All along, down along, out along Lee - for I want to go to Widecombe Fair.
Widecombe-in-the-Moor
There's a slight seasonal chill in the air at the start of Widecombe Fair day. The coarse moorland grasses are coated with a soft silvery sheen of delicate dew that will quickly disappear when the late summer sun eventually climbs over the enveloping hills. Already, golden rays are providing a warm coating to the tops of Dartmoor's beautiful grey granite tors, and will soon extend a welcoming glow across the whole valley. It's still very early in the morning of this, the second Tuesday in September, and yet Widecombe is awash with people setting up stalls with all manner of wares, from pots of home-made jam and locally produced honey to country clothing and farm machinery parts. In the narrow country roads, horse boxes with their precious cargos on-board jostle with tractors of varying condition and pedigree, delivering straw bales and fencing for the animal pens. The stewards and other officials are displaying their usual efficiency by ensuring everyone gets to the place he or she should be, with time to spare. Eventually, all is set for the long awaited opening of the annual Widecombe-in-the-Moor Fair.
Believed to have been inaugurated in or around the 1850's, early Free Fairs were held on the green. Now much bigger, the main events take place in the Fair Field, opposite the school, while country craft exhibits, market stalls and displays occupy almost every other available space throughout the village.
Apart from fair day, life is reasonably quiet here in the impressive East Webburn river valley. Widdecombe is set just 800 feet above sea level among the ups and downs of Dartmoor with the tors of Honeybag, Clinkwell and Bag on one side, and the Hameldown Ridge on the other. The cottages, tea rooms, shops and church huddle together around the village green, with its wonderful chestnut trees providing cool shade from the mid-day sun. The name Widecombe, in one form or another, goes back as far as 1270, and is thought to mean a withy or wide valley which, considering the location, would be entirely suitable. For a small moorland village, Widecombe can boast a splendid 14th century church. The 90 foot tower was probably built by tin miners in gratitude for their prosperity. Inside St Pancras, known locally as "The Cathedral of the Moor", a poem written by local schoolmaster Richard Hill tells the story of when the church was struck by a thunderbolt during a violent storm on Sunday October 21st 1638. Four of the worshipping congregation were killed and 62 injured on that day. The incident was said to be the work of the devil himself !
Yet despite the crowds, toes are rarely trodden on or tempers raised, which is testimony to the year-long planning that goes into organising traffic systems, parking, show events or stall layout.
Sunday-best caps are raised when the wife of one of the officials walks by, then promptly returned to their usual resting places, often at very strange angles, especially as the day progresses and more and more refreshment is passionately consumed ! Many come to the fair purely for a pleasant day away from normal farm routine, but others are there to show the results of months of hard work and dedication by exhibiting their prime stock. Pride and joy are clearly visible when a place is awarded in the final judging. Sheep, cattle, goats and poultry all play a very big part on fair day. Now and again, a familiar song can be heard above all the chat and laughter. Simple words tell the story of Tom Pearce's grey mare and its ill-fated trip to Widecombe Fair. Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk and Uncle Tom Cobley make up the rollicking crew that unfortunately rode the somewhat aged beast to its untimely death. But all was not lost, because according to the song the old grey mare still appears "ghastly white when a cold wind whistles on the moor of a night". This version is thought to have been published in about 1880 and recorded in "Songs of the West" by the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould, who was one of the first collectors of English folk song. The actual Tom Pearce and his friends may not have come from anywhere near Widecombe, but research suggests they lived in two villages further north on Dartmoor - namely Spreyton and Sticklepath. By late afternoon, the crowds begin to thin a little as most of the "action" has now taken place, and trophies awarded for another year. Yet again, the dog shows, pillow fights, sheep shearing, terrier racing, not to mention Uncle Tom Cobley's Novelty race have all produced a high class of entry! But the day is far from over for those with enough stamina to see it through to the end. Still to come, as the setting sun casts long shadows over the village, is the Tug o' War, disco and barbecue. Meanwhile, tired but excited children, some almost too young to walk, are proudly parading their ponies before very serious-looking judges who examine every inch of each animal before finally declaring the winners. A few tears are inevitable from some young competitors (and sometimes the parents as well !) who don't pick up a rosette this time. But disappointment is soon forgotten with the promise of yet another ice cream. After all, there is always next years fair at Widecombe to start looking forward to !
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Throughout the morning of Fair Day and well into the afternoon, every conceivable mode of transport, from horse to luxury coach, is pressed into service to transport both locals and tourists to Widecombe. It seems that every man, woman and child in the county wants a share of Dartmoor's most famous event. 
