A Punch up on the Seafront at Teignmouth

This news just came in from Geoff, my brother-in-law-in-the-law (he used to be a policeman!).

Apalling

Absolutely disgusting behaviour observed yesterday. I was on the seafront at Teignmouth when I saw a man and a woman having an almighty row in front of their child, then suddenly the woman smacked the bloke around the head and it all kicked off. They started slapping and hitting each other then someone must have called the Police as a policeman turned up on his own. He had to take his baton to the man but the guy managed to snatch the baton off the policeman then he started whacking the policeman and his wife…… I couldn’t believe what I was seeing because then out of nowhere a crocodile crept up and stole all their sausages!…..

(And if you aren’t familiar with traditional English seaside entertainment  you may be surprised to know that English children have been enjoying Punch and Judy shows since 1662.)

 

History[edit]

The Punch and Judy show has roots in the 16th-century Italian commedia dell’arte. The figure of Punch derives from the Neapolitan stock character of Pulcinella, which wasanglicized to Punchinello.[1] He is a manifestation of the Lord of Misrule and Trickster figures of deep-rooted mythologies. Punch’s wife was originally called “Joan.”

The figure who later became Mr. Punch made his first recorded appearance in England on 9 May 1662, which is traditionally reckoned as Punch’s UK birthday.[2] The diaristSamuel Pepys observed a marionette show featuring an early version of the Punch character in Covent Garden in London. It was performed by an Italian puppet showman, Pietro Gimonde, a.k.a. “Signor Bologna.” Pepys described the event in his diary as “an Italian puppet play, that is within the rails there, which is very pretty.”

In the British Punch and Judy show, Punch wears a brightly coloured jester‘s motley and sugarloaf hat with a tassel. He is a hunchback whose hooked nose almost meets his curved, jutting chin. He carries a stick (called a slapstick) as large as himself, which he freely uses upon most of the other characters in the show. He speaks in a distinctive squawking voice, produced by a contrivance known as a swazzle or swatchel which the professor holds in his mouth, transmitting his gleeful cackle. This gives Punch a vocal quality as though he were speaking through a kazoo. So important is Punch’s signature sound that it is a matter of some controversy within Punch and Judy circles as to whether a “non-swazzled” show can be considered a true Punch and Judy Show. Other characters do not use the swazzle, so the Punchman has to switch back and forth while still holding the device in his mouth.

In the early 18th century, the marionette theatre starring Punch was at its height, with showman Martin Powell attracting sizable crowds at both at his Punch’s Theatre at Covent Garden and earlier in provincial Bath, Somerset.[1] Powell has been credited with “largely responsible for the form taken by the drama of Punch and Judy”.[3] In 1721, a puppet theatre that would run for decades opened in Dublin. The cross-dressing actress Charlotte Charke ran the successful but short-lived Punch’s Theatre in the Old Tennis Court atSt. James’sWestminster, presenting adaptations of Shakespeare as well as plays by herself, her father Colley Cibber, and her friend Henry Fielding. Fielding eventually ran his own puppet theatre under the pseudonym Madame de la Nash to avoid the censorship concomitant with the Theatre Licensing Act of 1737.

Punch was extremely popular in Paris, and, by the end of the 18th century, he was also playing in Britain’s American colonies, where even George Washington bought tickets for a show. However, marionette productions presented in empty halls, the back rooms of taverns, or within large tents at England’s yearly agricultural events at Bartholomew Fair andMayfair were expensive and cumbersome to mount and transport. In the latter half of the 18th century, marionette companies began to give way to glove-puppet shows, performed from within a narrow, lightweight booth by one puppeteer, usually with an assistant, or “bottler,” to gather a crowd and collect money. These shows might travel through country towns or move from corner to corner along busy London streets, giving many performances in a single day. The character of Punch adapted to the new format, going from a stringed comedian who might say outrageous things to a more aggressive glove-puppet who could do outrageous—and often violent—things to the other characters. About this time, Punch’s wife’s name changed from “Joan” to “Judy.”

A Punch and Judy show attracts a family audience

The mobile puppet booth of the late 18th- and early 19th-century Punch and Judy glove-puppet show was originally covered in checked bed ticking or whatever inexpensive cloth might come to hand. Later Victorian booths, particularly those used for Christmas parties and other indoor performances, were gaudier affairs. In the 20th century, however, red-and-white-striped puppet booths became iconic features on the beaches of many English seaside and summer holiday resorts. Such striped cloth is the most common covering today, wherever the show might be performed.

