My first time
An EOG member reminisces...
My first time was the evening of Thursday 5th November 1981. The air was cold and damp but the flickering flames of paganism illuminated the darkness.
It was during the summer of 1981 that I returned home to Exeter with a degree in Geography and therefore no immediate prospect of gainful employment. My friends from school and college had either departed Devon for greener pastures or had found new flocks with which to graze. I was therefore at a loose end.
Some but obviously not enough of my time was spent in the Central Library reviewing the job sections of various newspapers and journals. It was however during a rare visit to the library I came across a notice promoting the attractions of the Exeter Hostelling Group.
My initial contact was with Steve and Jane, who at that time organised the group with a methodical and meticulous attention to detail. I later discovered that one of their traits was to count members through field gates or over stiles during Sunday walks. Mischievous members occasionally doubled back through an adjoining gap in a hedge and were counted for a second or even a third time. This invariably led to more recounts and recriminations than a Ukrainian presidential election.
We met at St David’s Station, which was unusual. The Clock Tower in Queen Street was the regular rendezvous for all events outside of the city. The majority of members were aged in their late teens or early twenties and therefore car ownership was relatively sparse. Cramming all those who turned up at the Clock Tower into the limited number of cars was often difficult, especially as there was a subtle but determined jockeying for position amongst those in need of a lift. Not only was the road-worthiness of every vehicle assessed but also the desirability of each driver. Like Gwyneth Paltrow in the film Sliding Doors, many future relationships were determined by whether a particular door was opened or closed.
We drove out to Ottery St Mary in convoy and were forced to park a mile outside of the town. Forming a phalanx, we assailed the crush, noise, smells and illuminations of tar barrel night. The barrels are lit outside each of the pubs in turn and once burning strongly, are hoisted onto the shoulders of the local inhabitants. They tussle constantly for supremacy of each barrel but are united in preventing outsiders from taking part in their ceremony. During the afternoon and evening women’s and children’s barrels are lit but as the evening progresses the barrels get larger, eventually reaching 30kg in weight.
Elbowing our way into each pub in turn we slowly progressed through the town like medieval penitents on a pilgrimage. Being squashed together in the street whilst sweating and smouldering locals staggered past shouldering the flaming remains of burning tar barrels, cemented a unity and intimacy within the group. Perhaps the cleansing of evil spirits from the streets was working upon us as well.
Eventually we were squeezed like toothpaste out of the melee and into a riverside field, where a bonfire, fun fair and junk food embraced us. The hedonistic and bacchanalian celebrations continued until such time that those conscientious (sober) members could shepherd the group back through the town to the distant cars. The task must have been akin to herding kittens.
At some point during my first time with the Exeter Hostelling Group, I signed-up for the next weekend away. Ah, the infamous Litton Cheney weekend and the antics of the three Bailey sisters! Now that would be an interesting subject for a future article.
My first time was the evening of Thursday 5th November 1981. The air was cold and damp but the flickering flames of paganism illuminated the darkness.
Rob M
The names in the article have been changed (slightly) to protect the innocent.
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