To take our collective minds off the beastly business of Brown and bung politics, here are some rambling thoughts on two obscure, but interesting, authors.

Our new website, Devon & Cornwall Online (launching on the Solstice, June 21) has provided a welcome opportunity to delve more deeply into West Country ways, especially a very special group of writers, Cornish authors.

They are surprisingly underrated, although they include such well-known bestsellers as Daphne Du Maurier and Derek Tangye, of Minack fame.

However, I want to indulge myself with two of my favourites: Denys Val Baker and Crosbie Garstin.

Denys Val Baker
Denys is rarely heard of nowadays, but if you ever come across one of his books: acquire, read, enjoy.

Denys Val Baker (1917 – 1984), owner and editor of The Cornish Review, was the author of 20 hilarious autobiographies. Titles included, The Sea’s in the Kitchen and The Petrified Mariner, which give you a flavour of them.

He wrote in the 1950s through the 70s, and was a full-time professional author, by which I mean he was always broke.

Nevertheless, he managed to buy an enormous old tramp steamer, MVS Sanu, and, with no sailing experience whatever, took his large brood of wild children and long-suffering wife, Jess, on incredibly dangerous voyages. He was on the rocks more times than Jack Daniels.

Denys lived in Penzance, Land’s End and St. Ives in Cornwall, and was usually seeking some means of financing his next outrageous project. He was an adventurer in the grand English tradition, although always amusingly shambolic.

In the old days, when libraries were libraries, you could find his books on the shelves. These days they’re not so easy to come by, although Amazon has a good listing of second-hand titles, mostly at premium prices. Denys would have been proud. If you want a really good humorous read, do seek them out.

His character never allowed a moment to pass without doing something absolutely beyond the pale. When I lived in Penzance, we occupied a house across the road from his, although he had been dead for a decade. There was no blue plaque on his house, which is a pity, although everyone remembered him in the library, where he did most of his research.

At the time I was there (late 1990s) his son still ran a print business in the town, and his wildest daughter, Demelza, lived there too.

Denys was one of the old school of writers. He spent a lot of time in London, mostly in the literary pubs around Soho where he hung out with the likes of Dylan Thomas and other luminaries of the scribbling fraternity. But his heart was in Cornwall, as was most of his written output. He will be best remembered for his 20 or so autobiographies.

Gerald Durrell is probably the nearest comparison. Let’s hope he will not be totally forgotten, especially in the county that inspired his best work.

Crosbie Garstin
Crosbie Garstin is best known for his trilogy of novels about the Penhales family, published before the last war by Heinemann.

The Owls’ House, High Noon and The West Wind are all cracking adventures set in Cornwall and on the high seas in the days of sail. China Seas, his last book, continued the genre, and was made into a Hollywood film starring, I believe, Clark Gable.

Garstin was an interesting character, a true adventurer and traveller. He served during the first world war in King Edward’s Horse and was commissioned on the battlefield in 1915.

His early years were spent working in lumber camps in Canada, as a ranger in Africa, a miner on the Pacific coast, and as an army horsemaster and intelligence officer.

He was, by all accounts, a very private man (I can’t find a photograph of him on the internet) and, at the age of 40, he bought “Rosemerryn”, a house in Cornwall, near Penzance.

The fictional home of the Penhales family, “Bosula” in The Owls’ House, is almost certainly located on the site of Rosemerryn. Set in the Keigwin Valley, six miles south-west of Penzance, the valley drains the Penwith backbone of tors into Monks Cove, the physical setting for the novels.

Just down the way, towards Penzance, is the fishing port of Newlyn, which doubled-up then as a world-famous artists’ colony, boasting its own art movement. Garstin wrote this vivid rondeau about Newlyn Hill :

On Newlyn Hill the gorse is bright;
Upon the hedgerows left and right
Song-dizzy birds the Spring-time greet;
The bluebells weave a purple sheet;
Primroses star the lanes’ green night.
Across the Bay each moorland height
Glows golden in the evening light,
And Dusk walks violet-eyed and sweet
On Newlyn Hill.

A swarm of lights, pearl-soft and white,
A fairy-lamp-land exquisite,
Opens its star-eyes at the feet
Of hills where shore and wavelets meet;
Then dreams come, mystic, infinite,
On Newlyn Hill.

Newlyn now is but a shadow of its former self thanks to the EU’s Common Fisheries Policy. I don’t think he would be amused.