A more substantial change came over time to the show’s target audience. Originally intended for adults, the show evolved into primarily a children’s entertainment in the late Victorian era. Ancient members of the show’s cast, like the Devil and Punch’s mistress “Pretty Polly,” ceased to be included when they came to be seen as inappropriate for young audiences. The term “pleased as Punch” is derived from Punch and Judy; specifically, Mr. Punch’s characteristic sense of gleeful self-satisfaction.

The story changes, but some phrases remain the same for decades or even centuries: for example, Punch, after dispatching his foes each in turn, still squeaks his famous catchphrase: “That’s the way to do it!” Modern British performances of Punch and Judy are no longer exclusively the traditional seaside children’s entertainments they had become. They can now be seen at carnivals, festivals, birthday parties, and other celebratory occasions.

Could it be Magic?

Almost exactly two years ago something magical happened, but, of course, it happened overnight while Chris and I were asleep… One day, whilst we were out walking in the countryside, I had picked some pretty wild flowers and later popped them into a vase on the little bookcase in the passage. They looked beautiful, especially the magenta foxgloves. Now underneath the vase of wild flowers was a tiny flower-fairy ornament that my sister, Mary, had given me. In the morning Chris was walking by the bookcase when he noticed something rather enchanting. The flowers, unaccustomed to being indoors and perhaps missing the sunshine and fresh air, had shed some petals and sprinkled yellow pollen dust on the top of the bookcase; and, quite amazingly, one of the foxglove blooms had dropped and fallen onto the head of the flower-fairy thus providing her with a pretty hat that fitted perfectly (or, as they say, like a glove i.e. a foxglove).

Two years on, the foxglove hat, though faded a good deal and now shrunken to fit the contours of the little head within even more precisely, still adorns the fairy face and gives her a certain je ne sais pas, as you can see from the photographs.

Talking of fairies, this afternoon a beautiful present arrived at the front door as if by magic (unless postmen come at strange hours these days) from a good fairy who wanted to cheer me up (I have a virus and chest infection). What you know? I feel a lot better.

I Was a Friend of Joseph Gyorffy…

I haven’t slept, at least not very well; in fact it seems as though I have been awake all night. It wasn’t my cough that kept me awake, although my chest did strike some particularly discordant notes during the night. No, in spite of the comfort of fresh sheets (that had appeared there as if by magic some time before I went to bed), I lay in the darkness with my eyes shut and I kept thinking about my day yesterday – the bad news, the kindnesses, the conversations, the reactions, the loss and the sense of regret that a connection had not been made in time to complete a circle…

Eventually the light of morning seeped through the black of night and sad thoughts, and I made my way here to my studio; and if Chris or Roland (our friend from Australia) should rise and find me at my computer they will be surprised to find me up so early but they will not think it so strange as to be peculiar.

Two days ago a thoughtful lady contacted me through my website. “I am a friend of Joseph Gyorffy…” her email began. We had a long telephone conversation yesterday morning.

At length I asked how she had known my surname, although I had a feeling what her answer would be – of course it was my letters.

“He kept everything,” she said.

Joseph was a letter-man, not a computer-man or a phone-book-man… So I have been mourning quietly to myself and now Chris is up and making me a nice cup of tea.

“Poor girl,” he said, putting his arms around me and giving me a kiss.

Three Ladies From Inverness

It wasn’t raining when first we set out for our walk along the sea wall to Coryton Cove beach, the beach favoured by locals and end of the road as far as our sea wall at Dawlish is concerned; but the skies were clouded and grey, and it looked like rain was on its way. Nevertheless, we didn’t mind – Stuart and Mary (don’t they sound like a king and queen?) were down for the weekend and everyone wanted to go out, if only to stretch our legs. Mary and Stuart (sounds just as regal) made a beeline for the shops while Chris, Roland and I preferred to take in the sea air. Of course, the clouds opened up when we were half-way between the railway bridge and the shelter at Boat Cove and we had to run through the puddles as quickly as possible to avoid getting soaked; there is something very nostalgic about being in the rain and running through puddles, we were laughing as we stepped under the shelter.

