West Somerset Scout Fellowship Home Page
Yeo Farm-Chagford
Memories of Scout Summer Camps at Yeo Farm, Chagford, Devon.
Let me paint you a picture
In words of green and gold
Of a time when the days seconds lingered
And we weren't quite so old.
Imagine a camp site nestling
Along the moorland edge
The granites like sugar crystal
And the green field was our bed.
The tents are old and battered
And stand 14 foot square
The canvas was a slide in the morning
My how the scouters stare.
The "lats" are a home for earwigs
Of creatures that fly and crawl
Why is it there is no paper
In the tin
On the string
On the wall.
The rope from the tree it is hanging
The knot in its tail is a ball
The grass from the bank is all ragged
And now you can see its a wall.
The kitchens are tiny and tidy
The billies hang battered and bent
The wood piles are chippy and choppy
"Our pocket moneys nearly all spent!"
The grass is all dewy at day break
The guy lines are bow string tight
The jam pots with waspees are filling
The owl hooted all through the night
My daps are wet and stinking
My jersey is rough and worn
The smell of the woodsmoke is drifting
"Even my neckerchiefs torn"
The wet pit cover is roasting
On the fire it hisses and spits
The tin in the corner is boiling
Some time its the camp thats the "pits"
For days it seems its been raining
I've learnt to play cards with them all
The hurricane lamp its been leaking
Theres a paraffin patch on the wall
Just when it all seems hopeless
The sun reappears like a God
The blankets are airing quite nicely
"Even the Pls a good bod"
The fire its embers were glowing
Its thatch exploded in flame
The dinner was cooking and bubbling
"I may even come back again"
The camp fire at evening was swinging
The hills they echoed and roared
The heat of the fire was demanding
Tonight I`ll rest on the sward
Starlight - the stars are a spangle
Laid on a black velvet tray
A game that Kims been playing
Since Heavens very first day
Cold are the fingers of night-time
Creeping with dampness raw
The call of the tents cold comfort
"I always sleep by the door ! "
The light of the lantern keeps playing
Tricks on the walls in the dark
The pictures twist over and over
Like swings at home in the park
My pillows a stuffed sailors kitbag
Others are rucksacks frame down
The smell of the grass is the fragrance
The feel - the hard summer ground
All the world is resting - hills stand looking on
Eyelids are a-flutter - boyhood dreams are long
Looking forward wondering what the years will hold
Looking back remembering Summers boyhood throng.
Ron Blundell
Kingfisher Patrol 1954?: PL. Peter Yeandle, Bill Spencer, Lionel Voke,?, Alistair Thorne, Peter Hensley, 2nd Ron Blundell
In the background John Moorman inspecting.
