Monthly Archives: November 2014

The Parson and Clerk

Parson and Clerk rock formation

Parson and Clerk rock formation

From ‘mystery’ a few days ago we return to myth today.

From Sprey Point we have a good view of the famous Parson and Clerk rock formation at the end of the next headland. This has already been the subject of two posts – introduced originally via Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Smugglers Song’ and followed by a more modern interpretation of the Parson and Clerk legend by Charles Causley.

So on the walk from Sprey Point to the Parson and Clerk rocks we have time to take in this third poetic (and long) interpretation of the legend, this one another work by the Railway Poet Thomas Aggett.

The Parson and Clerk
(Thomas Aggett)

Some centuries since, but I cannot convince
Myself to precisely the date it occurred.
My granny bewailed that her memory failed,
But ‘twas during Elizabeth’s reign she averred.

A Rectory giving a very good living
In a Devonshire village quite close by the sea,
Whose incumbent had enough to make his heart glad enough
And should have been happy, as happy could be.

Degrees without end, a Norwich prebend,
And a precentor somewhere in Ireland was he.
And dignities twenty, which should have been plenty,
Still he was not content as he really should be.

With avarice mad, tho’ a promise he had
From the ecclesiastical patron in power,
That the next vacant See should most certainly be
Placed at his disposal whenever the hour.

Now this promise had he for the next vacant See,
And as Exeter’s Bishop was on the decline,
Whose body less stronger, couldn’t hold out much longer
He hoped he would soon fill that living divine.

‘Twas observed by a few who the circumstance knew
That the health of the Bishop affected him so.
When the Bishop was well his spirits soon fell,
And accordingly rose when the Bishop’s was low.

Now often together, no matter the weather,
The Parson and Clerk would to Exeter go.
On purpose to see if the Bishop were free
From ev’ry complaint, or the opposite know.

Returning one night by the aid of moonlight
The Parson appeared so exceedingly sad:
For the Bishop was quite too unfav’rably bright
And a long way away seemed the prospect he had.

When the Clerk (that firm ally) said the Bishop would rally
The parson unluckily gave him a kick,
And the Clerk suffered much from that reverend touch,
But hoped he would yet be revenged by Old Nick.

His patience quite gone for a storm coming on,
The Parson becoming excited and warm,
Really wished that the devil would put things a bit level,
And also endeavour to quiet the storm.

Now in those days I know, for my granny said so,
A terrible wish went a terrible way,
And as certain as run does this globe round the sun,
A calamity not very far from them lay.

The moon that so bright, had been shedding her light,
Withdrew all at once without leaving a spark,
The consequence being, their pathway not seeing,
They soon got most hopelessly lost in the dark.

This obstacle met, their tempers upset,
‘Twas foolish of them everybody will say,
For they wished, so they said, the Bishop was dead,
And the devil to Teignmouth would show them the way.

While groping about in a mystified doubt,
The Parson observed with a heart full of glee,
A sort of reflection, which on closer inspection,
Really turned out a pipe-lighting peasant to be.

As the peasant drew near, the Parson smelt beer,
To his reverence rather offensive, still he,
without giving heed to the peasant’s rank weed,
Which at first nearly choked him, just said politely.

“We are sheep gone astray, and you I dare say,
Undoubtedly will condescend to aright,
Be Bethlehem’s star, for wherever we are
We wish to find shelter in Teignmouth tonight.

Said the peasant “ay, ay, I hope that ye may,
And so ye don’t knaw where exactly ye be?
Well, not very var vrom Dawlish ye are,
Only one way to Teignmouth I knaw, lemme zee.

If ye go by yon beach, ye quickly will reach,
A pathway to Teignmouth close round by the sea.
But don’t get too near, vor just about here
The devil indulges sometimes in a spree.

So of all things beware, of any fell snare,
The devil may weave thee thy journey to stem,
Main bitter he be against the clergy,
Two things he detests, holy water and them.

Now mad Deacon Stiles, had ridden for miles,
Only last week, a-hunting o’er heather and broom,
When over the rocks, in the shape of a fox,
The devil allured the poor man to his doom.”

Said the peasant “farewell”, after wishing in hell,
The devil was chained up securely just then,
Deceitful you see, for no peasant was he,
But the devil himself and no lover of men.

But of this in the dark, the Parson and Clerk,
Very grateful to him now their journey resumed;
They felt very glad when they should have felt sad,
which they would have done had they known they were doomed.

