The station with no railway: Dartmouth

Last week, in a comment, Maria from Spain mentioned the only railway station in the country without a railway – Dartmouth – and she asks whether or not that is true. Well, yes, it was but, as we shall see, is no longer.

The Station Restaurant - once Dartmouth Station

The story starts back in the middle of the 19th century. A line had been built from London all the way down to Cornwall. It crossed the river Dart at Totnes, just above stream of the old road bridge but that is a good way from Dartmouth (on the west bank of the Dart) itself which suffered in those days from very poor inland transport links. So it was that a branch line was proposed which would link Dartmouth to the main line, joining it at Paignton (which is to the east of the Dart).

Agreement as to where the line should run was reached fairly quickly but it proved impossible to agree on where a bridge should be built. In fairness it must be remembered that at that time the Dart was a busy port and that the ships that came into the harbour and on up to Totnes with their tall masts were important to the local economy and a bridge would have put an end to that trade. So it was decided that the line should be run down into Kingswear (the town – then village – on the opposite side of the river to Dartmouth) and that the last part of the journey should be by ferry. Nevertheless there was a station built on the Dartmouth embankment complete with ticket office and waiting room – and its own Station Master. From there you walked down a covered gangway to a floating pontoon, also covered, and so onto the ferry which took you across the river where a similar arrangement took you up to the platforms.

This line opened in 1864 and continued to operate until the branch line was closed on 30 December 1972. The ferry was then passed to the local authority and the railway line to the Dart Valley Railway Company which was already operating the heritage line linking Totnes to Buckfastleigh. Nowadays both the line and the ferry are operated by the Dartmouth Steam Railway and Riverboat Company who offer a circular tour to visitors. This takes you from Dartmouth to Totnes by riverboat, thence by ‘bus to Paignton, by rail to Kingswear and back to Dartmouth on the ferry.

The station itself was rebuilt in 1986 when the embankment was raised and other flood protection works carried out and is now a restaurant.

As you know, we live a field away from the Dart some distance upstream of Totnes and the other day I went for my first walk around the gardens at Dartington Hall since the beginning of November when I first fell ill. All the photos here (apart from the one of the station) were taken on that walk. I hope you enjoy them.

Light

First things first: a big thank you to all of you who – through Transworld or Dartside Press – have sent us letters and cards this Christmas and New Year time: they really are much appreciated.

Light. Where would we be without it? Not only do we rely on it in our daily round but it figures in all our senses: physical, mental and spiritual. To be blind is one of my pet fears and my admiration for those who manage to live without sight is huge. So, light of my life, let there be light.

Four photographs taken from the bedroom window on the same day starting here about twenty minutes before sunrise.

Light is of special interest to photographers, and I include myself in that group, and for painters such as my mother. She was fascinated by the junction of the land and the sea and many of her paintings were set in coves or on rocky headlands. She would paint the same scene time after time – but it was not, of course, ever the same scene because the light was always different. One of her favourites was Lannacombe Cove which she painted scores of times. None of them contained people: she was not interested in people, just the play of light on water, rocks and the beach.

The sun has risen but as yet all it is doing is slightly colouring the sky.

I have become equally fascinated by the scene from our bedroom window. This started because it was what I spent a good deal of the time, when I was neither sleeping nor reading, looking at it. Not surprisingly it never looks quite the same but what is slightly odd is that there are times when the trees the other side of the field look as though they are miles away and other times when it seems you could lean out of the window and touch them. The same applied to the hills of Dartmoor as seen from our old house, The Hermitage. It is, of course, all to do with the light.

That's more like it.

At this time of the year, Transworld send to us the manuscript of the next book with suggestions for changes made by Yvonne Holland who has been the Copy Editor for most the books that Marcia has written. Her input is invaluable: she checks everything. To my (our?) shame some of the corrections she makes are for errors that one of us really should have seen but didn't. One such: in this book the boat float at Dartmouth features. Marcia wrote this as boat-float but Yvonne took the trouble to check this out and discovered that it is generally written as Boat Float. That may not really matter but the devil is in the details and Yvonne is a master at making sure they are right. It is impossible to over state how important her role is in producing the finished novel nor how good she is in that role.

And, sure enough, we are in for another lovely day.

