A seasonal stroll last week found the wife and I in the picturesque village of Spaxton, nestling in the Quantock Hills some 3 miles west of the less than picturesque town of Bridgwater.
My old stomping ground, in fact, as I am an alumnus of the nearby Somerset College of Agriculture and Horticulture where, in another incarnation, I trained to be a professional plantsman with a particular focus on roses.
And a damned good area for growing roses it was too. I use the past tense since the phenomenon responsible for such wonderful blooms to flourish was the now defunct British Cellophane works, the noxious emissions from which would be belched out of its chimneys to be dumped on the surrounding villages. So noxious, in fact, that the normally rose loving aphids decided to give the area a wide berth and hence the most wonderful blooms could be seen in abundance each summer.
Feeling a little peckish, we steered down Splatt Lane and pulled into the car park of The Lamb Inn. Now, the last time I visited this particular establishment, I left in a bit of a hurry under a hail of pool balls. Some of the local farm hands were under the impression that my motley associates were members of one hit wonders Sigue Sigue Sputnik and, this being a conservative neck of the woods, didn't take kindly to men with funny haircuts.
I don't have much hair at all now so the events of 28 years ago didn't trouble me as I creaked open the door and entered the lounge bar where I was pleased to note that the scene that presented itself to me had not changed at all in those 28 years. The eclectic array of horse brasses, toby mugs and other such ephemera were still there as were the many pictures of hunting scenes covering every square inch of the nicotine stained walls.
Anyone with a keen eye would be shocked by the depiction of one of these images because, from a distance, it looks the same as any of the other pictures but closer inspection reveals that the Master of the Hunt is double teamed on horseback with a young lady who is wearing no britches and is on the verge of impaling her pert derriere on his horn. And I'm not referring to the brass one that he is holding against his pursed lips.
I wonder what the elderly ladies from the WI who were enjoying a ploughman's lunch on a nearby table would have made of that?
More remarkable still was the sight of old Farmer Phipps still propping up the bar - he never looked like he was long for this world even when I was a regular. Guinness drinkers were well advised not to drink in close proximity to this particular individual in order to avoid the horrors of his party piece which would be revealed as the hapless drinker drained the last drops of stout to find old Arthur's false teeth grinning up from the bottom of the glass, normally with a good measure of interdental spinach or whatever green vegetable he'd had with that night's dinner.
But the thing of real interest in Spaxton is the collection of buildings that lies just a few hundred feet from the Inn. For this was the home of one of Britain's most notorious religious cults - The Agapemonites . Founded by one Henry Prince, a defrocked vicar, in Victorian times, this was not by any means a happy clappy congregation. Indeed, as one can imagine for a cult taking its name from the Greek for "Abode of Love" they were a rather saucy lot and a somewhat apocryphal account of their goings on included the Rev deflowering each of his female followers on the alter in full view of the congregation when she reached her 16th bithday.
Now, I wonder what our WI ladies would have made of that?
Mind you, having had a good look at them I wouldn't be surprised if they themselves weren't the fruit of our randy vicar's loins.
In later years, the chapel that served as the focus for all these activities became the home of the production company that was responsible for the cartoon that is a favourite topic in the realms of urban lore, Captain Pugwash. Who knows? maybe there's some truth to all those stories. It wouldn't be out of place with all the other fruity goings on.
I can't help thinking that there must be something in the water down in Spakkers. It certainly seems to be a place to put lead in one's pencil!
My old stomping ground, in fact, as I am an alumnus of the nearby Somerset College of Agriculture and Horticulture where, in another incarnation, I trained to be a professional plantsman with a particular focus on roses.
And a damned good area for growing roses it was too. I use the past tense since the phenomenon responsible for such wonderful blooms to flourish was the now defunct British Cellophane works, the noxious emissions from which would be belched out of its chimneys to be dumped on the surrounding villages. So noxious, in fact, that the normally rose loving aphids decided to give the area a wide berth and hence the most wonderful blooms could be seen in abundance each summer.
Feeling a little peckish, we steered down Splatt Lane and pulled into the car park of The Lamb Inn. Now, the last time I visited this particular establishment, I left in a bit of a hurry under a hail of pool balls. Some of the local farm hands were under the impression that my motley associates were members of one hit wonders Sigue Sigue Sputnik and, this being a conservative neck of the woods, didn't take kindly to men with funny haircuts.
I don't have much hair at all now so the events of 28 years ago didn't trouble me as I creaked open the door and entered the lounge bar where I was pleased to note that the scene that presented itself to me had not changed at all in those 28 years. The eclectic array of horse brasses, toby mugs and other such ephemera were still there as were the many pictures of hunting scenes covering every square inch of the nicotine stained walls.
Anyone with a keen eye would be shocked by the depiction of one of these images because, from a distance, it looks the same as any of the other pictures but closer inspection reveals that the Master of the Hunt is double teamed on horseback with a young lady who is wearing no britches and is on the verge of impaling her pert derriere on his horn. And I'm not referring to the brass one that he is holding against his pursed lips.
I wonder what the elderly ladies from the WI who were enjoying a ploughman's lunch on a nearby table would have made of that?
More remarkable still was the sight of old Farmer Phipps still propping up the bar - he never looked like he was long for this world even when I was a regular. Guinness drinkers were well advised not to drink in close proximity to this particular individual in order to avoid the horrors of his party piece which would be revealed as the hapless drinker drained the last drops of stout to find old Arthur's false teeth grinning up from the bottom of the glass, normally with a good measure of interdental spinach or whatever green vegetable he'd had with that night's dinner.
But the thing of real interest in Spaxton is the collection of buildings that lies just a few hundred feet from the Inn. For this was the home of one of Britain's most notorious religious cults - The Agapemonites . Founded by one Henry Prince, a defrocked vicar, in Victorian times, this was not by any means a happy clappy congregation. Indeed, as one can imagine for a cult taking its name from the Greek for "Abode of Love" they were a rather saucy lot and a somewhat apocryphal account of their goings on included the Rev deflowering each of his female followers on the alter in full view of the congregation when she reached her 16th bithday.
Now, I wonder what our WI ladies would have made of that?
Mind you, having had a good look at them I wouldn't be surprised if they themselves weren't the fruit of our randy vicar's loins.
In later years, the chapel that served as the focus for all these activities became the home of the production company that was responsible for the cartoon that is a favourite topic in the realms of urban lore, Captain Pugwash. Who knows? maybe there's some truth to all those stories. It wouldn't be out of place with all the other fruity goings on.
I can't help thinking that there must be something in the water down in Spakkers. It certainly seems to be a place to put lead in one's pencil!
alumnus 
Very good Mr Buggeridge!
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