They had not travelled far, when over a spar,
They stumbled poor fellows, being very much worn,
They muttered at first, but then came the worst,
They swore such a swear as they should not have sworn.

They were once more en route when the Parson cried out:
By jove, there is Exeter’s palace, I see!
When Roger did stare, for truly ‘twas there,
Then marvelled they much what this wonder could be.

They stood on the lawn, the blinds were all drawn,
The place seemed deserted, oh, what could it mean,
But just now beside the ocean’s rough tide,
And now to be back where they lately had been.

They entered the hall, where fish great and small,
Swam by the walls against many a gem.
Great lobsters and crabs were chasing the dabs,
That peered o’er the furniture, grinning at them.

A servant came now, and with a deep bow,
Said the Bishop was dead as a herring’s that dried.
He had been eating fish, his favourite dish,
When a fishbone had stuck in his throat, so he died.

Overcome now with joy, said the Parson, “my boy,
I think I’ve already one foot in the See.”
When Roger replied, as he sank in the tide:
“Only one foot, you’re lucky – ‘tis all over me”.

Poor Roger was right, his was a sad plight,
The palace had vanished as quick as it rose.
While they were inside, rose higher the tide,
So a wave collared Roger and ended his woes.

“By the devil’s good grace, ‘tis a critical place,
The devil has got me upon a red tape.”
Quoth the Parson when he saw around him the sea,
Without any visible means of escape.

The sea rising higher, came nigher and nigher,
When the Parson was caught by another big wave.
And Exeter’s See for another would be,
When he and poor Roger had but a wet grave.

When morning appeared, a labourer neared
The place where the Parson and Clerk paid death’s tolls,
When he noticed a change, remarkably strange,
Two rocks had arisen containing their souls.

If any about this story should doubt,
To such I would recommend taking a ride
To Teignmouth sometime, where instead of a rhyme,
They can see the two rocks where their spirits reside.

Want to know more? Check out:

Parson and Clerk …..
Charles Causley …..
Thomas Aggett …..

Dorothy’s Diamonds

Dorothy's Diamonds

Dorothy’s Diamonds

Today it’s time for a mystery.

Continuing the walk along the sea wall from Teignmouth, about 100 metres before you reach Sprey Point you will see set into wall two diamond-shaped stones about half a metre apart. These are known as Dorothy’s Diamonds. Here’s a link to their story: Dorothy’s Diamonds

For now though there are some questions. Who was Dorothy? How did her ‘diamonds’ appear in the wall? Did she know Brunel? Did he allow the diamonds to be inserted into the wall and, if so, why?  Was there more to her relationship with Brunel than perhaps meets the eye? Where is the evidence?

Could this be the sort of poem that Brunel, under some romantic influence, could have written in one of his letters or diary? Or is it pure myth?

Dorothy’s Diamonds

Wouldst that thou hadst told me,
Dorothy, seated by thy well.
Wouldst that I had sat with thee,
enthrall-èd by thy spell.
Wouldst that thou durst hold me,
imprison’d in thy swell.
Wouldst that I had wished for thee
to share thy love and comfort me,
that our two lives, enshrin’d, would be
two diamond stones,
our one enamour’d cell.

Want to know more?  Check out:

Dorothy’s Diamonds …..

All Aboard the Engine

Railwaycollapse at Dawlish

Railwaycollapse at Dawlish

Continuing the walk along the sea-front we follow the route of Brunel’s railway opened in 1846 and still running today, the only rail link into West Devon and Cornwall.

In February this year, massive storms battered the railway destroying the line at Dawlish and creating a huge landslip on the cliff below Woodlands Avenue, Teignmouth.

The result was the closure of the line for two months whilst 300 Network Rail engineers, known locally as the ‘orange army’, battled for over two months to overcome every obstacle ‘thrown at it by Mother Nature’.

Cliff slide Teignmouth

Cliff slide Teignmouth

On Friday 4th April the line was finally re-opened though completion of all the necessary repair work is likely to run well into 2015.

South Devon Singers were invited to take part in the celebrations of the official opening ceremony.  One of their members, Rachel Shearmur, wrote some clever lyrics to be set to the tune of Casey Jones to mark the events of the previous months and to pay tribute to the ‘Orange Army’ who had become a regular feature in Dawlish and Teignmouth.

Thanks to Rachel and the South Devon Singers for permission to reproduce that song here.