Where, possibly, there is a small conflict between the way she and Marcia think it is in the matter of punctuation. Now, why do we punctuate sentences? There was a time when I acted as a consultant to some legal practices and the documents I then wrote had to be written with no punctuation at all. The rationale there is that it is important that these documents must not carry more than one possible interpretation and punctuation can lead to disputes as to what that interpretation might be.

In real life, of course, that is not really a problem. So – why has punctuation evolved and how important is it? I shall leave that question hanging in the air until next week.

I do hope that each and everyone of you has a wonderful 2015.

Hello Autumn

The River Dart upstream of the weir.

The autumn has arrived here on the River Dart and at Dartington Hall with temperatures dropping (but not that much) and some periods of nasty cold showers. Worst of all has been the wind which has been quite something - even though all the photographs here were taken on very quiet and still days.

We are now well south of Totnes/

If you walk down the path at the end of the lane, passing a couple of fields on your left which were planted with barley this year and are now lying fallow, you will find yourself on the banks of the River Dart. I would like to suggest that we all boarded a boat and I took you down the river but that is not possible: not far down stream there is a weir which maintains the water level above it. Once it provided a constant flow of water through a mill leat which fed Totnes Town Mill. Now there is a plan to build a small hydro-electric generating plant alongside it. Today it means your journey must begin on foot.

There is a delightful path that runs alongside the river which will take you down to the weir where you will find me waiting to pick you up in a nice safe work boat (of the sort that Roger uses when we go out together so that I can take photographs). Obviously I am assuming that we have agreed the time because it needs to be just about at the top of the tide.

A glimpse of Greenaway where Agatha Christie once lived.

The river winds a bit and I am not sure how far the journey is in terms of miles but it will take us about an hour and a half to reach the mouth of the river. Then as we head out to sea and clear the Mew Stone we shall see, away on our left to the east, Berry Head topped with a tall edifice that looks for all the world like a chimney. It’s not – it is called the ‘Day Marker’ because it carries no light and was built about two hundred years ago to make it easier to find the entrance to the River Dart. I have been delighted to see it on a number of trips.

All of which is only of interest because the other day the wind speeds as recorded on Berry Head exceeded 90 mph and some of the gusts when they hit us here were not far short of that. Thankfully no more trees came down near us but there was some damage done – our greenhouse took a battering and is in need of extensive repairs.

And here we are, back at Dartington Hall again.

But, wind or not, we are seeing some wonderful colours now. They do not compare with those you living in Canada will be enjoying but I am sure you will agree they are pretty gorgeous. Oddly, our native sycamore – a close relative to the Canadian Maple – offers no real visual delights in autumn: the leaves just turn a dull brown as the wither and fall.

This time last year we were without a real fire and we really did miss having one. Not so now: there is a cheerful fire in the sitting room in front of which, as soon as I have posted this blog, I shall sit as I enjoy a toasted tea-cake and, of course, a cup of tea.

All of which is making life very difficult for Marcia. In the other world in which she is presently spending most of her time it is late in spring with the result that when she decides to pay us mortals a quick visit she is shocked to find that nothing looks the way it should. 

These two whippets, Jet on the left and Minnie, belong to a budding young photographer called Thomas Freeman. They are seen here playing on the beach known as Slapton Sands near Torcross.

To Marcia

This week's blog is really not so much about Marcia as to Marcia.

The time for frolic is over – you have a book to write.

Ways With Words was great fun and I am so very glad that you enjoyed listening to so many of your fellow authors and doing so through the eyes of a writer. Apart from anything else, we had great fun when you came home afterwards and we talked through what you had heard, the questions that had been asked and the answers that had been given.

Since there are no suitable photographs to go with this week's blog, I am asking you to indulge me. I know that bugs are not your favourites but here is a fly sitting on the table in the garden in front of my Sony Handicam.

These chats confirm me in what I felt all those years ago when I acted as an usher for this festival: many authors when they appear in public get between their readers and their books. I am convinced that your decision to eschew festivals was the right one. Better by far to let the books speak for themselves – it's what they are good at.

And here he (she?) is again in close up. My, and what big eyes you have!

