Our Italian Maundy Thursday

     My wife and I were excited at the prospect of spending this Easter week just past in Italy.  

     I didn't feel very well as I woke up on Maundy Thursday when we were due to drive up from Totnes to Bristol Airport to board a plane to Pisa where we were due to land in the early afternoon.  (I can't begin to count the times when I told people we were going to Pisa how often I was asked if I was going to straighten up the tower). In any case our final destination was not Pisa. Our younger daughter was picking us up at Pisa Airport and driving us to a hotel in Bagni di Lucca where we were booked to stay in a hotel which had a swimming pool and a spa with healing waters.

     As I said, I didn't feel too well on waking up, but recovered sufficiently for my wife and I to agree that I could drive to the airport. We arrived there without serious incident though my concentration was not as assured as it occasionally can be. When we arrived at the airport car park my wife took over the driving, not merely because she is better than me at manoeuvring our car in small spaces but also because I was exhausted. I felt increasingly physically weak and asked for a wheelchair at the check-in, something I would previously have been too proud to do. Somehow we navigated our way through security and reached the departure gate but I remained unwell.  The airport first aid team was called to offer me support. I began to lose consciousness. I had a feeling of slipping away: a state that was averted by a sudden need to vomit and defecate. Certainly there was an impetus for both to occur simultaneously, but nothing,  perhaps to the relief of everyone around, was evacuated.

     I was told that in my condition I would not be allowed to board the plane and the airport first aid team called for an NHS paramedic who appeared, it seemed to me in my dazed state, from absolutely nowhere to tend to me. His name was Tomas.  He gave me an ECG test and said that my heart beat was twice the rate it should be and my blood pressure was at a worrying level. He stayed with me.

     Our plane departed without us and though I was sad for my wife's disappointment, I am glad she elected to stay with me. I apologise for that irony for in truth I am in a fortunate position to say - whether she should do so or not -  my wife would always stay with me. She is a kind, generous woman.

     Eventually an ambulance arrived to whisk me off to Bristol Royal Infirmary where I was given a whole raft of assessment tests over the next two days. They discovered I had hypertension, arrhythmia, and a urinary infection. They also threw in some newly discovered gallstones with these too. On allowing me to leave the infirmary they prescribed me blood thinning tablets, beta blockers and an antibiotic. 

     I will always be grateful to the Bristol Airport first aid team, to Tomas, the NHS paramedic, and to the staff of Bristol Royal Infirmary who all gave me prompt, sensitive, expert and effective attention at a time when I was feeling very ill. They put me on the road to good repair. Throughout my life my experience of our NHS has invariably been good. My family and I owe a great deal to it and I think its creation was one of the great achievements of the community that was the United Kingdom.

     Just as I was to be hospitalised my wife called our daughter, who was waiting for us in Pisa,  to explain to her what had happened. We had been due not only to meet her, but later on in the week, also my son in law and my eldest grandson. They were going to show us the house they had purchased in Tuscany which they are now renovating.  Our daughter, who had booked into the same hotel as we had, said it was a very warm and special place which we would have liked. I couldn't help but think about all these events which were not now going to happen and I began to sense that my sudden illness had created disappointment for quite a few people who I loved dearly.

    Ah, well that was our Italian Maundy Thursday this year. I wish I could wash my hands of it. In the meantime I will seek absolution, in mind and spirit at least, and wash the feet of all those I disappointed by my indisposition.

_____________

From my Journal, March 28th, 1998; George Mackay Brown and other poets.

Totnes, Saturday, March 28th, 1998

     Very late last night I finished reading George Mackay Brown’s memoir, For the Islands I Sing.  The book captured me. I completed reading it in one session. It also brought to mind a memory I have of the early 1970s when I lived in Johnshaven, a fishing village on the east coast of Scotland some miles north of Montrose. One summer a young Irish carpenter came to work in the village. We met on a few occasions in the bar of the Ship Hotel which was conveniently situated next to Kirk Cottage where I lived. One evening he told me he had plied his trade on Orkney the previous summer and while there he had become acquainted with the poet, George Mackay Brown and on a number of occasions they had enjoyed a game of chess together over a pint of beer. The young carpenter clearly admired the poet, telling me Mackay Brown was a sincere and modest man, of quietly ironic humour.  

