Ipplepen-Pen Diary. Devon

The Wellington Inn is a fantastic, welcoming and quite refined public house in so much as it is not the kind of pub where a shandy is considered by the customers to be some kind of prissy cocktail.

In years past an Inn like the Wellington would have the type of customer base that would make any decent citizen blanche.

There are in some parts of the country still pubs where any man who still has a full set of his own teeth is considered to be a touch effeminate if not bordering on being a raging homosexual.

It is also a certainty that in such salubrious establishments and as the amount of amber nectar is consumed the conversation (such that it is) will inevitably be one in which someone will eventually say “Adolph Hitler … for all his faults he!!!!!”.

Thankfully the Wellington is not such a drinking establishment.

I’m not even sure whether we have a village drunk who spends his nights st at the bar looking at the bottom of their empty glass in a state of morose melancholy introspection wondering what happens next.

Instead the Wellington (who incidentally serve excellent food) is an inn for the community where everyone is welcome even strangers by which I mean anyone who falls under the auspices of not having lived in the village for over 20 years.

Devon Folk are very much home birds who are not renowned in the United Kingdom for travelling very far and certainly not outside of the County for fear of catching something.

Conversation is therefore restricted to the benefits of the different beverages on sale (only benefits are discussed there is no such thing as a bad beer according to the locals), or steam trains.

Discussions about computers or IT are very rare on the grounds that techies are simply weirdo’s and if told to go get a life would invariably respond with “it just so happens I’m downloading on now” before being run out of the village.

And that dear reader is why people move to Devon.