All Aboard the Engine!
(sung to the tune of “Casey Jones”)
(Rachael Shearmur, 2014)

Come, all you rounders if you want to hear
A story about some famous brave engineers
They worked all night and they worked all day
To mend the sea wall and restore the Dawlish Railway.
On a wild wet day in early twenty fourteen
The wind whipped the waves to heights not before seen
They tore at the rocks and they tore at the stones
And left the rail track suspended like a bare backbone.

Whistle blows – all aboard the engine!
There she goes! The guard has waved his hand.
Whistle blows – all aboard the engine!
And she takes her first great journey between sea and land.

The sea wall was breached and eighty metres were gone
The parapet was damaged all the way along
From Sprey Point to Smugglers’ Cove so ballast was torn
From its bed beneath the sleepers on that fateful morn.
A makeshift sea wall was soon put in place
Rubble-filled containers in the now empty space
But the sea was so ferocious it still wanted to win
And so peeled back their lids just like a sardine-tin.

As the weather calmed, so the work could begin.
Five thousand tonnes of concrete had to be brought in
Men in yellow, men in orange all around
As they fought to recover all the sea-claimed ground.
Two hundred men by day, one hundred by night
Clearing, cutting, heaving, hauling to beat the might
Of the tides whose angry tendrils had torn away
At the coast-hugging track of Brunel’s railway.

Just two months on from all the wind and the rain
The Dawlish line was opened up again
To shouts and cheers and cries of loud “Hurray!”
As trains could once more speed along Great Western Railway.
People came from far and people came from wide
On that early April day no-one was left inside
As they gathered around to give three big cheers
For the work of all the famous bold and brave engineers.


Want to know more? Check out:

Youtube performance …..
South Devon Singers …..
History of Railway …..


Fresh to Bleed

Red cliffs staining the sea

Red cliffs staining the sea

Today we beat the record for the age of verse associated with Teignmouth.

Leaving Jason’s Garden behind we make our way back down to the sea-front to continue the walk eastward, walking along the redstone cliffs that are characteristic of Teignmouth and this stretch of coast. The Breccia sandstone is 250 million years old and once lay on the equator.

It features as a reminder of an apparent bloody episode in Teignmouth’s history – the raid by the Danes, as the following couplet testifies:


“In memory whereof, the clift exceeding red
Doth seem hereat again full fresh to bleed.”

Does this couplet stand on its own? Or is it part of a larger work on the invasion of the Danes? When was it written? Who wrote it? ….. unanswered questions.

The earliest reference I have found to it is around 1630 when Tristram Risdon is estimated to have written his “Chorographical Description or Survey of the County of Devon” which remained unpublished until 1714. Risdon died in 1640.

To quote from Risdon’s manuscript (1811 edition):

“At West-Teignmouth, it seems, the Danes committed such horrid slaughter in 970, that the cliffs have, ever since, been stained with blood: they are ‘so very red, we are told, that they apparently memorize the bloodshed of those times’ …..

West-Teignmouth ….. is remarkable for the Danes’ first arrival for the invasion of this kingdom, a nation accustomed to piracy upon the coast of France and Normandy. Here, in the year 970, they landed out of their ships to discover the country, for a greater force to follow; whereof the king’s lieutenant more hasty than advised, demanded their name, and cause of coming and arrival; and attempting to seize on them by force, to present them to the king, was himself slain. After which they so prosecuted their begun attempt in this island, with unhuman and unheard of cruelty, even unto the Norman conquest, that the very cliff here red, seems yet to memorize the bloodshed and calamities of these times; according to these verses: In memory whereof, the clift exceeding red Doth seem hereat again full fresh to bleed.”

Researching this topic it is evident that there has been some dispute about whether and when it actually happened. Dates vary from 787 to 970 and the alternative location proposed is Tynemouth.

Want to know more? Check out:

A chorographical description or survey of the county of Devon, Tristram Risdon, 1811

Danmonii Orientales Illustres, or the Worthies of Devon, John Prince 1810

The History of Cornwall, Richard Polwhele, 1816

The Anchorage of Love

Jason's Garden - Reach for the Sky

Jason’s Garden – Reach for the Sky

The second poem about Jason’s Garden.

I knew Jason briefly when he was a teenager and helped to put up a large shed in our garden.  I was shocked when I heard the news about him, more so perhaps because we had been through a similar experience in our family.

In 1998 Jason Pope, aged 24, disappeared from the mine where he was working in Angola when it was attacked by rebels.