From a painting by Ian MacInnes held at the Orkney Library and  Archive, Kirkwall

     These qualities are evident in the poet’s memoir  but it is in many ways a private if not evasive record. He mentions fellow poets, such as Hugh McDiarmid and Norman McCaig but he gives little away about them. He seems a man who is more rooted to where he comes from, (and there are good reasons for this) than one who engages passionately with others.  His book brings out the timelessness of Orkney and its culture, and the grandeur of its nordic history.  The following poem though not from his memoir epitomises  for me the spirit of this book. 

Beachcomber

by George Mackay Brown

Monday I found a boot –

Rust and salt leather.
I gave it back to the sea, to dance in

Tuesday a spar of timber worth thirty bob.
Next winter
It will be a chair, a coffin, a bed.

Wednesday a half can of Swedish spirits.

I tilted my head.
The shore was cold with mermaids and angels.

Thursday I got nothing, seaweed,
A whale bone,
Wet feet and a loud cough.

Friday I held a seaman’s skull,

Sand spilling from it
The way time is told on kirkyard stones.

Saturday a barrel of sodden oranges.
A Spanish ship
Was wrecked last month at The Kame.

Sunday, for fear of the elders,

I sit on my bum.
What’s heaven? A sea chest with a thousand gold coins. 

     In For the Islands I Sing Mackay Brown also mentions that while he was struggling to become recognised as a poet, (not that he was overpowerfully determined on this), he received advice from Cecil Day Lewis. Reading this directed my thoughts back to the mid-1960s and Trent Park College where I trained to be a teacher. The English born Canadian poet, Patrick Anderson, was the principal lecturer in English Literature at the college. He introduced me and some other students to Cecil Day Lewis and John Heath Stubbs. All three encouraged me in my poetry but I later came to a view that their motives may not have been altruistic and my meagre poetic talents were not their central interest in me. Still, I suppose we should not separate life from poetry or poetry from life.

_______________

                                 

Sources

For the Islands I Sing George Mackay Brown (John Murray, 1996)

"The Beachcomber" from Fishermen with Ploughs George Mackay Brown; (Hogarth Press, 1971) 

An enigma to myself : Coventry 1959

  You see the boy on the left, that's me. Recently I found this photograph of my pal RD and me, taken in the summer of 1959. We lived on the as yet uncompleted Potters Green housing estate in Walsgrave on Sowe, Coventry.  RD and I were members of the Potter's Green Boys' Club and played for its football team. 

  This photograph was taken a few days after Peter, the man who organised and led the boys' club, told me that RD had won the club's all-round athlete's award. He said he wanted to tell me before the award ceremony because I was so competitive and would be very disappointed. He wanted to prepare me for this. Actually the disappointment was that I now imagined Peter liked RD better than me.

 Look at the photograph again and you will see that I have my socks tucked into my trousers. I had just been cycling. I had wanted a bike and though we were not poor, my parents didn't have the money to buy me the lightweight, 5 geared, drop handle Coventry Eagle racing bike I desired. My father found the old frame of a ladies bike complete with chain wheel and pedals but with no handlebars, wheels or brakes. He also found : an unsporty looking straight handlebar, wheels and brakes, and fixed the bike up for me. It may have looked makeshift but to me it was a bike and I rode it for a year or so until my parents did purchase a Coventry Eagle racer for me which, a few months later, I wrecked by crashing into the back of a milk float while I was cycling and daydreaming on my way to Foxford School.

  

   I look at that boy now sixty years on and I quietly admire him. He's looking at the camera in a shy, doubtful way as if he is just discovering that he has become an enigma to himself. He is at the start of not having absolute control over what he may have thought life held in store for him.

   He doesn't know what is lying in wait for him along the way; good experiences, bad ones; wrong directions taken yet sometimes good routes found; relationships gone wrong and relationships that were right; the ecstasy of becoming a father;  having children who achieved a little because of him but in large measure in spite of him; regrettable actions taken that caused pain for others and himself;  making lifelong friends; the joyful experience of becoming a grandparent; being part of a family and community and inevitably all those painful unresolved matters involving others that can now never be resolved.  