Three ladies were sitting on one of the green benches; anticipating only a short shower, we chose not to sit and stood to the left of the ladies. Now I’m not one to be unfriendly when I have been running in the rain and laughing, and I’m standing a few yards away from three charming ladies, so, having determined that the ladies had Scottish accents I asked:

“Are you from Scotland?”

“Och aye (I may be exaggerating a tad),” answered the perky lady in powder blue, “We’re from Inverness but we love it here in Dawlish – we’re staying at Dawlish Warren for the week. And I’ll tell you another thing…we’re not voting for independence on the eighteenth of September! All the family know how to vote – I told them….”

We continued chatting about Inverness, Dawlish and importance of remaining united, and we may have carried on chatting even after the rain had stopped. At last we three walkers said our fare-thee-wells (and blew kisses) and we walked on to Coryton Cove, our intended destination (which still looked a bit grey and uninviting).

On our way back, just as we were passing by the shelter again, it started to pour down and we sought cover with the lovely ladies who were still there. By now we were old friends reuniting and our return was received with much merriment. We introduced ourselves properly this time – the two mature ladies are Jane (but they call her Jean) and Bunty (in the dark blue), and the younger lady, Bunty’s daughter-in-law, is called Linda. Our conversation turned to family, husbands and even burials (but in a nice way – Bunty might end up resting with both her late husbands).

“Not many people talk to us old ones,” said Jean.

I nodded. (I knew what she meant.)

“You’re very understanding,” Jean added.

And then the sun came out and the sea turned a beautiful aqua blue. If the ladies from Inverness happen to read this I’d like them to know that they made my day – our chance meeting seemed to me to be like sunshine on a rainy day.

 

 

A Funny Breakfast

I don’t like to bleat too much about illness so, suffice to say, that I feel like groaning all the time, that is when I’m not coughing or sneezing. In spite of my dire state (not to be confused with Dire Straights, the British rock band), upon awakening this morning and opening my poor watery eyes, almost my very first thought was Roland’s request for breakfast. As you may know Roland is over from Australia and staying with Chris and me.

“Do you know what I could fancy for breakfast tomorrow?” he had asked last night as he leaned over the bannisters on the stairs.

“Fried breakfast?”

“No, all I fancy are two boiled eggs – at  five minutes boil – and two slices of toast, one for soldiers and the other for raspberry jam,” he explained.

“Your wish is my command,” I answered. (Roland is very masterful.)

Neither Chris nor I fancied an egg this morning. As I have very little sense of taste at present I opted for a healthy breakfast of “All Bran” cereal and hot milk (the same bowlful that I couldn’t face yesterday and had popped into the fridge for later). Chris saw to his own toast while I prepared a tray for Roland, who was reading a newspaper out in the sunshine on the terrace. In went the eggs for exactly five minutes, into the toaster went two slices of farmhouse bread; onto the tray went salt and pepper pots, butter, cutlery, crockery and a pot of raspberry jam from the fridge.

As soon as the eggs and toast were ready I made my way, bleary-eyed, with Roland’s breakfast tray from the dark indoors to the sunny outdoors. In a short while we were all seated around the table, Chris was eating his raisin toast, I was toying with the large bowl of re-cycled “All Bran” and Roland was tucking in to his eggs. Chris and I were looking at our friend, as you do when someone is eating something more desirable than you have on your plate.

“Are the eggs alright?” I asked.

“Perfect. Five minutes?” Roland answered.

I confirmed with a nod.

“I can’t eat this,” I said, moving my bowl to the other table, “I’ll have a crumpet instead.”

And I spread some butter on a lovely thick crumpet (I just have it plain, without jam, otherwise I might have noticed it first – it being something peculiar!).

Roland had finished his eggs and began to attend to his toast, first the butter, then the raspberry jam. At the time I was enjoying a buttery mouthful of crumpet and paid scant attention to Roland’s antics until he started laughing.

“As you know, Sally, I’m very partial to beetroot,” he said, “but I’m not sure that even I would want to put it on my toast!”

Chris and I laughed (and coughed).

“Though in Australia they do say it’s very versatile!” Roland added.

I do wish he’d stop making me laugh – as if my cold isn’t bad enough already.

.