There are no such things as universal truths when it comes to talking about writers and especially novelists. Within the world of fiction there are so many different genres and even that is a simplification: some novelists are supreme story tellers (Mary Stewart is one example) and some story tellers can make the characters jump off the page while others succeed because the story is so fascinating that the characters are almost secondary – true of “who dunnits” (which is not to say that writers working in that category people their books with cardboard cut outs).

Gardeners will, I am sure, sympathise - green fly on the roses. Grrr.

Some novelists are superb at tackling issues (Joanna Trollope being such a one) and, of course, there are those who set their books in the past and enable us to feel that we really are there living in that place at that time (Helen Dunmore and Hilary Mantel spring to mind).

Whilst talking about historical fiction I would like to mention two authors who stand head and shoulders above all others in my particular favourite area: the Royal Navy in the late 1700's and early 1800's. They are C S Forester and Patrick O'Brien. Now I feel terribly guilty because I have left out some who run them a close second (such as Alexander Kent – the pen name of Douglas Reeman who, under his real name writes about the second world war, as does C S Forester) but it would be tedious to mention the names of all the writers whose works I have read and enjoyed.

Wer were looking for the location of the next book when we came upong this stick up on a bank beside the road. It is about  four foot long. Did it come from the model village at Babbacombe? Probably. Why is it stuck out in the middle of nowhere? No idea.

Some create a magical and fantastical world (as does David Mitchell) and then there are genres that in general terms I do not read and know little about such as sci-fi.

Then there are a few who tackle writing differently: they enter into the minds and souls of their characters, into their joy and pain, their hope and despair. The story ceases to matter – what matters is how the people (they are no longer characters for they have become friends) cope with whatever it is that life throws at them. Such novelists are rare – yours is the name I would put in brackets when thinking about them.

The Dartington Summer School was a different matter and I know that you found some of the concerts you attended extremely moving. Listening to music has has changed so much during my lifetime. Now we have the very greatest artists available to all of us on CD's or on various bits of technology such as iPlayers that listening to second-rate live performances is not always an entirely rewarding experience (and that is true no matter what music we are talking about). But, and this is a huge but, as I know from my own experience, making music with others is a profoundly satisfying experience and most of the people at the festival were not just “audience” as they were at Ways With Words but performers as well: music makers listening to other people making music and making music for other music makers. I am sure that is why you found some of the performances so emotionally charged.

Another passion of mine, corrugated iron. What a wonderful example this is!

You are quite right: the “feel” at Dartington was very different during these two annual events. It would be difficult to know which one I preferred. There was always a great buzz during Ways With Words but it was very much driven by the audience – the “performers” gave their talk, listened to the questions, answered the questions, signed the books they sold after their talk – and then left. During the Summer School there was a different buzz: the performers generally speaking were around for most of if not all of the festival, the average age was far younger (although some were far from young) and many people were walking around carrying their instruments.

So, at risk of repeating myself, the time for frolic is over – you have a book to write. I will stick my neck out and make a prediction: it will be your best to date.

I have a thing about collies. They are probably the most intelligent of all the breeds that I have had (although my cairn terrier ran my collie cross a close second and they were, probably as it happens rather than anything else, very good friends). This chap, patiently looking at his master while the silly man in front of him keeps clicking away with his camera, is known as Nahuel.

Ways With Words

The annual bunfight known as the Telegraph Ways With Words. a Festival of Words and Ideas is under way here in Dartington. That is an interesting title for this festival: when you look at the Ways With Words website the bye-line says “Literature Festivals and Writing Holidays”. Whilst Marcia has been attending quite a few of the events, I have been brooding on what seems to me to be rather a mixed message and thus on to asking myself what makes writing “literature”. I suspect, as Bob Dylan put it, The Times They Are A Changin’.

Where else would you see such a deck chair? 

Fifteen years ago, most of the speakers here would have been people who made a living by writing and many of them would have been novelists. Not so today. Like all such festivals, the speakers tend to be people who are, for one reason or another, in the public eye. True, they have all written books but they are here not because they are great writers but because they are the sort of people that draw crowds. Some of them have even written a novel.

