Kingswear, Me, And My Dog.

A Memory of Kingswear.

He was only a few weeks old when he came to us, my mother had got to know about him and thought he was just the thing I needed to cheer me up. I was fourteen years of age and had not long moved home; my parents had decided to live in Devon and it was to the seaside town of Dartmouth we were to make a new life. My father had bought a village shop across the river Dart at a place called Kingswear. It was the middle of the schools' summer holidays and I was not adjusting very well to my new surroundings, my parents said I was homesick.

Out of the blue I found I was sharing my new home with a sandy haired, roly poly bundle of puppy flesh.

I had no idea my mother had been thinking about a pet as a companion for me, so I was completely baffled when he turned up. Not having any previous experience with dogs I treated it as a curiosity object more than a pet. As the dog started to grow it became noticeable the dog's feet were disproportionately large, well out of kilter with the rest of his body. My Dad assured us in a worldly manner, that this was a sure sign he was going to be a big dog, all of which seemed perfectly logical to me. Needless to say the dog turned out to be a perfectly normal, medium size mongrel terrier. We all breathed a sigh of relief at not having a long legged wolfhound bounding about the place.

Un-beknown to me, my mother had already thought of its name, he was to be called Raq. I thought what sort of a name is that? My mother went on to explain she had read stories of a Romany family and their dog was called Raq. My Mother really must have enjoyed the tales in the book because she would not brook any opposition, there was to be no debate, Raq it was!

It took some time for Raq and me to become firm friends, but when we did, we were inseparable.

I can never remember training him to do anything; he just seemed to know what was required of him and did it! I could take him anywhere and he would be right at my side, if he did start to wander or outpace me, one look at my body language and he would fall back into step, it was the same with everything. There were moments however, when he did do his own thing, especially when getting off the ferry; he had a tendency to want to jump off before the boat had docked. I remember one ferry crossing on the steam boat SS *'Mew' when the boat was approaching the Dartmouth pontoon to disembark its passengers. With the boat still several feet away from the landing dock, my dog took a flying leap off the boat. He must have misjudged the distance because he missed his landing and started to slide down the side of the pontoon, toward the water. Luckily, he just managed to cling on to a rope fender, which was halfway down.

With two hundred tons of steam ferry closing in rapidly; the dog frantically scrambled his way back to the top, just in time to skip out of the way as the ship hit the side.

With baited breath I stood rooted to the spot, looking around, I could see other passengers were looking exactly the same as me.

*The Mew was a steam driven ship of about tug size, it could take up to a dozen cars or so. It had been plying back and forth on the railway ferry service since the early 1900's, but now it was ponderous and slow and it was taken out of service some time in 1954. Its successor was a purpose built passenger only boat and was powered by diesel. This boat was named the Humphry Gilbert.

* Mew crew. Bob Legg, Dusty Miller, Paddy Barden, Roy Heal?

After school each day, I would race home and get changed into jeans and plimsolls, call the dog and set off for my dad's shop to deliver the evening papers.

After school I would dash through town to the embankment to catch a ferry to Kingswear. There were three different ferries to choose from, the railway ferry which I have just described, or the corporation run ferry, which was a much quicker and smaller boat for passengers only, and finally there was the regular car and passenger ferry. This ferry was known by all as the ‘float’ which was essentially a floating platform towed by a powerful diesel tug. Driving the powerful tug alongside the floating platform with ramps at each end was a skilful job. On my arrival at the embankment (Quayside) a quick appraisal of the ferry situation would be called for, if in a hurry I would discount the 'Mew' as it being too slow, so it would have to be choice of one of the remaining two ferries. The relative positions of both ferries would be quickly assessed with a view as to which one would be the quickest across. This guessing game did not always work out correctly, much to my annoyance. Usually, it was the corporation's passenger boat, which got my vote. It was about twenty feet long with a cosy cabin amidships and looked similar to the boat in the film African Queen. The driver’s cabin was at the stern of the Boat. It was highly manoeuvrable and could be across the other side in about three minutes, the cost, for the single journey was one old penny. I cannot ever recall paying for the dog.

If there was a swell coming in from the sea, the boat would roll and pitch, sometimes spray would drench you if you were not fleet of foot. Really, for a young boy it was quite adventurous

Ferry crew. Langworthys. Don, Ken and Bill. George Ash, Basil ? George Bailey, Jim Davies. Stan Vercoe (others, whose faces I see, but have no names)

I was beginning to really like my new surroundings more and more, especially Kingswear. which for some reason had a comfortable feeling akin to an old coat which fitted perfectly. My previous home was situated on a main road on the outskirts of a medium sized Midlands industrial town, but here it was completely different for within a relatively small area was a chemistry of town, village, river, country and sea, a combination which, definitely had appeal.