 

 

 

Forty Minutes

I am fishing with Roland on the breakwater off Dawlish beach (this is a few days ago, prior to the onset of our terrible colds); from where we are standing you can see our lofty Victorian terrace built into the cliff and, in particular, you can see the sky-blue parasol peeping above the white balustrade on our balcony. The new rods my mum bought us at the bargain price of fifteen pounds each from our Trago Mills store are a great success, not that we have caught anything yet, but the rods feel good and flexible, and the reels actually work rather well (we had worried they might be children’s rods, or inferior in some way at that price). Roland baited up the hooks with squid and cast out both lines (he is more proficient than me) and now we are waiting for bites. A man wearing a baseball cap is walking towards us. I suspect that the man wants to walk by us to reach the end of the breakwater and I take a half-step closer to the side to let him pass. The gentleman doesn’t deviate and so, when he almost reaches my spot, I look directly into his eyes and smile.

“Hello!” I say.

Now this gentleman’s face lights up. Anyone would be forgiven for thinking that he is unused to strangers greeting him.

“Hello,” he returns with a smile and continues speaking in a broad, but not unpleasant, Exeter accent, “what a glorious day to be fishing at Dawlish! I live in Exeter, as you might recognise from my accent. Do you know, I must be about the only person left with an accent like this? Even my children, who are doctors and lawyers, can’t understand why I still have an accent in these modern times, but I’m a man from the country and not ashamed of it. You youngsters probably can’t remember the times when nearly everybody had accents.”

Unused to being called “youngsters”, Roland and I look at each other quizzically for a split second and I know that my good friend is thinking the same as me – “How old can this man be?”

“Roland lives in Australia and he still sounds like a Londoner to me,” I say.

“But I’m from Hampshire, not London,” Roland exhorts.

“Yes, but you sound like a Cockney to me,” I say.

“That’s because you were born in Australia,” retorts Roland and we all laugh.

For the next thirty to forty minutes we three discuss Australia, fishing, holidays, Dawlish, children, accents and more… At last Trevor (for by now we have introduced ourselves) holds out his hand to mark his departure.

“It’s been wonderful to talk to you both,” says Trevor shaking our hands very meaningfully, “A lot of youngsters don’t talk nowadays.”

“How old are you – if you don’t mind me asking?” I ask.

“Seventy-seven,” he replies.

I search Roland’s face and see that he agrees with me that Trevor doesn’t look that age.

“I hope we’ll meet again some day,” I say.

“Well,” the nice man pauses, “I’m not so sure about that, you see I have cancer – it started with the prostate and now it’s in my liver and bones – and I take each day as it comes. I try not to think about the cancer. And I’m still here, a year longer than what the doctors said.”

The tears are in my eyes and I’m suddenly desperate to help Trevor.

“I know you’ll think I’m nuts but will you let me give you my healing hands?” I ask. (Some people say I have the gift of healing and curing warts.)

So while I’m putting my hands over Trevor’s back he tells us:

“This morning it was such a beautiful day that I just felt like going to Dawlish and being by the sea. My wife said, ‘Don’t go out – you’ll be better off inside.’ But I told her that I have to enjoy each day that I have. I’m so glad that I came over to Dawlish.”

I can see Roland’s eyes glistening too. Trevor shakes our hands again and, smiling and waving occasionally, he walks back to the seawall.

“I’m so glad we didn’t hurry him away,” I say.

“Yes,” agrees Roland, “after all, what is forty minutes to us?”

And a little later Roland caught his huge toadfish.

 

 

Pretty Lustleigh on Dartmoor

No time to write about gorgeous Scottish ladies today (as intended) so how about some photographs of Lustleigh where we went with our friends last Sunday?

 

 

The Royal Duchy Train Passes Through Dawlish

The Royal Duchy steam train passed through Dawlish at eleven-thirty yesterday morning. Mary and Stuart were still with us at that point and our terrace was quite occupied; therefore, I decided to take my shots from our garden on the sea-side, which is just above the the sea wall and railway line. No problem – I heard the whistle and ran downstairs; I had my Canon SRL at the ready on multiple shot mode (a bit quicker than my aged little mobile phone camera, which needs time to think and process).

Later on we thought we’d take some shots of the train returning in the evening.

“The timetable says that the train is due at Dawlish Warren at seven-thirty,” began Chris, “so it should pass by our house five minutes earlier.”

