Mr & Mrs Middle England: Grave Matters and Hounds

Another week in Ipplepen, and in true British fashion we begin with the weather.

It has rained — heavily, lightly, sideways — with the occasional burst of sunshine just to confuse us further.

October to date has been unusually warm too, nudging into double digits, leaving everyone dithering between the safety of a winter coat or the reckless gamble of a jumper and hypothermia.

On the wind this week came the sound of children playing at the primary school a mile away.

There’s nothing better than laughter drifting across the village — unless, of course, you’re one of those grumpy souls who files complaints about “too much noise.”

Every village has them.

But laughter also set me thinking about time.

What I was hearing had already happened a fraction of a second before I heard it.

Which means, technically, I was living in the future.

Bloody Einstein and his E = mc².

Only in Ipplepen can schoolyard giggles send you spiralling into relativity.

St Andrew’s Church, standing for over 700 years, is one of those places I admire from a safe distance — I’d rather not risk a bolt of divine retribution given my views on religion.

But the churchyard is irresistible: a library of human stories written in stone.

One grave in particular always draws attention:

Bertram Fletcher Robinson, journalist, barrister, and friend of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Robinson died in 1907, officially of enteric fever and peritonitis, aged just 36.

But whispers lingered: that he was poisoned, perhaps even murdered.

Why?

Because it was Robinson — not Doyle — who first spun tales of wild beasts on Dartmoor, stories, that became the seed of The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Legend has it the two men quarrelled over ownership, and Doyle’s ambition may have hastened his friend’s end.

The church sensibly refused to exhume the body, so the rumours remain, pacing the moors alongside the spectral hound itself.

It proves what I’ve always said: every graveyard tells a story — tragic, heroic, or downright mysterious.

And here in Ipplepen, even the dead keep the gossip alive.

Now, Mr & Mrs Middle England may fret about burglars, immigrants, or the price of milk, but the real excitement lies under our feet — in 700 years of stories etched into stone.

And with that, I’m off to the Con Club and the Welly.

Tales of hounds and poison are thirsty work.

Veteran
by David Palethorpe

When you see the veterans
sitting with friends—
or all alone—
quietly contemplating
what, in their life,
they have done…

You may find,
for good reason—
one they alone will know—
why they don’t want to talk,
why they just want
to be on their own.

They think about their lives.
How was it
that they survived?
Minds full of guilt,
thinking of the friends
who died at their sides.

They think about the fear
that gripped them by the throat.
They think of how they persevered,
until the fight was over—
and the battle won.

When you see a veteran
sitting, talking with their friends—
just let them be.
Be grateful.
And simply walk away.

They fought for the freedom
we enjoy
every single day.

COLOUR BLIND

By David Palethorpe

The colours of the rainbow,
The colours of the world,
They brighten every moment,
With beauty when unfurled.

True beauty lives within us,
Not in the shade of skin,
It’s found in how we see the world,
And what we hold within.

We all are bound to beauty,
It lifts and shapes our lives,
Yet when we look at humankind,
Be colour blind, Be wise.

For skin reveals no measure
Of the person we may find,
The beauty of all humankind
Resides within the mind.

FORGOTTEN

by David Palethorpe

Politicians made decree,
But none would heed humanity.
War declared—it had to be,
No other choice if “to be free.”

Broken soldiers home return
To families left to weep and mourn.
No compassion waits from society,
That sent them to war “to be free.”

While guns still roar and cannons thunder,
Politicians will not name their blunder.
The trail of blood, of shattered men,
Hailed as heroes once again.

But praise is fleeting, quickly gone,
Forgotten by the very ones
For whom they fought, for whom they bled,
For freedom—while their own lives shred.

DON – THE BRAVE

by David Palethorpe

Our son Don,

He was a special child,

As special as can be.

In fact, he was the specialest

The world will ever see.

And because he was so special,

He made others look a fool.

So we took the special action

Of sending him to a special school.

He dressed up in a uniform,

A soldier from the past.

So smart, so arrogant,

As he paraded back and forth.

It was because he was so special

That he didn’t look so daft.

Our Don looked every inch a hero —

He was given an award.

He wore it on his uniform,

He even wore a sword.

But then arrived a problem:

A war for a real man.

Against some yellow folk

In a place called Vietnam.

But our brave Don was special,

Far too special to go and fight.

So we paid for a deferment

From the dreaded draft.

So our brave son — so special —

Got let off not twice,

Or thrice, or four…

He was considered so very special

He avoided having to serve

Five times and even more.

And now our special son,

Far too special to have served —

The bully and the coward,

Too special to be brave —

Is now the Commander-in-Chief

Of the good old USA.

Does It Matter?
Spoken word version

by David Palethorpe

Does it matter—
what they think?
Does it matter—
what they say?

Their words…
drip like poison,
but they never reach the core.
They shout, they sneer, they whisper—
and yet, truth does not bend.

If it’s built on lies,
it collapses.
If it’s sharpened with spite,
it dulls itself in time.

The crowd may judge,
the crowd may laugh,
the crowd may turn away—
but the crowd is not your compass.

Still—
do not mistake their noise as harmless.
Every drop of venom leaves a stain,
a wound in someone else’s day,
a shadow that lingers longer than the sound.
Cruelty corrodes,
even when it misses its mark.

Listen.

The only thing that matters,
when the noise has died,
when the night is quiet,
when you’re left with nothing but yourself—
is this:

Did you stay honest?
Did you stay true?

Because if you did—
you’ve already won.

Durham Statue

by David Palethorpe

There is a statue
in the square,
standing all alone,
his soul laid bare.

Sad and forlorn,
I long to know his story.
What of his comrades—
where are they now?

Did they fall
in some forgotten field,
or return as heroes
to a land of hope,
a land fit for them?

Or do they weep,
from where they are,
for what might have been—
the freedoms they dreamed,
freedoms with a price:

the price of sacrifice,
the statue’s silent gift.

ALONE

by David Palethorpe

I saw the old man
Sitting on a bench,
Clutching his glass,
Smoking sweet grass.

Tired and dejected,
Sad and rejected,
Cast on the scrap heap,
He sits all alone.

No future ahead,
His years long spent,
The flame of his youth
Now cold, now bent.

The world moves fast,
He moves no more,
Just watches the tide
From a distant shore.

Yet in his stillness
There lies a grace—
The weight of a journey
Time can’t erase.

The laughter is gone,
The tears remain,
But both are chapters
Of life’s refrain.

And so he waits,
Not lost, not found,
Till silence calls
Without a sound.

No bitterness now,
No need to pretend—
He has walked his road,
And it nears its end.