Monday, August 13th 1945.
Back again. No war news.
We are now in the second week of our holiday and, as I've already learned, the second half of anything goes much quicker than the first. So, before I forget, I'll tell you a bit about what has been happening.
You'll probably remember that we have been going to Beesands quite a bit. Most days, in fact, even if it is only in the evening after supper. Last time, I mentioned two other villages on this coast, Hallsands and Torcross.
Hallsands is mainly a ruin. I think it used to be a village much like Beesands but they removed a lot of shingle from the beach to help build new Royal Navy dockyards at Devonport (which is part of Plymouth, just down the coast). There was a terrific storm one night in 1917 and it looks as though the village wasn't as well protected as it had been in the past. So the storm overwhelmed a lot of the cottages. They are still there but they are nothing but ruins. It's all very eerie as you walk in and out of doorways and rooms where people used to live. But this all happened a long, long time ago. It's nearly 30 years.
Torcross, on the other hand, hasn't changed that much. In fact, only a tiny bit from how I remember it. I came here when I was only four months old. (Now don't be silly, of COURSE I don't remember it from THEN. Just from later). This is me being carried by my mum along the front on my very first visit in 1936, with my sister and "Rex" (whose real name I am still not going to tell you).
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And, while we're about it, here is a decent picture of Rex by the pond which Dad built. That was at home and so it hasn't really got much to do with all this. But I thought you would like to see him. He has been our friend and companion (and still is) all the days of the war. He used to spend the night in his kennel in the garage while the Germans were overhead and we were all safe in the shelter down the garden. I hope he didn't worry about the bombing too much. But he was always very happy to see us again in the morning. And we were happy to see him.
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Torcross is a village at one end of Slapton Sands on the road to Dartmouth. I can't remember a lot about it from prewar. But one thing I do remember is a rather nice cafe where once I had a milkshake. This cafe stands in the village, between the road and the sea, just where the road bends round the end of Slapton Ley (which is a large lake). There is a wooden double door which is mainly glass and which you go through to get inside. It used to be all neat and tidy and modern. But it isn't any more. It's burnt out and the doors, which haven't got any glass in them any more, are half open. This isn't too much of a surprise to me. I know a bit about why this has happened.
I'll go back for a moment to the farm which the family stayed at from before I was born until 1938 and then again, once more, in 1941. This was Keynedon Mill, near Sherford. I have already told you about this before and showed you some pictures. There is also a picture of Mr. Cummings who was the farmer there. Here he is, again.
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And this is the farm which he used to have. Mum is looking out of the window. And my brother is standing at the gate. To the right, the little lane goes off to Sherford through a tunnel of trees.
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If something hadn't happened, that is where we would be staying again now, in 1945. But what happened was that the Americans decided that they needed Slapton Sands to practise their landings for D-Day. That was because Slapton beach was a bit like the beach they were going to land on in Normandy. In June last year that was known as "Utah". So all the people in the surrounding area, including the villages of Torcross, Slapton, Sherford, Stokenham, Blackawton and others, were brought together and told that they had just six weeks to move everything out, all their possessions, their farm animals, their equipment, everything. And so that's what they had to do. Can you imagine it? Mr. and Mrs. Cummings were amongst them because where their farm is was part of the Americans' area. What happened after they had gone and the Americans moved in is still a bit of a mystery (although I do know a bit). But a lot of damage was done during all the practising and I expect it took a long time to clear everything up afterwards, after June last year. I know they were using real ammunition, not blanks. And so, that is obviously what has happened to my cafe. People have moved back into the area now and of course we are able to go there. But the cafe is still a ruin. They haven't mended it yet. So no milkshake or ice cream for me this time.
Dad has been discussing all this at the pub with some of the locals. He tells me and Mum that there is talk of some dreadful disaster which happened to the Americans during the time that they were at Slapton. A lot of Americans were killed. But nobody knows any details and nothing official has ever been said about it. Not yet, anyway. For the time being it's a complete mystery. And a secret.
When I say that most of the locals have moved back to their homes, Mr. and Mrs. Cummings haven't. I don't know why. It tooks as though they are never going to return. We have visited them. They are living in a little cottage halfway up the hill in Frogmore. If you go out of their back door there's a big area there which has pens made out of wire netting and stakes and in these pens are all of their animals. It's not really like a farm at all.
If you leave their cottage and go back down the hill in Frogmore, near to the bridge, the road to Keynedon Mill and Sherford goes off to the left. The junction is quite different from what it was like before. Much wider. That's something else the Americans have done, because of their big lorries. (When I first used to see them at home, I thought the name on the bonnet was "PODGE". It seemed a funny name to me. It took a long time to realise it was really Dodge and, of course, that was a make of car which I knew about. I felt a bit silly about that).
I hope that Mr. and Mrs. Cummings will be able to have a proper farm again, one day. Just like the one I remember where we used to help with the harvest and drink milk which was still warm from the cows and had lovely meals in our room brought to us by Phyllis, the jolly daughter.
And where (as I told you earlier) I once played in a meadow by a water-wheel with a little boy from Ladywood called Bob.
Chris