Dear old Wiveliscombe. Nestling in a dip in the hills next Exmoor.
The Underground Lair is next to the Brewery Tower. A fitting place for One to linger… but not for much longer.
For those of you, Dear Readers, who are unfamiliar with the moors of England: Exmoor is what One calls a ‘Girl’s Moor.’ It’s pretty and peppered with idyllic stone farmhouses and charming little villages. On sunny days every single, perfect tree has a gathering of the most attractive sheep slumbering beneath. The hedgerows are groaning under the weight of fat fluffy songbirds and the soft rolling hills are alive with shiny red tractors carving furrows into the delicious red soil…
And then there’s Wivey…
Peopled with an eclectic mix of oddities drawn in as if by a Coven.
‘You don’t find Wiv. It finds you.’
2000 of us cheek by jowel in the village all having chosen a decade and living in it.
One favours the glamour of 1950’s Capri and lives in the manner of a lipsticked, headscarfed starlet nipping about in an open-topped car with Cary Grant, clicking my kitten heels on the cobbles whilst he nips in the Co-op for a bottle of Prosecco and half an ounce of Golden Virginia.
Others favour the 1960’s and live in patchouli-scented squats with purple lace curtains wafting the scent of hashish about.
The council estate has the usual gathering of Waynes and Courtneys constantly disgorging enough special-needs progeny to fill up the local school.
The pub is full of gangs of old ladies having the pensioners’ lunch and downing pints of Thatcher’s Gold. Their gap-toothed grimaces declaring to all why the dentist left town.
Where else would you see a goat in the sitting room eating the curtains?
Or an odd-looking woman curled up reading a book on an outside windowsill under a duvet?
Or a gentleman doing a poo in the middle of Golden Hill?
Or a horse, without a rider, going into the Paper Shop?
Where else could have a Cafe that closes at lunchtime?
and the best bit is…
ONE ISN’T LEAVING