Raq and me would collect our papers from the shop, and hare round to see how fast we could complete the deliveries. By the time I had returned from delivering out at Riversea it would coincide with the school bus leaving for Brixham. If I remember correctly, it was a private bus company run by a Mr Geddes, who was also the driver. I would lean on the wall and watch the school bus perform the ritual of reversing under the railway arch within the confines of the Square. This manoeuvre could prove difficult in the summertime with the holiday traffic.

On completion, the kids would board the bus and Mr Geddes would get in the drivers seat, a grinding of gears would signal the bus was about to move off. These moments sound so trivial, but for me this is what Kingswear was all about, being situated on a hillside was an amphitheatre viewing life itself, no matter where you were, there was always something of interest to see.

Whichever way you looked, there were panoramic views, either out towards the mouth of the river and sea; or across to Dartmouth or up the river. I never tired of just looking about me; there was so much going on.

Although only a boy at the time, I sensed I was experiencing a way of life that had changed very little in many years. I also sensed that in a few short years our living arrangement would change at an ever increasing pace. Looking back, I feel I was lucky to be part of such a way of life, for it was such a close-knit community. Even if you didn't know everyone by name there was a fair chance you knew them by sight, or where they lived or worked. It was a microcosm of Britain itself where well defined divisions coalesced around well tried traditions within the discipline of the social values of the times, to me, it all added up to witnessing the passing of a Victorian way of life, ethos and values. All of which was not surprising really, as anyone over the age of fifty was born during the reign of Queen Victoria.

There had always been a history of successful retirees settling in the village, but with the post war rebuilding of Britain a general increase of wealth brought an expanding professional class who, along with their boats and yachts lost no time in bring their new found wealth to such places as Kingswear. Undoubtedly, the most sweeping change I noticed was the increase in tourism, with its attendant road traffic problems. Of course, this was nothing new it was just the scale of it all. Over time, this ‘progress’ takes its toll of a traditional way of life, whether it is a good thing or not I don’t know, I suppose it depends on one’s point of view.


There were a number local of shops providing valuable service to local people. In the Square down by the ferry there was the Post Office (Ms Strickland) Tobacconist, sweets and gifts (my dad's shop) Chemists. (Andrews) Bakery and Cafe (Stanliecks) The Dart Inn, Mr and Mrs Coish? Fore Street, Clothes shop (Hunt) Butchers (Scoble) Dairy (Murrin) Grocers (Hawkes) Others. Garage (Fairwheather) Steampacket Inn, and Ship Inn.

Most of these establishments were privately owned and provided the necessities of everyday living. I don't know whether it's an illusion but in those days there seemed more local people living in the village. The railway for example used to employ over fifty people, many of them local living in the village itself. There was a shipyard up river at Noss Works producing Trinity House lightships with sufficient local people working there to merit a railway Halt at Brittania Crossing, I can remember several workers going to work there on the 7.0 o'clock morning train. The 8.05 am train was also well patronised by locals commuting up the line to Paignton and Torbay Area.


*Railway workers remembered - Station Masters R Bovey and L Nicholls Station Foreman Percy Wadham Ticket Collectors Wilf Whotten. Ed Trickey. Norman Jones. Porters Bill Bearman. Albert Phillips. Charlie Hamblyn. Dick Buller. Signalmen Bill Parry. Tom? Marshall. Reg Selway. Shunter Di Thomas Examiner Jim Breeze Crane Drivers Bert Smith Lad Porters Ralph ? (?) (Both from Brixham) Carriage Cleaners Bert Brown. Bill Knapman. M Ellis. Rundle. Bert Smith. (twin of crane driver Smith) Moran. (Scotsman) Packers Harry Battershall. 'Count' Knapman. Ruben Memory. Walter Pollard. Clerical Staff Polyblank. Fred Didsbury. Bill Penwarden. Book Stall Bill Kelland

After about a year, we moved from Dartmouth to a small cottage near my dad's shop, for all of us it was more convenient, for by now I had left school and got a job as a booking clerk on the railway station, which, was literally a stone throw away; as was the church and two pubs. It was also more convenient for my dog, as our new home was in a quiet backwater and near to our favourite walks. Outside the cottage door, turn left and up a dozen or so steps and we would be on the road which leads eventually to the sea, about a mile and a half distant; it was also the road to my friend’s house at Millbay and a place called the Warren. I have written many words elsewhere about this area, suffice to say, it was a dogs paradise. The number of times my dog and me walked this road, must be counted in hundreds, I never tired of it, and I'm sure Raq didn't either.