It’s difficult to get hold of Garstin’s books now, but I managed to entreat copies of the trilogy from Penzance library’s reference section a few years ago for a writing project, and I wasn’t disappointed. Sadly, he has rather sunk without trace in recent years. Not even the Cornish remember him, except for a few beavering upcountry literatis.

In 1930 he vanished without trace. Nobody really knows what happened to him. Some say he faked his death and went back to the East where he had spent his youth.

It seems likely though that he drowned while rowing back to a friend’s yacht after a party. The boat overturned and a woman friend survived. His body was never found although he was a strong swimmer. Presciently, the final page of his last book, China Seas, written in his study at Rosemerryn overlooking a bank of rhododendrons, has this death scene :

“Heavily he sank beside her … felt her arms go round him clinging desperately as to the last refuge in a yawning sea … A bank of rhododendrons with crimson flowers … fading fast, fading away.”

Even better, at the conclusion of his trilogy, the death of his hero, Penhales, drowning in the sea off the Twelve Apostles rocks in Cornwall, is one of the best death scenes in all literature :

“The boom of the surf was the deep roll of drums. The wind blew with the sound of trumpets, piercing, exultant. The phantom clippers dipped their gilded beaks, most stately, the ghostly soldiers tossed their lances, ‘Come on, old comrade,’ they cried. ‘Fear not! Death is but a pang and life immortal. Ride on with us, ride on forever.’”

Cornwall inspires mysticism in its writers and inhabitants. It’s a shame those upcountry folk in the London salons don’t give it more attention.

It’s better than politics.

John Evans

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We’ve been beavering away at this for quite a while. Our new company, Local Ventures Online, will launch Devon & Cornwall Online around June 15.

Designed by Swedish web maestro Thord Hedengren, the site is a hybrid between a local newspaper and a classy weblog.

It’s also an advertising vehicle across a number of local and national fields, concentrating on familar categories, like Holidays, Property, Finance, Professionals … and many more.

There are some great deals for advertisers in the first three months, while we tweak and add complexity, so get in quick before all the prime positions are taken. We’ve already got banners for Sainsbury’s, Scottish Widows, World Vision and, yes, Syntagma Media, among others.

Don’t lose out on our bonanza introductory offers. In the first instance, contact: john@syntagmamedia.com for an electronic ratecard.

It’s not often I introduce a new word into the world of communications. Well, I’m going to now.

Have you noticed that many local newspapers are called the “Echo” in some form? There’s Exeter’s Express and Echo, and The South Wales Echo, and many more across Britain. I can’t ever recall a national called by a variation of it, though.

So “Echo” is probably the best single-word describer of a local newspaper. It’s a pity that most locals seem to be a dying breed, or soon will be. The costs of printing and distribution are overwhelming even the “river of gold” of small ads and classified advertising.

Where Craigslist led the way in America, so many British locals are being gradually replaced by online alternatives.

Now imagine a hybrid between a quality blog and an Echo — online, of course. What would you call it? An Eclog, naturally.

That’s not to be confused with an eclogue, which is a poetic pastoral dialogue. The Greek origin of the word means “selection” or “pick out”, which is rather apt, I think.

Here at Syntagma Towers we have spent the last three months creating a new business. It will shortly produce the world’s first Eclog: Devon & Cornwall Online. You will find it on a screen near you in June.

May I suggest you rummage through your loft and find all those forgotten objets d’art you might want to flog to the good people of the West Country of England.

Alternatively, if you are a solicitor, accountant or estate agent, you may like to advertise your services locally. If a tourist, letting agency or general holiday company, it will not harm your interests to book a presence on the English Riviera, bearing in mind that the site will be visible across the country and may well become the first port of call for people wanting to vacation in the area.

Other Eclogs in the pipeline include, Somerset (with Bristol) and Dorset (with Bournemouth). In fact, there’s no limit to the possibilities.

So here’s to the Eclog, a brand new feature in the news and views industry of British publishing.

John Evans

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There’s a news report tonight that in our own dear West Country of England some people were plotting to blow up the G20.

Could Plymouth really be a hive of anarchist activity? Well, it is famous for its gin and Sir Francis Drake, although he did most of his drinking at the Royal Clarence Hotel in Exeter.

But what if they had succeeded?

Harriet Harman would be Prime Minister. Joe Biden President of the United States. If he can get on with Neil Kinnock, he’s sure to be soul mates with Hattie.

No more Sarko or Angela. Silvio gone to the big cruise liner in the sky. Ruddy dispatched to the eternal republic in the outer darkness. The Japanese premier, whose name escapes me, sent to a place where the wind chimes reflect only wabi sabi.