   

   Taking all this into account I look at the boy in the photograph and think, "You may have had no idea of the rough road you would be forced to navigate over the next 60 years but you survived. That is some kind of achievement."

  In recent times when in conversation with my friends I have played (for sympathy and for fun) the rôle of the stiff, increasingly confused agèd bloke. I'm not going to do this any more. In these last weeks, two friends, both of whom I loved, have died unexpectedly and suddenly.  Both were in their fifties. I am 73 years old. 

   My father died of pancreatic cancer at the age of 58 so I have become a more experienced human being than he, yet he is my father. Inside my head he remains older and wiser than I am. Unlike my Dad and my friends though, I am still going along the road. I'm glad of that.

________________________

Alison Poltock comments

I loved reading this, wish it was longer. I was saddened to hear about your friends' deaths, but relieved to hear that your confused old man behaviour is all an act!

Brian McAuley writes

Thanks Charles, a lot of this resonated with me.

O Mary at thy window be: It's Rabbie’s Birthday

      Today Robert Burns turns his two hundred and sixtieth year, yet for me his verse and songs still 'gleam sae fresh and fair'. Of all the great poets whose lines I've read and heard, Robert Burns is the one to whom I feel closest. He lets me into his house. That may be a conceit but it describes how he affects me.

      I marvel at his gift for satire, witheringly exercised in Holy Wullie’s Prayer. I wonder at his talent for comic gothic evidenced in rhymed tales like Tam o’ Shanter. I feel warmth and honesty from his pastoral of family life The Cotter’s Saturday Nicht. In Ode to a Mouse he lets me sit with him as he reflects on humankind’s relationship with other creatures of the natural world. I stand up straight with him at his proud sense of democracy, as he declares it in A Man's a Man for a' That.

   At different times according to my mood  different strands of Burns's work, (and I haven’t mentioned them all here), appeal to me. Today I am in thrall of his love songs and one I remember learning off by heart in about 1956 at primary school in Dundee was Mary Morison.
 I last sung this song (as best I could) on the Burns Night celebrations on January 25th, 2019, held at the Bay Horse Inn at the top of Totnes in Devon. It's a fine pub. Here are the lyrics to this song, in my view the finest of the bard's early compositions.

Mary Morison

By Robert Burns  

O Mary, at thy window be, 

         It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! 

Those smiles and glances let me see, 

         That makes the miser's treasure poor: 

How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 

         A weary slave frae sun to sun, 

Could I the rich reward secure, 

         The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string 

         The dance gaed thro' the lichted ha' 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 

         I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 

Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

         And yon the toast of a' the town, 

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 

         "Ye are na Mary Morison." 

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

         Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 

Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

         Whase only faut is loving thee? 

If love for love thou wilt na gie 

         At least be pity to me shown: 

A thocht ungentle canna be 

         The thocht o' Mary Morison. 

________

  

There have been many differing arrangements and performances of the song and here are two examples by Westport and by Kenneth Mackellar. Ludwig van Beethoven admired the words of the song and composed a new melody set to  Burn's lyric .

Quaintly this version of the song is included in an album of Irish songs for which Beethoven also wrote melodies.Fine as the great composer's air is, I prefer Mary Morison sung to its traditional tune of "Bide Ye Yet", a melody Burns loved. There is no indication of the identity of the composer.

George Best - a signed photie in the Artisan Bar

    One of the greatest footballers I ever saw play was George Best. He had a life of struggling but what a wondrous football player he was. On reflection I shouldn't seem so mean. He is the finest fitba' player I ever saw, and I've seen some greats, Pele, Dalglish, Baxter, Gilzean, Law, Cowie, Cooke, Charlton the younger, Caniggia and more but for all his troubles George was the "best". I last saw him in the late 60s playing for Manchester United in an evening match at Highfield Road, Coventry, when the Sky Blues (Coventry City) were still in the top league (they were called divisions in those days).

Well, (I suppose in these days I should have started the sentence with "so") over the New Year I was in the Artisan Bar on the London Road, Abbeyhill, Edinburgh and saw this signed photie of George taken during period when he played for Hibs.

