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After Fifty Years - May I Say - "Sorry"

During the summer of 1943, The Rev Castlehow (Jas) left two scouts in control of their camp at Mamhead, while he took the remainder to Dawlish Warren for a swim. Unfortunately a dog entered the stores tent and ate about one quarter of a large fruited slab cake that had been donated to the troop by the village baker. When disturbed the dog ran away leaving the crumbed remains.

The two lads having to hide the evidence and explain the missing cake, came up with the following solution; they crumbed the remainder of the cake and tumbled the fruit and crumbs into a large jelly - they made a trifle; and in so doing explained the empty cake box and ensured that the Vicar didn't know that some of the cake was missing, further to this he knew nothing of the dog, or it's saliva! The troop enjoyed the trifle, and on being told the recipe, the Vicar said "Oh Lord (and I quote) one doesn't use really rich fruit cake for trifle", whereupon Gordon Pyne and Cedric Tudball looked furtively at each other and giggled!

I cannot say "Sorry" to Jasper, but to those who ate and enjoyed our "Dog Cake Trifle" I would apologise and at the same time wish that Gordon and myself could roll back the clock and make another one. I have eaten and forgotten many trifles in my lifetime, but that one made in an enamel bowl I will remember, and "to tell'ee the truth m'dears t'was a good bit of tackle"-"You ask Gordy -he'll tell'ee!"


Dray-vord, een days gone pass, my gel,
Sakes alive, I was only a cheel!
Dray-vore to the vire and yet yersul
An I'll takee down Coombe Ball heel.

Coombe Cottages lied on the right
Then six gun shot, more or less
You come to th'oak, top o' Coombe Lane,
Where the wild bees 'd their ness.

Arter a beet, thars a sort of a nap
What valls away zuant-dear zaul
When auver yoo goes and watch yer veet,
You'm gwain down Coombe Ball.

Wan in fower or is it dree
I knawse tis master steep,
Cos yer veet the rins away we'he
Wain upright you tries to keep.
Pass "Notts Kwaw-ree" on the leff,
Zee if the rid vlags up the mass,
An if he is- 'old 'ard a beet,
That means they'm gwain to blast.

Purt near six deep into the stone
In pairs they've had to drill it,
Then vire the charge and ide thur aids
From tons of stone and shillet.

Corry-gated iron they 'ad, a
Faggot 'ood covered safe place
And under this they rinned an zot,
When "Burrowite" blawed the vace.

But let us git on, down the rawd,
Right on, pass the meal,
And mine the pipe, what drained the pit
Oot across the vield.

And so us comes to Dray-vord
Where the Quane Mary, her was launched,
But the waters narra, and theres nort there,
Seps viels what the bullocks av paunched,

An vifty pole o'rhubard, wild
That lies 'ginst the conker trees,
An outa West Yeo, Thornham or Whirlin-tun
Youken taak whichever you please.

Or, if yoo likes, yoo can turn on yersel
An make yer way up auver 'Ave Hill
When yoo'll come to Thelbridge - luvlee church
Wi 'a bootiful six bell peal.

"St Davids Church" - so Passen zed
"Dunstone wallin, vull of charms
Bot Oh Dear Me - the pubs misnamed
Vor there idn't no Thelbridge Arms".

"Tis the insti-toot of arms" he zed,
Wi Royal Grants an Warrints Abroad",
An us what was as daft as 'andcarts
Stood and gawped at what he knawed.

Dray-vord in days gone pass,
Man could settle down and bide there.
"But maid, aise off me boots, mi'dear
An vetch me a jar o'zider".

Cedric Tudball 1995

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Last Edited 03/07/2006    Copyright © 2000-2006 Witheridge

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