Jason’s family felt that the development of this garden would be a good way to commemorate Jason’s life.  It is opened to the public occasionally and is a haven of peace and a tribute of love.

The Anchorage of Love
(Keats Ghost)

Free yet anchored to the red-stone edge
where once bravado teetered.

I hear the plaintive buzzard mew.
Mobbed by dog-fight gulls
the buzzard cedes its airy space
and drops to tree-top sanctuary;
its whimpered baby-cry
the smothered echo
of a wail of years ago.

I taste the salty air
whipped from sea-spray
breasting sea-walls chains below;
the fear-bead salt of sweat
that slakes the cracks of desert lips
and lingers there.

I see beauty
growing from that sandstone soil
where morning dew dissolves
and glistens with the rise of sun
in tears of bloody red.

Through moon-arch window
I touch the bloom of sculptures,
rust-red, coppered, bronzed,
forged from ores where mine meets mind.

I smell the ozone, biting-fresh,
the yin of life that foetal curls
within the womb of cordite’s yang.

Free, I feel love’s anchors
in that garden on the red-stone edge.

Want to know more? Check out:

Jason’s Garden …..

Jason’s Garden

Jason's Garden

Jason’s Garden

We’ll continue on the detour for a little while up the cliff path, past the Compass Rose, until after a 100 yards or so we reach a gate, signed “Jason’s Garden”.

In 1998 Jason Pope, aged 24, disappeared from the mine where he was working in Angola when it was attacked by rebels.  Jason’s family felt that the development of this garden would be a good way to commemorate Jason’s life. It is opened to the public occasionally and is a haven of peace.

I have a couple of poems about the garden.  The first, by Jennifer Jenkins, reflects its aura of peace.  The second which I will post tomorrow is something I wrote after visiting the garden last year and explores the anchorage of love.

(Jennifer Jenkins, 2009)

A place of peace
A place to pause
A place to ponder

The here and now and
All our yesterdays.

A garden for all seasons,
Made with thought,
Teamwork and tears,
Love and laughter,
Sweat and smiles.

Appreciation for
The joy of living and giving.
The pity of parting.
Those who have and those who have not.
How long is a life span?

Look around you – look and see,
Then come back and look again.
Pause – and see what can be done.
Ponder – on use and re use.
Trash becomes treasure,
Turn negative into positive.
Ask – it may be given.

Smell the fresh air – a myriad of scents
Feel the breeze.
Touch the textures of rock, wood and petals.
Feel the carved words as you read.

Or just listen.

Jason’s family garden – makes you think.

Want to know more? Check out:

Jason’s Garden

Eastcliff Car Park

Eastcliff House ... and carpark

Eastcliff House … and carpark

So we leave the Den and the Pier behind and head east, soon reaching ‘Old Maids’ Walk’ at either end of which once stood pairs of whalebone arches.

The path splits here and we are going to take a short detour following the left-hand path up towards Mules Park.  We stop on the bridge that crosses the railway and look inland to what is now Eastcliff carpark, a macadam desert.

Once it had grandeur, once it was Eastcliff house.  This poem by Tacy Rickard reflects its changing fortune and the changing times.


Eastcliff Car Park
(Tacy Rickard)

“Near the town of Teignmouth stands the beautiful residence of W.Tayleur, M.D.”
The Georgian gazetteer proclaims, and advises a walk along the cliff to view the sight.
“The admired and truly elegant mansion of the late Dr Tayleur… with grounds extending to the sea cliffs”,
state the sales particulars of 1837.
Bright walls gleamed among the clustered trees,
The sun burnishing rain-washed slates,
An iridescent lawn cloaking the slopes.

Now a tarmac shell,
Bounded by a scrap of wall,
An abandoned archway,
The railway gouging a wound through the land that once hemmed the cliff:
the complexity of the space erased.

Beneath the parking bays,
The footprint of the house.
Shadows of rooms, doorways, windows,
fragments of masonry entombed:
opaque glass slivers from once sun warmed windows,
splintered timbers crumbled to a dark stain.

And the remnants of past lives:
Shards of teacups from Victorian garden parties;
a rusted blade, dropped at the last pruning;
a tarnished coin fallen from a waistcoat pocket,
an earring spilt while the woman danced;
discarded marbles, cloudy, pitted;
a charred clay pipe in the turned earth.

Here were dinner parties where town worthies forged their bonds;
Here was birth, passion, betrayal, death.
The stones, once humming with human voices,
now shaken by the combusting throb of coach engines,
the thrust of the diesel through the opened tunnel,
Electronic pulse drumming.