    Like Van Gogh he struggled for his sanity but when we watched him play football he set us free. He also took the trouble tae leave us this photie.

Hogmanay, 2018 : I'm tired of news

    I hoped this would be a comfy recollection of 2018 reflecting on humankind's desire to be a world community. Alas, it is not so. In every direction my mind goes towards seeking harmony in the human predicament it is brought to an abrupt halt and I become apoplectic. I am rendered speechless and thoughtless and that  makes me feel worthless and weak.
    Here in the United Kingdom (?!) we are ruled by pettifogging little emperors more interested in filling their own coffers by sycophancy to the wealthy who fund the Conservative Party, than in opening our portals to desperate refugees who need the help of the sixth wealthiest country of the world. We are ruled by those who punish their own - the less well off in our country - in order to make the rich richer and of course themselves richer. Let's see Jeremy Corbyn's bank balance compared with that of any Conservative MP's and then you'll see what I mean. 
    We are citizens of a state which allows the production of armaments to kill the innocent in Yemen and Palestine and other places. You and I acquiesce to this. Why do we accept being killers?
    Why can't we celebrate being in a wider community like the EU or even better a world community? Why can't we accept that the poverty of any of our fellow kind and the cruelty meted out to the  endangered of any species on our planet is our responsibility. That we can't seem to own up to this is symptomatic of our self-interest and greed.

A global community on a torch procession, Edinburgh, 30.12.18

    I didn't mean to go off on one like this but every time I think of what has gone on in 2018 my mind explodes into highly dudgeonised and unspeakable despair. In order to articulate these feelings, I rely on the words of a gifted author. Here is Elisabeth -  the main character in Ali Smith's superb novel, Autumn, giving forth:

  "I'm tired of the news. I'm tired of the way it makes things spectacular that aren't and deals so simplistically with what's truly appalling. I'm tired of vitriol. I'm tired of anger. I'm tired of meanness. I'm tired of selfishness. I'm tired of how we are doing nothing to stop it. I'm tired of how we are encouraging it. I'm tired of the violence there is and I'm tired of the violence that's on the way, that's coming, that hasn't happened yet... I'm tired of liars. I'm tired of how those liars have let this happen. I'm tired of having to wonder whether they did it out of stupidity or on purpose. I'm tired of lying governments. I'm tired of people not caring.

   I hope, with little optimism I'm sad to say, for a better 2019.

_____________________________________________

Reference : Autumn; Ali Smith, published by Hamish Hamilton, London 2016.
See also : https://leavingdundee.blogspot.com/2017/12/and-i-would-walk-500-miles-and-i-would.html

A Load of Old Bull : a tale of a Totnes Inn

By Charlie Topaz McGonagall

The Bull Inn, Totnes, from a painting by Brian "Sandy" Sandford

Part 1

A Curmudgeon's Lament

Above the meandering, dark mirrory Dart

My sad tale makes its sorry start.

For a year I've kept my grief unspoken

and only now am I ready to accept,

That a place I retreated to for solace

Has passed away in the face of its debt.

The dark mirrory Dart at Totnes

I speak of the Bull Inn, sitting on a side of the square

yclept the Rotherfold at the top of Totnes town.

I weep for the times I've spent with my pals there

before the old place was perfunctorily closed down.

We’ve lost the old pub, mild, bitter and brown no longer prevail 

before the hallowed altar of gluten-free food, real cider and crafted ale.

For hundreds of years The Bull has stood sturdy and staid
from the time farmers first brought cattle to trade.
They'd sit on the bench, shake hands on a deal while supping jugs of ale 
and puffing clay pipes they'd spit, jabber and contentedly wassail. 
Ah! the blithe blather of the happy and free;
( a tradition a few righteous twee townspeople have denied to the likes of you and me).

The benches now are bare

We’ve lost the old pub, mild, bitter and brown no longer prevail 

before the hallowed altar of gluten-free food, real cider and crafted ale.

From the 1980s the family Wilson ran a trim venture
that operated just like a good local is meant to
with its rock n' roll gigs, christenings, birthdays, wakes 
and Bed and Breakfast for tradesmen at very reasonable rates.