The other day the Great Hall was packed to over-flowing to hear Princess Michael of Kent. Many of those will line up after the event at the Waterstone's marquee where she will be signing copies of her first book The Queen of Four Kingdoms. It tells of events in high places in the 15th century and is described as an historical novel being part one of a trilogy. (I cannot help but remember what Mary Wesley said to Marcia after she had signed her first two-book contract. “And are you sure you can write a second book?”)

Perhaps surprisingly, I am very glad that there are these celebrity writers – they help to support an industry (book publishing) that is in serious trouble and without which “working novelists” such as Marcia would be out of a job.

The jackdaws and gulls were busy cleaning up the remains of people's picnics.

All of this has made me think about what is meant by “literary”. According to my Oxford dictionary, literature is defined as: “Written works, especially those considered of superior or lasting artistic merit“. From that one would assume that a literary festival would have such works at its centre. Clearly matters have moved on: literary festivals are (like any other business) trying to make a profit and we live in the age of the celebrity. The result is that this festival has only a few novelists in the programme. Having said that, Marcia was thrilled to be able to go and hear Helen Dunmore and Jane Gardam (two of her favourites) and hopes to meet up with our old friend James Long whom we haven’t seen since he moved up to Bristol some years ago.

The birds weren't the only ones here to work. Waterstone's marquee stocks all the books being discussed at the festival. Here is Emma-Louise holding Farmageddon - a terrifying book about the consequences of factory farming, was written by Philip Lymbery with Isabel Oakeshott. Mr Lymbery was kind enough to give me an interview before his talk. If you would like to see what he had to say, please CLICK HERE.

To me creative writing is at its peak when the writer can so describe landscape as to enable the reader to smell the heather, the sea or whatever and to bring such life to the characters that the reader can really fall in love with them. Hacks, people like me, who write about factual events (be that as as a journalist, a newspaper commentator, a biographer or technical writer) can write well or badly but they will never meet that definition of literature. Let me give you an example.

The Great War in Europe in the years 1914 to 1918 was one of the most horrific moments in the history of the world and one that has long fascinated me. I have never really understood why it happened nor why for four long weary years there was a military deadlock. I have read a fair number of historical books dealing with the period just before and during that war but none has ever created the sort of emotional connection that one needs properly to understand such events.

All the tents, stalls and banners really did create a great "vibe" at Dartington.

Then I read Ken Follett's “The Century Trilogy”: The Fall of Giants, The Winter of the World and The Edge of Eternity. Although the fact that nobody seemed able to stop almost sleep walking into the war, I now have a far greater understanding of how people felt at the time and not just on one side of the conflict but from all sides. Is that great literature? Most critics would not rate Ken Follet that highly but he managed to speak to me and I know from all the messages we receive (by comments on the blog, emails and letters) that Marcia speaks to all of you. What more can a novelist hope to achieve?

She just can't help herself. Cuddles with Willow who (quite reasonably) is seeking reassurance from her owner. 

London Book Fair

Next week, from Tuesday and Thursday, Marcia’s agent – Dinah Wiener – will be attending the London Book Fair (on Table 8b, as it happens).

This book fair sprang from the loins of the Small and Specialist Publishers’ Exhibition which was a librarian’s trade show held in the basement of an hotel. It was the idea of Lional Leventhal, founder of the publishing house Arms and Armour Press. The first exhibition was held in 1971 and twenty-two publishers attended, their titles being displayed on tables.

Six years later it changed its name to the London Book Fair and in the mid 1980’s was bought by Industrial and Trade Fairs. It had become one of the most important international book fairs in the world, attracting over five hundred exhibitors. Present day statistics are impressive: over 1,500 exhibitors from around the world with about 25,000 people attending from over 100 countries. Naturally, it is no longer held in an hotel basement but rather in the impressive surroundings of Earls Court.

Dinah will, I have no doubt, be talking about her new book to people from all of Marcia’s overseas publishers (and, I have no doubt, other possible publishers from even more countries) and so has been preparing a “blurb”. Dinah is very good at these – Marcia is hopeless and I fall somewhere in between the two. This is the agreed text.