That was at about ten past seven. Chris and I had plenty of time to get out our cameras, change lenses, have a cup of tea, chat, go to the loo… At twenty past seven we were in position, waiting, just in case the train was to come early. Down by the sea wall and on the railway bridge below other folk were also prepared; we all waited patiently; a man and his grandson fishing from the breakwater were the only people who seemed to be oblivious of the impending excitement.

“The steam trains can also be late,” said Chris very astutely at half-past seven.

“But not too late,” I suggested, hoping for a positive response.

“Well, not necessarily,” Chris answered, “It might have to wait for other trains to pass through first.”

“I’m getting hungry,” I said five minutes or so later, “And it’s getting chilly out here”. I rubbed my arms.

Chris and Roland perked up at the thought of my making dinner – they, too, were tiring of waiting and they rubbed their arms too.

“If we were inside, wouldn’t we hear the whistle as it comes through, Chris?” asked Roland hopefully.

“What do you think, Chris?” I asked, equally as hopefully as Roland.

“Yes,” Chris pondered, “I think we would.” (Which was very hopeful indeed on Chris’s part because he is a tad deaf, as you may remember.)

So we three departed the cold terrace for the warm inside; the men went into the lounge room and I went into the kitchen; the men had left the French doors open so that we could hear the whistle. I was just getting the chicken breasts out of the fridge when the men called:

“It’s here Sally!”

And then I heard it too…as it whistled past our house!

 

 

Arthur Ransome’s Hill Top and a Little Bit of Heaven

I can’t speak too highly of our wonderful stay with our lovely friends in the Lake District last week; in fact, I can hardly speak at all because I have a cold and a sore throat – not that I’m blaming either Stephen or Janine, with whom we stayed, or Roland (from Australia) who is visiting us at present and still suffering – not from us (hopefully), but from his cold. Anyway, Chris and I have had such a busy time since we returned on Wednesday from up t’North that I’ve scarcely had a chance to tell you about our Lake District break.

Perhaps you’ll remember that late last year my blog featured some photographs of my sketches of Arthur Ransome, the renowned journalist, storyteller, sailor, fisherman and author of “Swallows and Amazons”; well, those drawings now live with Stephen and Janine at “Hill Top”, the house formerly owned by the great man between 1960 and 1967, and which was Arthur’s final home. Stephen, an astrophysicist (really!), financial analyst and writer himself, is currently in the process of co-writing a book based on the diaries of the famous author at the time he lived at “Hill Top”. Interestingly, Arthur’s six-foot tall wife, Evgenia, used to be Trotsky’s secretary.

Stephen and Janine have spent the past year restoring and renovating the house and gardens, and building plush rental accommodation for guests, but Chris and I stayed in the main part of the house. Every time I took a shower I thought of old Arthur, whose bedroom had been transformed into our bathroom – I fancied that Stephen was a little too quick to assure me there were no ghosts. With the weather being mostly fine we ate most meals al fresco at a table under a parasol in order to enjoy the soft air, the atmosphere of the garden and the beautiful views of the hills and mountains in the distance. In the evenings we sat with our “G and T’s” in the conservatory and watched the setting sun. One night – it was eleven-thirty – it seemed that the sun would not give way to blackness and we marvelled at the pale green glow that rose up from behind the mountains. Our friends explained that it’s because we were so far north.

One afternoon two elderly gentlemen arrived at the door; they were, perhaps, members of the Arthur Ransome Society, or maybe they were just ordinary fans in the vicinity and interested to see “Hill Top”. I thought it was lovely of Stephen to invite them in and give them a guided tour.

One day we went to our local Coniston Water, where Arthur set his novel (I believe) and where we saw little sailing boats, some with white sails and some with red sails ; another day we walked to the Hoad Monument, Ulvaston – naturally, we sang “Galveston, oh Galveston…” when we weren’t puffing our way up the steep hill (we thought we were being original until Stephen said that everyone did that!). The monument is a replica of Eddystone lighthouse. From our vantage point we looked out over Morecambe Bay, still beautiful under grey clouds, and then we beat a retreat to a Buddhist temple retreat for afternoon tea before the rain came down. ‘Twere right grandly (and unusual).

Here are some of the photographs I took with my little mobile phone camera but if you’re interested in seeing more go to Stephen’s site at www.hilltopvista.com

 

Boxer has Unusual Mouthguard