Living in The Old Rectory in Northleigh was a joy. If you had told me as a little boy I would live in a ten bedroom house in 6 acres, or what ever it was, I would have laughed at you. If you had shown me pictures of the magnificent farmhouse kitchen with its black Aga or its beautiful siting room flanked by an orangery and overlooking a scene of rural bliss I would have blinked and rubbed my eyes expecting my dream to end. It was a special place but like all the good things in life it brought with it some negative experiences. The first was that because we lived in the biggest house in the village and easily the most beautiful, in and out, we became a focus of jealousy for those who had retired to the area expecting to be ‘King of The Castle’. Our easy going ways and openness were not what was expected. If I had donned a sports jacket smoked a pipe and grumbled at everyone I met I daresay most would have felt better about my position of privilege. However my rather casual approach to my attire my collection of exotic toys all served to alienate us from those in the village who believed that ‘impressing others’ was the name of the game. Now don’t get me wrong I lost little or no sleep over these people as Liz and I developed a quite extraordinary relationship with a couple who lived in the village and who could party at ‘world class’ levels. In addition they had loads of friends who would visit them all the time such that seldom was their house empty. This group of waifs and strays consisted of some of the wildest, funniest and caring people I have ever met. George and Angela made our time in Northleigh exceptional but no-one else who lived there had any idea of what was going on and what fun we had. I also developed a bond with the farming community. Difficult to understand why exactly but I did. I became great friends with a whole stack of them and I learned that humour,Devon farmer style, was a remarkable thing. I can feel some stories coming on.
The front of the Rectory was given over to a three acre paddock with post and rail fence. In it were one or two of Jo’s horses before she moved them up to Worcester. Liz would take care of the animals and I would enjoy watching them as I proceeded on my weekly task of mowing lawns verges and raking drives so the gravel looked smart. I had a small sit on mower and a Massy 135 tractor (a whole different story). In the summer it was a truly idyllic place to reside.
One day the horses became spooked by something and they started bronking round the paddock. One of them slid into the fence and dislodged the top rail. Call for Carpenter Colin! I arrived with my hammer and nails and a new rail. I proceeded to pull out the old nails to give me a clean surface to work with. One nail proved stubborn and I pulled hard on the claw on the hammer. At last out came the nail and unfortunately the hammer, released from its restraint, followed it and hit me square in the eyebrow. There was a moments pause, bit of shock I suppose, then I noticed a warm trickle of something down my face. I had well and truly slit my eyebrow. I approached the house baying like a lost donkey. ‘Liz’ ‘Liz’. She appeared and was horrified. There are lots of blood vessels around the eye and my face was a mask of the stuff. I was sweating too so the effect was all the more spectacular. Liz ran to the house and returned with bag of frozen peas that she insisted were to clamped to my face. A quick wipe down and off to the local hospital. A choice of ‘a trip to Exeter and a plastic surgeon or glue locally.’ I opted for glue. I was praised for my pea application as the wound whilst large was relatively un-swollen. The cut was superglued and I was sent on my way. My first ‘hammering’ experience, not many of those in the medical text books I bet.
It was probably five years later. It was the morning when we were about to leave for Sweden where I was to compete in my first Ironman race. I had trained for nearly two years and I was in decent shape. We were by now living in Sidmouth in our super contemporary house overlooking the sea. The contrast with The Old Rectory could not be more marked but once again I can tell you that Liz and I had come up trumps we had well and truly won the lottery.
For some reason over breakfast I announced to Liz that I needed to check the van out. I had never done this before or since to be honest. I checked the oil and window washer then I decided to do what all proper car enthusiasts do I checked the wheel bolts were secure!!! The first three wheels were all sound and indeed the brace I was using did not move as I yanked on it. The last wheel and nearly done. Was that some give? I yanked harder and the wheel brace twisted in my hand came off the wheel nut and headed for my eye-the other one to my first hammering for information. The result however was similar, Blood, lots of it. ‘Liz’ ‘Liz’ I shouted and she appeared shocked again. Out with the peas and off to the hospital agin. The same one of course Honiton by name. Almost the same speech, Exeter or Glue? Yes you know the drill by now. The doctor tending to my wound wrote up his notes then made a remarkable revelation. This is quite extraordinary he said it is 5 years to the day when you damaged your other eye!! ‘Take it easy’ he said “I will’ I said another story involving an Ironman swim with no visibility beckons.
Tales of a Life Well Lived 