The Bull was the consulate for those from the land of Scouse;
a sheltering haven of a public house,
its tolerance of all Liverpudlians was legion
welcoming any who'd strayed into the region -
a wide king-sized ecumenical bed
offering succour to both toffee and red.

After near a score years the Wilsons fled to the coast,
and for over a decade Bris pumped our well;
a quiet, retiring, back seat - yet kindly host,
but never a man to chase the hard sell.
Bed and breakfast came to an end
and the bedrooms were rented to home seeking friends.
Bris brought in fine ales, some tasted OK
but this could not stem the hostelry's remorseless decay.  

When the Bull could no longer afford Sky TV

cheaper coverage was streamed via a Balkan station.

With football reprieved it was not too long 'ere our dwindling numbers were fluent in Bulgarian.

All too soon Bris announced even Sofia's service was uneconomical;

the screen went blank, English chatter resumed, but the content was tragic, not comical.

We’ve lost the old pub, mild, bitter and brown no longer prevail 

before the hallowed altar of gluten-free food, real cider and crafted ale.

Formerly champs of pool and darts leagues, we'd also a poker school,

and town worthies assembled to play Euchre, on a Sunday as a rule.
To the strains of the juke box such recreation died away
until all that remained for the punters to play
was the cash-hungry fruit machine that helped some pass the time,
its futility a symbol of the Bull's wretched paradigm.

For years the Inn was in decline,

its fake Edwardiana increasingly dim,

the furnishings all broken pine:

in truth it was post-industrial grim.

A faithful few remained to the end, we numbered eight or nine,

quixotic noses dipped in beer awaiting the certainty of a terminal calling of time.

Despite stalwart imbibing, our struggle did not prevail.

When push came to shove,

in vain was our love, 

The Bull, keelhauled beyond the pale,

Its Lifeblood vampirèdly sucked from its body, the carcass disdainfully dumped in the bin
by the draculine, rent rocketing, profiteering proprietors,  the greed engineers, 
yes, the evil, egregious, Enterprise Inns.

We’ve lost the old pub, mild, bitter and brown no longer prevail 

before the hallowed altar of gluten-free food, real cider and crafted ale.

What's this? whispers breathe through The Narrows, and echo on the Rotherfold, 
a miracle is happening, a phoenix is rising, that's what we're told.
An honourable new owner approaches to solemnly anoint

an oil of fresh spirit to breathe life into the dilapidated joint. 

A Mrs G Watson-Singh is keen to prepare us an organic culinary treat.

(If she's successful - a magnificent first !

Often we approached the bar to quench drought-like thirsts,

but seldom were we offered salads, cooked veg and meat).

Except for the time Macarena arrived in Devon,
when all too briefly The Bull was epicurean heaven.
She magicked up Tapas on Friday and Saturday nights
all provided at an unusually acceptable price,
but her efforts were doused by a pub whose Weltanschauung wasn't  even "Mañana."
With her enthusiasm sapped, the gifted señorita returned to her belovèd España. 

We’ve lost the old pub, mild, bitter and brown no longer prevail 

before the hallowed altar of gluten-free food, real cider and crafted ale.

Sincerely friends, I do hope the new broom will hail an illustrious era!

and for certès I will be there when the old pub re-opens,
to catch a breath of the new and ancient hornèd aura.

Undoubtably it's for this I am (forlornly?) hoping.
The future landlady has successful pub-running form
so there's probably no real cause for serious alarm,
even the gender sensitive would readily understand
that it's evident The Bull needs the touch of a woman's hand.

We've the lost the old pub but hope springs anew,

we'll accept the novel nurture of high hopped ale and organic ragout.

Future landlady's previous form

Part 2

People

As well as being known as the spiritual home of the rock band South-West Indies, famous people also associated with the Bull Inn include :

Colin and Sheila, the godfather and mother earth, 

Simon, Mark and Janine their loyal and helpful children.