Would the world be a better place? Probably not. We’re entitled to a few laughs, aren’t we?

At least we’d be spared the communique.

John Evans

A view frequently expressed by internet entrepreneurs and commentators is: “Local is good”. To put it bluntly, it means that there’s more money to be made by serving a local community with advertising than by offering global coverage.

Three years ago that was not true. Even when the dollar was low and the pound high, a British website could make more from U.S. ads than British ones. I know, I tried both.

Here I’m more concerned with very local conditions: individual towns and counties. And, in particular, that “river of gold”, classified advertising.

Small Ads, as most people call them, are deserting local newspapers in a mad stampede and migrating online. Big ticket categories like cars, properties and jobs are piling into specialized websites where you can upload pictures and text, then sit back and wait for the response.

Local papers are losing out across the board in these areas. Many are closing down, most are currently up for sale. A month ago the Daily Mail group sold the prestigious London Evening Standard for £1 to a Russian oligarch who was once a KGB spy. The original Northcliffe must be spinning in his tomb.

The economics are stark: the costs of printing and distributing a newspaper or magazine, to the standards we have grown used to, are now prohibitive. Big websites may not yet be yielding a profit, but their smaller, nippier competitors are, or are about to do just that.

The question of where we will get our local news from is a pertinent one, especially as many councils are using badly-drafted anti-terror legislation to spy on people’s habits and activities. Not only do we get a KGB spymaster owning a major local newspaper, but KGB methodology too.

Clearly we need to be informed in our local patch. While 24-hour news concentrates on mainstream concerns at a national and international level, big TV is generally retreating from small stories in small towns. It’s not at all obvious whether small stations can fill the gap, while radio is blind and full of pop music.

It’s also true that big broadcasting and big print occasionally miss the point big time. The Daniel Hannan moment where a politician’s denunciation of Gordon Brown bypassed the mainstream media completely, but became a worldwide hit on YouTube, is a typical case. The story subsequently reflected back into MSM as an internet phenomenon rather than a political one.

Local information needs a light and deft touch, often absent from the big battalions.

As local newspapers fade away, they will be replaced by cheaply run local websites — a cut above blogs but using the same kind of technology and methods.

Here at Syntagma we are setting up a separate company to move into this space. We will start with a Devon and Cornwall site in May, followed by Somerset, and other counties down the line.

It’s an exciting time to be online in the content business. Costs are low, opportunities wide. But above all, with a whole tier of local news disappearing, including ITV’s variable contributions, it’s all to play for.

Local is not only good, it may well be best.

John Evans

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I took the opportunity of great weather today to down tools and grab the camera for another photowalking session in my “Summer in Exeter” (Devon, England) series. I really am doing the 4-hour workweek this August — and why not.

The series can be seen in full by clicking on the Flickr logo in the sidebar.

The Exe Valley running through the heart of Exeter

This is taken from the centre of the city and shows the Exe Valley which runs through it. The great thing about Exeter is that you’re never far from country and farmland wherever you’re situated. You can see the 18th-century streets leading to the River Exe, which runs from right to left down the valley — unsighted in the picture.

These Georgian cottages (below) are in the street shown directly ahead in the pic above. If you were to remove the plastic rubbish bags and the overhead cables, you could film a Jane Austen novel here. Mind you, you’d have to lay a dirt surface across the street as they didn’t have metalled roads in those days. Takes you back though, doesn’t it?

Cottages from Jane Austen’s day — slightly gentrified

Going forward — across the other side of the street are the offices of a media company in another old building. I love the combination of modern knowledge-based companies housed in 18th-century surroundings. They are so complementary they could have been made for each other. You may then get some idea of where the new Syntagma Towers is going to be situated.

This is the end of the street where Georgian meets Victoriana. It’s so quaint here you almost expect to see Charles Dickens in a stove-pipe hat coming around the corner. There’s an office to let right ahead across the road, but it’s far too small for the industrial needs of Syntagma Media. Very pleasant spot for an internet business, though.

18th century meets Victoriana in the centre of Exeter

Below, and just around the corner from the cottages, is the Old Priory, which is 900 years old. That means it was built around 1107. Next to it, out of shot, is the Old Mint, where Exeter’s coinage was made. Strange to think the Government in London had nothing to do with such important stuff in those days — except collecting taxes in the coinage, of course.

The Old Priory and Mint, around 900 years old

But 900 years is a long time for a building to stand and remain so sturdy. It really doesn’t look a day over 850.