Heedless shoppers spill down the slopes,
minds drifting away to the day ahead.
Eyes fast forward to the future.

The terrace where they sipped and dipped sun dappled appetisers,
lazily gazing across the rooftops,
the sun’s glow firing the sea,
the wave of a sail catching the eye,
the evening scents drifting by

a place to alight and leave
but not to be.

Want to know more?  Check out:

Eastcliff House …..

The Pier at Teignmouth

Teignmouth Pier a Pictorial History

Teignmouth Pier a Pictorial History

Almost finished on the Den.

I found another poem about Teignmouth Pier which was hiding in Viv Wilson’s Book “Teignmouth Pier a Pictorial History”. Thanks to Viv for allowing me to post this.

I think the interesting thing about all three recent poems about the pier is how memories are created around an inanimate object like the pier. They are individual memories but at the same time shared through the nature of interactive experience. This was also reflected recently in a television programme about someone’s childhood memories of holidaying in Shaldon and Teignmouth.

The Pier at Teignmouth
(Ron Warne)

During my carefree youthful years
‘Twas the meeting place of all my peers.
In fact it was the centre of the known universe
With wordly talk of things diverse.

The war had finished, the Yanks had gone
The days were happy and the sun shone
The pleasure boats had returned to the beach
A trip to the Parson and Clerk cost a shilling each.

The view from the pier was all a young man could wish.
If you wanted you could always fish
Or take a trip in a boat from the end of the pier –
Pity it was shut for most of the year.

There was Leo and Wally, Ferdie and Ken,
We really were the lords of the Den.
Then along came Roy, his dad was a cop;
He lived in Station Road over the shop.

While Evelyn Hardy and her All Girls’ Band played
We listened and watched and were sometimes amazed
At the skill of the dancers who took to the floor
There was no way you could get us through the door.

We were quite innocent then and girls were mostly a bore
But time moved on at the pier by the shore.
We became distracted
By girls so attractive.

Our carefree years came sadly to an end
For wives and children we had to fend.
I often wonder as I try to recall
If youth were so idyllic after all.

(Note: the poem is dedicated to the boys and girls who touched Ron’s life during this time)

Want to know more?  Check out:

Teignmouth Pier …..

Teignbridge Cricket Club Jubilee

Cricket on the Den, 1853

Cricket on the Den, 1853

This was supposed to be a leisurely stroll in verse east along the seafront but I’m struggling to leave the Den as I keep finding new poems.

I am indebted to Stuart Drabble to this one. Stuart is a local historian and aficionado of all things George Templer. He has compiled from various arcane sources a collection of poetry by George Templer. The one I have chosen here links to my previous post and reflects another aspect of Teignmouth life in the early 19th century – cricket.

Ivy Benson and her band may have played a fancy-dress cricket match on the Den in 1970 but I wonder if they knew that the diarist Fanny Burney recorded a ‘grand cricket match on the Den’ almost two hundred years earlier.

In 1814 an invasion of Etonians brought regular cricket matches to the Den and that led to the formation by George Templer, nine years later, of the Teignbridge Cricket Club.

There are a number of cricketing poems by George Templer. This one was written for the “Jubilee” – the twentieth anniversary of the club in 1843.  It is quite long and if you feel like giving up at least go to the link through at the end to the Teignbridge Cricket Club page where there are some wonderful contemporary descriptions!

Teignbridge Cricket Club Jubilee
(George Templer)

Along the chequered path of life
Ten years have passed away
Since last within this humble roof
We held our festal day.

‘Twere good to pause and learn the love
These fleeting years have taught
And, fondly smiling, mark the change
Those fitful hours have brought.

England, the star that ruled thee then
Has fallen from his sphere,
And thou hast seen to guide thy way
A fairer star appear.

The light that erst from childhood’s brow
Shone gaily o’er the scene,
Now brighter beams from beauty’s eye
Her waving locks between.

And she whose charm of beauty rose
Beneath a mother’s sway
Hath in its noon found dearer ties
To cherish and obey.

Haply, ‘tis hers to mark the bud
Of life’s precarious spring
Burst into bloom – a Mother’s pride, –
Or droop a blighted thing.

Here many a blushing boy of yore,
Grown bolder in his turn,
Unshrinking flings his glance around
On cheeks for him that burn.