The Bull is between the Godfather and Mother Earth celebrating the Edwardianification  of the pub in 1990

Betty, the visiting general factotum, sister and auntie,
Lily, Betty's friend who sometimes did some decorating,
Steve who drew the ale in1989,
Norman, a family friend, a Merseysider who famously got lost on the path to Staverton.

Weatherman Robbie Bris, the succeeding landlord and all round "pubs have a future" optimist, 

Bris caught leaving for the bank with the last bar takings

"Gorilla" Roger, the rocket man with stick,

the one and only legendary Farmer Palmer, 

The iconic Robert "Farmer" Palmer waits for the Bull Inn to re-open

the beloved Sarah, the barmaid from a parallel planet, 

kindly Dennis and his elder brother, Bucko, the great manipulator and Major General of the Sunday afternoon brigade,

"Do you like what you're looking at," Sandy the Artist, 

oh! let's not forget DJ Rama. 

The eminent Amos, sadly gone, the discreet Belizean diplomat, author, musician and raconteur,
often followed by his unlikely pal, dapper, dandy Andy, who for so long worked behind the bars of the Kingsbridge and Albert Inns,
while never far off their trail was the garrulous Harbertonford Jim.

Amos Ford, a discreet yet eminent man

Justin, ever cool and well turned out, the cinematologist, local government officer and debt collector, 

Nick, the barman and explosives expert, 

and girlfriend Tabea both German and Cuban,

Bacardi John, 
Duncan who  lived in a van had a way of never having to pay for a pint,

Anthony, the chimney sweep and chef, 

son of Derek, the TT races rider, 
who was sometimes joined by trombone Dave,

Patrick, the all time great shaker and maker, ace fundraiser and chief executive in recycled furniture retail,
the kind and caring Carrie,
and always to the rescue big Annie who was amongst other things (at different times and sometimes the same), butcher, Landlady of the Watermans' Arms, petrol station attendant, tender of the bar at the Bull and lost to us forever out in Oregon.

Howell, Sotheby's Welsh photographer, 

Geoffrey, curmudgeon, psychologist and general fixer, 

Keith, a recommended angling decorator: a sad Stoke City fan like his compatriot "cheerful" Phil, the roofer with the psychopath boss,
Jay, deputy mother earth and assured head barperson,
Ernie, who kept Sunday Euchre going,

special boy Wacky, bookie's runner and remote controller, 

Del, the undoubted cesspit expert,
Michael, the resident artist-cartoonist,

Peter, the learnèd bookie, a gifted witty chorus,

Colin of the Edwards clan, the Liverpool supporter and supermarket man,

his brother Michael, the building supplies Aston Villa fan,

brother in turn to foundry Phil, Everton sympathiser 
whose uncle, Peter, worked in a fridge.

Guenole also known as "France", the dodgy vintner,

F1 Jody, ironmonger, advertising man, and supernumerary ZZ top member,

Jody, ZZ Top's  missing man having a quick fag break

Lynne, who left for Paignton to train in sign language,
PJ who prefers to be called Paul,
Tom, the fish merchant who now sups on The Plains,
Kelly, the barmaid, who left us too young,
Carpenter Dave, the avuncular barman and companion of the sorely missed doggie, Charlie,

Brian, the electrical Scottish political protester, philosopher and horticulturalist, 

Joe, the Celtic barber, whose shop was the Bull Inn lounge bar.

Enjoying refreshment on the bench: second from the right, Joe, the Barber of Totnes with his dog, Tullulah 

Catherine, the Welsh opera diva,
and her brother, Mike, maker of the TV shelf,

their father, Buzz, collector of classic cars and motor bikes,

Lennie, the wounded superhero, 
whose exploits would have been the work of at least two men's lives.

Tom his drink serving nephew,

Mann's Brown Don on his birthday chair, 

Gina and her main dog Thomas, 

Heron, the hippy barman who, Bucko claimed, ate all the haddock from the pub's deep freezer,
Graham who kept the fruit machine profitable, ,
George, the visiting retired senior civil servant who'd only drink Special Brew,

Nordic Molie who brought with her a Scandinavian ambience,

the chef Macarena whose Friday night Tapas sparked off the old tavern's brief shooting star moment of culinary transcendence.

