. The boat would be pulled up the beach by the jeep and then we would all jump in, scrabbling to get a hand hold on the cold green, rusty metal as it swayed its way up the slip, round the corner, down past Jean Thom's shop, the boys hooting and hollering with glee and Billy shouting orders to "hang on". If we were lucky, he would take us to Looe. If not, we would buy a bottle of Corona, perhaps, and make our way down to the beach, sit by the boats and listen to the old men telling sea stories. What a wonderful childhood it was!