Addendum To First Comment On Combpyne

A Memory of Combpyne.

In February 2007 I was able to revisit Combpyne church. I looked at the little St Francis carving in the chancel, and saw that the carving had suffered somewhat from woodworm. Also, I noted that my note, that I had scrawled on a card a few years earlier, was still there; but that I had incorrectly stated that my father had carved it. It should read that a tramp had carved it, and given it to my father as a thank-you for allowing him to spend the night in a shed. Perhaps someone might re-write that card! I spoke to a gentleman living next to the church, the churchwarden, and explained who I was, and we exchanged memories. I was pleased to see the Village Reservoir again, in my time there were rainbow trout living in it. My late father was also Chaplain to Allhallows School in Rousden, but that unique school, whose buildings were constructed by the 19th C Tea-Baron named Sir Henry Peake has long-since closed, leaving our education system all the poorer. I understand that it is being reconstructed as a series of flats. I spent my secondary school years there, and for all its faults I look back with some nostalgia. We were treated pretty tough in those days, I can tell you! But a good training for Life in latter years. I wonder what has become of the rare collection of stuffed birds that surrounded the upstairs part of the buildings.... Since leaving Combpyne in around 1957 I lost all touch with people I knew in the village, especially Frank Webber the farmer, from whom we had our daily milk. He had a son Giles, but I never knew him or what became of him. And there was a strange family with gypsy blood, whose name eludes me. They lived opposite the church. The paterfamilias was an honest old-time carpenter, but his wife was a cunning and devious creature, who had a farming son Steve who owned two cows, one of which was called Judy. They were strange people, and best avoided. Then there was Old Mel, a gap-toothed ancient who grew cauliflowers in his patch next to the church, whose Devonian accent through the gap in his teeth made conversation an adventure; and Old Miss Meggotti who lived 'in sin' with 'Old Mole' her companion, a Victorian character with steel-rimmed owl glasses perched on his beaky nose, who lived in a parafin-smelling hovel opposite the church. I remember the once-a-week green bus, that ran to Lyme Regis every Friday. And the farm two miles down the road towards Musbury, whose owner, it was rumoured, 'had young men staying' at his place. It was suspected that he was a paedophile, but it was never confirmed. Perhaps anyone who has memories relating to the Church or to my late father The Rev Peter Longridge, might contact me through this website?

---

---