The prematurely departed Princeteignton John, champion of  new enterprise,
Glynn, the Dartmouth ferryman,
Ian, the non-league scouser, impressario and deliverer, 
whose pal Ian Prowse had a half here thinking the pub stopped at Merseyside,
John, Yorkshire sailor and international teacher who once went to the same school as Charlie, William Topaz Mcgonagall's* great, great grandson, 

Bob, the miserable but much lamented bar steward, 

Cool Hand Luke, the laid back pint puller from the Fens,

Young Jess, who left us too early, partner snd a true support to Chris, the chef who ran his restaurant in the Bull for almost two weeks.

Keith Floyd occasionally sneaked in hiding from the cameras

Robert, upright always well thought of bar butler, posh sounding but born in Oz, 
Entrepreneur Gerry who owns the Laundrette,
Ali, the assertive lodger of Roger,

Kevin, the noisy builder and lumberjack, of Spectator "Low Life" fame,

Kristoff, the waistcoated German roofer, 

Johnnie "ladies darts night barman" Sheriff, 

Ben, the solar panel man and angler extraordinaire,
Keiron, AKA Dopey, paying guest, the macaroni cheese ace chef at Seeds

Bob, the drummer, sadly missed,

Guy, the bass, and decorator,

Rob, the Truck, 

Ian, the bookie of Stockport County,

Nigel and Eddie the double act, trailed by long-haired Charlie bearing a Newkie Brown.

David, primly well dressed, Scottish and often the town's mayor,

Stellar Jackie, the minder of her loud mouthed husband,
Pip, the man of trees and town councillor, though reputedly he's in debt,
Articulate, Irish Ellie and boyfriend Watford Tim,
The Red Wizard's Sildy who drew a draught or two,

Stuart, the Canadian and historian, who seemed to know, and to be right, about a lot of things, yet was sorely taken from us.

Jane and Ash, maturing radical rockers,

Big Bob, the Cov Kid and kindly carer,

Old Ted, The Seven Stars piano player in days of yore,

Ray, the patron saint of the ex-Castle Inn who had an honorary pass to the Bull,

Alistair, our man about town in his fawn duffle coat and woolly cap,

sturdy Josh with the impressive yeoman's stave,

and hirsute Bennett of the friendly demeanour,

Sunday night Tom, aka known as Tony, the bearded lord of the Orchard's manor, and his wistfully missed brother, the motorbike artist and rocker, Ratley,

lofty Welsh Dai, the chess player par excellence,

Fish frying Dom, the ex-pro footballer, 

Pizza man Dave from Room 101,

sensitive and sad Brian, the Geordie ex-vicar, 

Sunday Noureddi of the cheese shop in Ticklemore Street,
the Rob who now works at the Waterman's,

housing buff, Mancunian Mike, occasionally edgy and tetchy.
Joe who was just called Joe, re-christened Ben, the ship's fitter, "Wrongborn" as evidenced on a T shirt,

Further unforgettable renderers of refreshment : Ellie, the mother who left for Ivybridge, 

Ginger haired Ian, the Scouser, who escaped to Switzerland.

Strict Will,
Trusty Theresa from north of the border,
Creative Claire with her cuddly dog,

Scooby from the college of arts,

brainy, but motherly, Brenda,

creative Chloe from Peterborough,

caravan Natalie,
Mike, the scribe, the Walsall cyclist,

Welsh Rachel of the violin, later engaged to the son of the Kingsbridge Inn.

Orchard Waye, Dennis, who popped in and out quickly for a half between chores for clubs and societies around the borough,
Emily, artist behind the bar and now a standup comic,
Jeff, the Dundridge air traffic controller,
Robert, who travelled the world far and wide,
Kylie, the conversationalist who painted a nice portrait,
A regular,Margaret attended every year on Christmas Day only,
Jim, the Ulster customs officer from across the way,
On their Sunday night relay, old publicans both, Tim and Phil.

and of course, let's not forget Oscarette, the bar's cat.

If you know of others who should be on this board of honour
please tell the scribe of this doggerel before he becomes a goner.