I open the door a fraction and squeeze through, knowing full well my dog, somehow, has got through with me; still close behind up the steps to the top, there the dog would sit;

He knew instinctively if he was not welcome on my travels; if told to go home he would remain sitting looking a very sad dog indeed. I would start walking away, thirty paces on I would look over my shoulder; he would still be sat motionless with head on one side looking so forlorn. With each stride the distance between us becomes greater, one hundred yards now, I look over my shoulder and he's still there, not being able to bear the sad look on his face any longer, I would shout, "come on then" at which, his face would light up instantly and bound forward at breakneck speed to join me. Very rarely was I harsh enough to tell him to go home.

The Warren was a wooded area of cliff-top pines, about two mile distant from our cottage; just the place to take a dog on an evening run, for this was Mecca for any self-respecting dog hell bent on exploring. When we got to the steep cliffs he would soon present me with a piece of branch or log, imploring me to send it hurtling down the steep side into the young pines. Sometimes the branch or log would be quite heavy, and after a lengthy absence he would stagger back with the retrieved object, only to repeat the process all over again. The pine needles hereabouts were inches deep, having lain for ages; to see my dog furiously burrowing and scratching out a shower of needles for several feet behind him; was hilarious.

I had a boat, and Raq was a natural sea dog, his favourite position was in the bow, nose pointed upward at a jaunty angle, keenly sniffing the salt spray. Come the Springtime my boat would be prepared and ready for me to use, as in other things, messing about in my boat was shared with my dog; and for the few short weeks of Summer we will be out on the river. Messing about in boats is just that; not going anywhere in particular, a visit to a cove or beach, a trip on the river or drop anchor and fish, sunbathe or swim. It all added up to passing the sunny days away, messing about. My boat was an eleven foot dinghy with an outboard motor and was moored off the railway embankment by the footbridge. I would go down to the boat with my dog and set off with nothing more in mind than having a trip around the harbour or out to the estuary.

In those days there was regularly presence of a flotilla of five RN destroyers or frigates moored in the middle of the river, they provided quite a site and I would go out and have a closer look; or I would go further up river where for several years, quite a few deep sea cargo vessels were laid up. One day, I went a further up river than I had previously ventured; all of a sudden the boats momentum abruptly ceased and I was catapulted forward quite violently, similarly the dog, only he shot over the side. We had run aground; shaken, I looked around to see what had happened, looking into the water, I saw to my astonishment there was only a foot of water under the boat, I was stranded on a mud bank in the middle of the river. With the aid of an oar, and much pushing and cursing, I managed to find deeper water and starting the motor I went in pursuit of my dog; thankfully I caught up with him without grounding again, I hauled him aboard none the worse for his ordeal. This episode taught me a salutary lesson; treat the river (and sea) with the utmost respect; and study the waters and tides before setting out.


For the next two summers, life continued in a similar fashion, but by that time, clouds were gathering, telling me time was running out. Soon I would be eighteen and have to leave home for my National Service. I didn't know why, but I instinctively knew things would change, somehow it would mean goodbye forever, to this way of life.

For the dog to suddenly find, one day I had gone, must have been devastating and miserable, for I had at last, left home for my National Service.

It has grieved me since, that at the time I never gave my dog a thought, indicating perhaps more pressing thoughts on my mind. It consoles me now however, that my dad took over my duties and took him for walks and exercise, but it couldn't have been the same for him, and it never was. My mother used to tell me, whenever I came home on leave, the dog instinctively knew I was coming, certainly the frenzied welcome he always gave me suggested this was true. I would like to think so, anyway.

Two years later and ten years older I returned home. I could not settle, life was not the same, I was restless; my interests lay elsewhere, and it was inevitable my life was about to change. Soon my parents moved home again and several more times after that, by which time I had set up my own home, back in the Midlands; my dog was now a thing of the past. Whenever I visited my parents Raq and I would briefly reunited, but he was no longer the dog I knew, for he too, was getting older. I knew that in his dog youth I had given him a wonderful life, and in return, he gave me his loyalty and companionship. Raq died of a heart attack in Dobwalls near Liskeard aged 9 years, this was in 1962.

My parents say he died from a weak heart due to the strenuous life style of his early years. If asked was it worth it? My answer would be a resounding yes.