Some who were wont to chase the ball
With foot untiring then,
By time and thought are mellowed down
Grey hair’d and grave old men.

Alas! That in this sunny hour
A sombre shade should fall,
A milldew’s withering spell to one,
A cloud of gloom to all.

The tongue is mute that loudest sang
Etona’s praise of old;
The heart that lov’d these scenes the best
Is stricken down and cold.

It was a sharp and sudden shaft
That struck him in his prime.
We know the hand that guides its aim,
And must abide his time.

Ah, ’twere a thankless task to trace
The dark destroyer’s way,
To dim, perchance, some friendly eye
That should be bright today.

Stern teacher, lead us to the right,
Yet turn we now from thee,
With grateful hearts to greet the train
That grace our Jubilee.

And first beneath our humble roof
Be woman welcome ever,
Her present smile, life’s sweetest charm,
Its balm when friends must sever.

Without that smile these fairy scenes
Would mourn their drooping flowers,
Beneath her frown our joys would fade,
The wreck of blighted hours.

The heroes of a hundred fights
With the swarth Indian tried,
Are welcome from the battle-field
Where their brave comrades died.

Nor less the kindred hearts at home
That read the thrilling story,
And burn to write a deathless name
In England’s page of glory.

Come ye in Fame’s bright livery clad,
England’s unchanging blue,
The dread and envy of the world
Shall here be welcome too.

And welcome ye our Heavenly guides,
Ye ministers of grace
To fields which twice ten years have blest
With harmony and peace.

The gaudy crew, whose god is self,
Shall find cold greeting here,
Where friendship rules the festal board,
Simplicity the cheer.

Sons of the Teign, the bard has sung
Who hailed your rising day,
Who loves you still, and would not live
To mourn your joy’s decay.

We know not, ere a decade pass,
What changes years may bring,
How many may be spared to read,
Or who may live to sing.

The worm around the brow may twine
Where rests the laureate wreath,
And ye who scan this simple lay
Yourselves may cease to breathe.

Yet time hath in his ebbing tide
One sunlit wave of joy.
To-day we revel in the calm
To-morrow may destroy.

Want to know more? Check out:

Teignbridge Cricket Club ….. (there’s a wonderful description of the involvement of ladies in the club)
George Templer …..

 (This poem was taken from Baily’s Magazine Sports and Pastimes Vol 22, 1872)

To Teignmouth Pier

Teignmouth Pier 1904

Teignmouth Pier 1904

So, after a brief diversion following a denim-clad rear, back to the Pier.

This poem about the pier was found in a mysterious file in the Teignmouth Heritage Centre, together with the poem about ‘The Church Rocks Wreck’ published in an earlier post.

Was there some sort of workshop or competition perhaps? There might be a clue in the final stanza – 1996 was the year of the Teignmouth Festival at which the poem by Nan Dalton in the earlier post was read.

Interesting reference to Ivy Benson’s All Girl band too (who once took part in a friendly, fancy-dress cricket match with the cast of the Carlton Theatre!  Of relevance to my next post, keep a look out.)

To Teignmouth Pier
(H Callaghan)

In 1865 it was when they built the Teignmouth Pier.
The best in all the land it was, folks came from far and near
To see the most unusual view of Teignmouth from the sea.
Then Ma and Pa and the little ones, feeling venturesome and brave
Would stroll along the wooden boards above the choppy waves,
and going to the very end were able then you see
To refresh themselves with scones and jam and a lovely pot of tea.

Famous bands and orchestras came to play and entertain,
Ivy Benson’s All Girl Band is one which I can name.
Then the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, the steamships I must say,
Embarked their passengers from the Pier, for trips around the bay.

And so for nearly 40 years the Pier remained the same
With Punch and Judy and Carousels and every kind of game.
And who remembers the dances we had? Oh, the dances. Who could forget
The place where so many lovers, and so many friends were met.

In 1905 it was, a terrible storm did rage,
The winds they tore the roofs all down, as they howled around the town.
The sea so wild and savage, its waves all green and grey
Did crush and swallow and carry part of the Pier away.

Then in 1996 it was the Year of the Pier they said.
So we hope that Teignmouth Pier may be a focus for us all
And ensure the future of this town of sea and sand
Will be busy, bright and beautiful
With a Pier which really is ….. Grand.

(Note: reference to Ivy Benson band is from ‘Singer, Sailor, The Time of my Life’ by Annette Button.)

Want to know more?  Check out:

Teignmouth Pier …..