What the Devil!

A clanging, clanking, crashing can cacophony as Clovelly children race and cheer, rattling empty baked bean, tomato soup, spaghetti hooped tins and bins down the echoing cobbled orchestrated street of unearthly din.

All towns and villages have their dark age traditions, their legends, beliefs and myths. Each has its own way of seeing out the old dead winter, ushering in the swept clean spring. Of ridding homes and shadowed lanes of murky, mayhem and mischief, of freshly beginning anew; opening windows on a shiny clear day and breathing fresh dewy air.

Some places race about with burning, scorching tar barrels, others masquerade as dancing hobby horses and parade about their drunken town, for many it's May poles that get them laughing. Throughout the spring, men, women and children take part in archaic rituals whose origins have slipped the memory of time. Here in Clovelly we have Lanshard.

The springtime hungry gap of Lent is a time for fasting, giving up for atime the over indulgences and vices we take for granted today and looking closer at what spiritually, should be more important; for letting in faith and driving out temptation. In forgotten days here in Clovelly, the clearing of winter remnants, the banishing of dark day ills and in expectation of the 40 long days ahead became known as Lent shard, from the smashing of empty pots and storage jars that once held the winter provisions, preventing the merry mischief making Devil from finding a hiding place and enticing the householders to stray from their fast.

So today, from the gluttony of a lemon squeezed and sugar sprinkled pancake tea, the local children with the unneeded excuse for making a noise, rattle their tins, bang their bins and chase the Devil down the street, off the Square, away from Back Lane, along Independent Street, through Fish Street, out onto the Quay and away into the sea to be washed up on someone else's unsuspecting shore. Keeping Clovelly free of the Devil for one more year.

It is a tradition I look back on with fondness, remembering the hunt for the biggest drum, searching through the old village rubbish tips for the loudest barrel, the occasional old lady who complained of the din, so we ran passed her house just once more for fun. Watching as my own children grew to take part and mothers gathered to cheer as another generation felt the joy of 'Tin Night'.

Sadly times change. This year saw only three children take part, my nephew and nieces, only three to keep alive a tradition that each past generation has laughing stories to tell of; that is as much apart of living in Clovelly as cobble stones and donkeys. A tradition wanes, a village pales, for what is a village that forgets its myths and legends, what is a village without the people with the passion to take part in its rituals. Where are the mothers and fathers, hiding from tradition, where are the children, safely wasting away in front of a flickering screen.

For me, my brother, sisters and friends, my children and families children, we have our memories and are glad we have our Lanshard.