INDIAN SUMMER

Retired knight of the stage Sir Mungo always enjoys visits from his old friend Kit Chadwick. This time Kit brings a letter from her first, and only, love Jake. Twelve years together, and Kit always reluctant to commit. Eventually Jake returned to France, turned to another, married and had four daughters. They met only once, but always exchanged birthday cards. Now Jake is a widower and has written to Kit asking if they could meet again. The reunion between Kit and Jake is the core of this incredibly human and moving novel. But life in the peaceful valley is not what it seems, contrary to aspiring novelist James’s impressions. Many years ago Sir Mungo had played host to another dear friend and acting partner, Dame Isobel Trent, and tried to console her over the breakup of her relationship with cruel Ralph. Izzy’s death, and the loss of her unborn baby, is never far from Mungo’s mind. Also living in this peaceful valley are Emma and her two small children. Emma’s husband is serving in Afghanistan and she is on the verge of an affair with a brother officer when she realizes he is a dangerous man. With Mungo’s help she ends the relationship in such a way that her marriage can’t be threatened. Finally, Mungo’s brother Archie, who owns the land, fears he may have to sell the family house. Mungo is determined to prevent him but, in order to do this, secrets kept for nearly 40 years now have to be revealed. Will the relationship between the two brothers ever be the same again?

Talking about Earls Court has made me realise I have absolutely no idea as to why it has that name. So I Googled it to find out.

The name is, as you would expect, an ancient one. This was once a rural area to the west of Kensington under the lordship of the Earls of Oxford. They held the manorial court near near to the spot now occupied by the Earls Court Underground Station – hence the name of the road (Earls Court Road) and of the exhibition centre built alongside it in which was opened in 1887, rebuilt in 1937 and is now scheduled to be demolished to give way for residential properties. I think that makes me feel quite sad. When I worked in London (many, many years ago and for a few months only as, being a country hick, I found the place intolerable) I shared a flat in the Earls Court Road.

Now for some photos (although none of them have anything to do with any of the above).

Spring has certainly arrived as witness the flowering cherries in the Courtyard at Dartington Hall

 

Spring means that the jackdaws are thinking about nesting but these two are seriously frustrated by the wire mesh that now covers the chimney stacks (and makes it look as thought the picture is out of focus).

The trees on the east bank of the River Dart just as the sun began to set.

And then, looking to the west, we had a wonderful sunset. Too small to show up but in that blue bit of sky is a wonderful new moon.

This week's Blog Dog, a lurcher who answers to the name "Barney", has been in the wars. It seems he rushed through a hedge and came out with blood pouring out of his leg. His owner, Will Cooper, rushed him to the vet where he was duly stitched up and bandaged. Nevertheless, he is still feeling a bit sorry for himself.

The Man in the Shadows

Moving is certainly an interesting occupation. We took over our new office on Monday but had to wait until Wednesday for the removal men to have a vacant slot for us. This move was not really all that complicated: all the archives, of course (which are quite bulky), and a file copy of every edition of each of Marcia’s books (including Large Print and Audio versions) in every language. By the time they were all packed up there was an impressive stack of boxes.

Just outside the office window, spring is announced

As it turned out we were incredibly lucky with the weather. The sun shone down and it was one of those days when you just know that spring is on the way. This was confirmed when I looked out of the office window onto a carpet of snowdrops against which clumps of bright yellow daffodils glowed cheerfully.

This was a meadow - a field with grasses and wild flowers which was a delight to see and the stock that were turned out here definitely looked as if it was good to eat, too. Then came the floods. I suppose it has been under water now for about six weeks. Now, at last, the flood waters are draining away but you can see the damage. Will this sea of mud give rise to enough grass to feed stock this summer? We shall see: I am not very optimistic.

The removal firm we use (South Hams Removals) started off with one man and his van some twenty years ago. Said man (Mark) moved some stuff for us before he gave up the day job to become a full-time removal man. We have used the firm for every move since then and would happily recommend them to anyone. It is now quite a big firm but Mark has managed to collect together a group of extremely cheerful and very efficient people. It is said that the three most stressful moments in life are bereavement, divorce and moving. When Mark’s team (it was Richard and Dean this time) appeared on the scene bringing with them their “can do” attitude we could feel all that stress roll away. Next, in about ten days time, they will be tackling the domestic bits and pieces.