Lastly, a wonderful French-style office building with Exeter Cathedral behind. Now that really would make a great Syntagma Towers. We’d have to borrow the Cathedral towers, of course.

French-style office building with the Cathedral towering behind

The rain has partially abated giving us a brief glimpse of that big, yellow ball in the sky, whose name temporarily escapes me. Time for Photowalking again.

You know it’s summer in East Devon when the Red Indians arrive. That’s right, Red Indians. Or should I say “Native Americans”? Nah, when I hear John Wayne say it instead of “Injuns”, I’ll follow suit. Promise.

Before you say they’re really Sid and Bert from Clapham, just look at that rawhide skin. You don’t get a tan like that in South London.

You also know it’s summer in Exeter, when this :

… sprouts this :

The mobile Northcott Theatre arrives like clockwork every July. I notice they’ve covered it up this year. Given the liquidity of this year’s warm patch, that could be a very good idea.

So, what goodies have they got lined up for us?

Yes, Macbeth … sorry, “the Scottish play” — there’s a curse on the name, apparently. And Cider with Rosie, that old favourite of lecherous topers everywhere.

I’ll give the Mac… Scottish play … a miss, I think, after a trauma I received when young watching Laurence Olivier in a production at the Usher Hall in Edinburgh. At a crucial moment, the great man stumbled and almost fell flat on his face. Well, it was the Scottish play!

A quick look at Princesshay, our state of the art shopping centre, set to open in October. Looking good, Princess!

So there you have it, Devon after the Deluge. Normal photowalking resumes next week.

I’ve noticed that a number of people are scheduling particular walks for taking photos of their town or city. Robert Scoble has named the idea “Photowalking” on the principle perhaps that everything should have a name.

The Quay, Exeter

I’ve been Photowalking — combining taking pictures with my morning five-mile walk — ever since I bought a digital camera last year. It’s a great way to add value to mere exercise. My project — I’ll call it PhotoExeter — is to photograph the city I live in through this summer, trying to capture the face and atmosphere of it when it looks its best, and is filled with tourists. You can see the results so far by clicking the Flickr logo at the top of the sidebar.

After a brilliant March and April, we’ve had six weeks of wet and windy weather here, so no Photowalking. In fact, the whole country has been under the cosh. As I write, people are losing their lives across the Midlands of England in the worst flooding for years.

Back to Photowalking. It’s really a great extension to Fatblogging because it keeps the interest up on what might be dreary rambles across familiar ground. As I walk, I find myself noticing things, large and small, that might otherwise have passed unseen. I also take many detours I’ve never explored before — maybe an 18th-century street straight out of a Dickens novel. The fact is, Photowalking insists you walk farther, if not faster, than you otherwise would.

As someone who used to run marathons, I know that interest is crucual to exercise. A date with a race a month or so ahead, seeking to beat your personal best, or a slightly better runner going along with you.

But Photowalking beats even personal ambition as a spur to distance travelled. For it drags in different parts of the brain. If exercise utilizes the left-brain — all those time calculations and forecasts along the way — then Photowalking adds curiosity, perspective, artistic appreciation of views and architecture, and delving into historical information. Classic right-brain stuff.

I’m only sorry I have to write about it today. The rain is beating down outside my window like stair-rods, and Photowalking is out of the question.

It’s back to blogging, I suppose. Oh, the tedium!

This morning I headed down to the Quay area of Exeter in our continuing quest for a new HQ for Syntagma Media. The Quay is now a rather upmarket resort for both residents and tourists.

Although Exeter is a little way inland from the sea at Exmouth, the river Exe runs through it. In Elizabethan times (1500s) they made the Exe navigable for cargo boats beyond the Port of Topsham by building a canal and quay in Exeter itself. The picture below shows part of the waterfront.

The Watergate (no connection to President Nixon), built in the ancient Roman town wall, was the last of the Gates to be constructed.

Below you can catch a flavour of the touristy atmosphere now with one of the riverboats ready to chug off.

And here’s a sniff of the older feel to the place. Each of these warehouses and storage buildings is now converted to modern use.

Ah, a welcome wateringhole — The Prospect Inn — one of the many old pubs along the quay. Loading those boats with wool and woollen products must have been thirsty business, as is taking photos.

So that’s the Quay. Not a lot for us there, alas, but worth photographing nonetheless.

You can see the whole set of these pictures in larger sizes by clicking on the Flickr logo at the top of the sidebar.