______________

Robert 'Bris' Brisland

     I'm sad to report that Bris, who for more than 10 years was the Landlord of the Bull Inn before it closed in October 2017, died suddenly, at the age of 59, on Thursday, February 21st, 2019 at home, in Totnes.

    Bris, was well loved around the town. He had a quiet avuncular way about him. He was a good conversationalist, who held - without shouting out about it - a great deal of knowledge and insight about many aspects of human activity, and was able to keep the craic going between disparate as well as like-minded people. 
    
He was easy going with an unfussy authority that allowed him to deal effectively with the friction and conflict which occasionally arise in the life of a pub landlord.
    
   Before his time at the Bull Inn, Bris had for many years held a position at the Meteorological Office in Exeter. He hailed from Hereford and he was very proud to have been among the crowd in February 1972 which saw Hereford United, a non-league team, defeat the mighty Newcastle United at the Edgar Street ground and  witnessed the famously spectacular and frequently televised goal scored from a range of 35 yards by Ronnie Radford which gave the giantkillers their stunning victory. He continued to be interested in football - he supported Arsenal - yet his real sporting passion was cricket.
   The bar staff who worked with and for Bris invariably spoke well of their boss. Following the closure of the Bull Inn, Bris, along with some of his former Bull Inn patrons, became a regular customer at the Bay Horse Inn where most evenings he'd pop in for three quarters of an hour or so and sup a pint or two of mild, before bidding a quiet farewell. 
   Ah! Bris - when will we see your like again?

_______________

* For those few who may not know, William Topaz McGonagall was a poet living and writing in Dundee in the late 19th century. He is generally acknowledged to be the worst poet who ever lived. My own feeling is that my great, great grandfather was so impossibly bad that he was entitled to be considered a genius. Not many people agree with my view.  His great, great grandson started in Dundee and ended up in Totnes.

William Topaz McGonagall's  great, great grandson Charlie, Forfar, 1948

__________________________

A Letter from Justin Frost
26th February, 2019

I was shocked to hear the news late last week. I had only made a rare visit to The Bay the Friday before to see Briz, Roger and co. Glad I got to sit down with Briz for a catch up on politics (local and national) and our usual lively debates on the beautiful game. 

Little did I know it was the last time I would see him. Thursday evening made me contemplate the time we have and how important those we meet within it are. I contacted Jody and Dave to tell them the bad news. Later on I spoke to Sarah in Spain. 

News of his passing spread beyond the people he would see regularly as others, like myself, felt compelled to pass on this sad news to those further afield. He would not have anticipated such a reaction, his unassuming manner not contemplating how much he meant to those, past and present, who were lucky enough to have enjoyed his company and conversation.

Regards 

Justin

Comment from the poet, Jan Noble
23rd January, 2019

Regarding having better things to do with my life, surely reading poetry is about the finest things one can choose to do. I’m sorry that it’s taken me so long to get back to you... and that I haven’t yet posted a comment on your blog (do keep posting - even if I’m silent I always find them entertaining).

So sad that we’re slowly losing a sense of community that the public house lubricated beautifully. I thought your poem captured its tipsy spirit perfectly. The form you chose especially. There’s a lovely stumbling drunkenness to its metre and it has a real boozy humour on its breath. Also it’s accessibility means that this genuinely is a poem for the people - and not just about them.

 Still most grateful for your contribution to the film Alison helped produce.

Love,

Jan

For those interested in film and poetry about pubs you should visit the trailer of Jan's film My Name Is Swan  

Visit Jan's website here.

A comment from Justin Frost 

15th January 2019

This post perfectly encapsulates all that was good about the Bull Inn. 

A comment from Charlie Topaz McGonagall 

10th December 2019

The Bull Inn re-opened for business in early December, 2019. 

First reports all tell of very savoury cuisine.First reports about this new coming of the Bull Inn have been complimentary.

A further comment from Charlie Topaz McGonagall

April 2nd, 2020

Last month the Bull Inn closed its door again

but we hope it's not closed for ages.

As long as this deadly plague remains

we all have to stay in our cages.

News from Spain : Roger T reports

July 2020

The Bull Inn icon aka Sarah has given birth to a boy. We hear that everyone concerned is doing well and very happy.