Since most of this material had been in the garage here – a very damp garage – I had been quite worried about what sort of condition they would be in but I need not have worried: all was well. When I have finished unpacking all these boxes (which I intend to do at my leisure rather than run myself into the ground) they will be on proper book shelves in a properly ventilated and warmed office. Sorry the blogs are a bit below par during this period but life is extremely hectic. Hopefully we shall be back to normal in a few weeks.

The wet winter has not been all bad: the mosses and ferns growing out of the walls in our old towns have loved it and look splendid in the sunshine.

Meanwhile, Marcia had thought she had finished the book she is working on but then remembered a rather indistinct figure who had been lurking in the shadows when she first started the book – only to then disappear from sight. He has come back and so will have to be woven into the story. She tells me he will appear in the first chapter and I am really looking forward to finding out more about him.

Molly is a Border Terrier.

On our way to Dartington Hall

We think (hope?) that we have finally found where we want to live. We can't buy the house because it is extremely unlikely that it will ever be sold on the open market. However, we can rent it and do so for as long as we want to stay put - hopefully for a very long time. It is substantially smaller than the house in which we have been perching for the eighteen months or so but that is not a problem as you will see.

The explanation is that the house in question is on the Dartington Hall Estate. This estate - which has featured here on my blog on a number of occasions in the past - covers over twelve hundred acres, includes Dartington Hall itself (where Marcia has spoken at Ways With Words) as well as a couple of schools, a farm, the Barn Theatre, The White Hart (a pub), The Roundhouse (coffee and snacks), the Cider Press Centre (now called Dartington Shops), a number of office blocks and, crucially, lots of houses and cottages. Click here to see more about Dartington Hall.

In addition to the house we are renting a couple of small offices (which is why we can manage in a much smaller house) and earlier today we took possession of those offices and have started to move things into them.

Gosh - even golly gosh. It has all happened quite quickly and incredibly easily which - rightly or wrongly - persuades us that this move was meant.

From the above you will realise that we have been very busy indeed, sorting things out and beginning to pack up ready for the move which will be in two parts: all the rest of the officey bits next Wednesday and then the house stuff about half way through March to give us time to have curtain poles and so on put in place first. So we are in for a fortnight of general chaos and a tumbling of our usual mediocre cuisine which will, I fear, major on quantities of unhealthy snacks and pub lunches during this period.

Fortunately there is one thing we will not have to worry about. The move is so local that we shall be able to stay with our present doctor and dentist which, for some reason, I find quite comforting.

The proposed cover for Indian Summer which will be published in October.

Meanwhile, on the booky front, last night I finished checking through the copy editing for Indian Summer - the book that will be published next October - and the final mss has gone off to Transworld and to Marcia's agent, Dinah Wiener (for the foreign publishers to read).

Dinah has just returned from the island of Bhola, off the coast of Bangladesh, where there is the headquarters of a children's charity - Bhola's Children - of which Dinah is a trustee. The island is not the easiest place to visit: there is an overnight ferry journey which follows the long flight from London and I cannot help but take my hat off to Dinah who, despite being in her seventies, makes this trip at least twice every year.

There is a big problem looming on the horizon for this charity, one we are beginning to see only too clearly here in the UK. The land that the charity has bought on which the hospital and school have been built is very low lying - as, indeed, is most of Bangladesh. There is an ongoing concern that rising sea levels will make this area untenable - and there is absolutely nothing that can be done to protect the island. Here in the UK we are realising that large areas (such as the Somerset Levels here, in the South West) are under attack in two directions: from rising sea levels and heavy rainfall. Now it seems that it is California that is in the firing line as, after months of drought, it is now facing its second torrential downpour: one that forecasters are suggesting will dump two inches of water in less than twenty-four hours. Hmm.

Colin the collie cross will not be going to Spain with the four "D's" (see last week's blog) but will remain behind to look after Debs' mum.

Commas

It is Thursday and we are in Totnes. That is a nice simple sentence but like its famous cousin, eats shoots and leaves, is open to misinterpretation. Did I mean because it is Thursday we are in Totnes or it happens to be a Thursday and it happens that we are in Totnes?

As it stands it probably suggests the former. To swing it in the other direction some writers would add a comma. 'It is Thursday, and we are in Totnes.' I feel that works quite well but a better solution would be to rethink the sentence so let's start again.

Since I could think of no photographs to illustrate commas, after the blog was written we popped over to Dartington Hall to see how the spring is getting on in the gardens there. This is the main gateway into The Courtyard with the entrance to the Great Hall in the background.

In fact it was really neither of those options. Yesterday (Wednesday) this part of the world was suffering from hurricane force winds (not at all usual in the UK) and torrential rain. The forecast suggests that tomorrow will be the same. Today there is a break in the weather complete with sunny spells. It would have been a shame not to make the best of it so, even though it is very cold making it essential to wrap up well, we decided to spend the morning in Totnes.

I write these blogs in all sorts of places - sometimes on Friday morning, sometimes on Thursday. I am in The Brioche for no other reason than that it seemed the right place to be today. Often I am on the other side of the road and a bit further down - in Rumour - and I have also worked in The Boathouse between the sea and Slapton Ley at Torcross. You may remember that the last blog of 2013 was devoted to the village and The Boathouse.

This is one corner where the crocus is king at this time of the year.

The storms that hit Torcross last week resulted in waves breaking over the sea wall and carrying tons - and that is no exaggeration - of pebbles from the beach and, like many other buildings facing the sea, The Boathouse suffered from smashed windows, broken furniture and general water damage. As if that wasn't enough, a few days later a fire broke out. Despite some seven fire appliances attending there was a great deal of damage done before everything was under control. I have no idea how long it will be before they are able to open for business. We both feel deeply for what they are going through and hope that getting things sorted out will not prove too traumatic.

Back to commas. A few days ago there was reported that John McWhorter, an associate professor of English at Columbia University, believes that the comma has outlived its useful life and should be abolished. His reasoning is that this is much misunderstood and misused - with which I agree - and should be put out of its misery - with which I do not agree. (The word 'actually' is much misused but I would not wish to see it abolished.)

How do these delicate flowers cope with this sort of weather?

One of the most important uses of the comma (well, two commas in this case) as far as I am concerned is to flag up a parenthesis where the clause between the commas offers additional information but is not an essential part of the sentence. Dartmoor, with its deep valleys and high tors, is one of the most beautiful parts of England. Take out the commas and what they contain and you still have a perfectly good sentence.

Problems arise when a sentence contains three commas. Let us look at the sort of sentence I have in mind. "The sense of anti-climax was almost overwhelming and, walking back down the drive to the narrow lane, he'd felt oddly hurt, thinking that she might at least have offered him a cup of tea."

The first daffodils.

Now I am treading on very thin ice. That sentence is taken from the opening chapter of The Golden Cup. Two of the commas here flag up a parenthesis and the third a pause but I feel that using the same punctuation to do two different jobs in one sentence can cause a muddle and so I am not that happy when it happens. The third comma, by the way, is what is known over here as the Oxford comma and (I think this is right) in the U.S. as the Harvard comma.

Accordingly there may be an argument for using something different to differentiate between a pause and a parenthesis. Actually, in some old documents everything was punctuated simply to mirror the speech patterns. They used all sorts of marks including forward slashes and dashes as well as most if the ones we use today.

So why do we use punctuation at all? If you look at a well drafted Will, for example, it will see no punctuation. This makes it harder to read but avoids any risk of misunderstandings and there is the key. Punctuation helps the reader to make sense of the sentence. As such it is not cast in stone but the way it is used will change with time. If I were given the job of copy editing (line editing in the U.S.) one of Charles Dickens’ works I have a horrid feeling that the only marks I would leave in place would be the full stops. The fact is that he was writing for his time and I am writing for now but, if I am honest, I am already out of fashion. Marcia, quite rightly, is moving with the times which is exactly what you would expect.

Hellebore

One thing I do remember. When I was a student, it was drummed into us that a bad sentence can never be improved by the use of punctuation and that a good sentence stands with none at all. And, (another use of the Oxford comma which I claim to dislike) where all that came from I really do not know. I promise that next week I will not write the blog in The Brioche.

These two West Highland Terriers, Millie and Maddie, are following in the pawsteps of our last dog, Jossie. All three belonged to elderly owners and were found new homes by the Cinnamon Trust when their owners died. To find out more about the trust, please click here.