Cydered Up

I would be misleading if I said the phenomenon of 'Cyderedup' was exclusive to Dartmoor, in this case it must rightfully be shared with the whole of the Westcountry. It is as legends go, a fairly modern happening and one that can still be seen today. All reports seem to agree that it occurs mainly in the Summer months but what with the advent of the 'long weekend' it is starting to be a year round occurrence. What is a Cyderedup, is it a ghost or spirit? In a way, yes it could be described as a spirit of sorts...

Imagine a sweltering hot August Bank Holiday, Dartmoor is buzzing with big 4 x 4' drivers all nervously venturing down the narrow moorland lanes as the blackberry thorns screech and scrape along their sides. By about 12.00am the heat is hot enough to pop the furze (gorse) pods, people have been energetically walking at least 500 yards from the car park. The children are hungry and the adults thirsty. Somebody remembers passing a "quaint old inn" about a mile down the road, the fact it is ten miles down the road is neither here or there. It is unanimously decided to "go 't pub f't wet" and in a blink of the eye, father, mother, nine kids, grandmother and 't pitbull are all crammed into the Isuzu and are trundling back down the lane. About an hour and seven wrong turns later the vehicle pulls into the car park, the smell of burning brake pads is enough to smoke out a sett of badgers. Why have the brake pads burnt out - because the 't' bluddy sheep' kept suddenly leaping out infront of 't car, a minor point. Ok, father, mother, and gran cram into the pub with 't pitbull left chained to the 4 x 4. Immediately the kids start moaning because there is no pool table or juke box, gran reckons there is a funny smell which appears to be emanating from the group of agricultural gentlemen sat silently at the bar, none of which incidentally can play a banjo as  father has just 'amusingly' suggested, and 'our Brittany' is well hacked off because there is no phone signal. But on the plus side there is an empty table under the dartboard where another gang of smelly agricultural gentlemen are/were playing darts. So the family ensconce themselves around the table and start to peruse the menu. After thirty seven minutes of bickering an order for 3 x chicken nugget specials, 3 x beefburger and chips, 3 x Moby Dick fish platters, I x ham salad (because t' missus is on't diet), and two ploughmans with Mother Bawden's Homemade Devonshire Pickle are ordered from the "sullen lookin' bugger behind 't bar". Oh, and yes, forgot 't bag of scratchings for 't pitbull' which are flung out of the door in the direction of the 4 x 4. Thirty eight minutes later the food order has finally arrived at the table and everybody is happy. The plates of ploughmans looks - rustic to say the least. The lettuce is curled, no not curly Cos, curled up with heat exhaustion, the cheese is sweating, the tomato or rather half a tomato has the appearance of something one would expect to find lying amongst the flotsam on Torquay beach and the Devon Cottage Roll is as dry as Devon Cottage Thatch. Sadly Mother Bawden's homemade Devonshire Pickle is nowhere to be seen, probably because her 'siatics bin playin' up and she hasn't made any since last September. Then the fateful moment arrives, father and gran, especially gran, decide that such a rustic meal deserves to be washed down with a rustic drink, especially as it might take the plasticky taste of the Latvian Traditional Cheddar away. So father saunters up 't bar and eyes the palisade of beer pumps. There is extra cold lager, smooth flow bitter, a local bitter called Dartmoor Badger, no not Tavistock Badger, he comes later, some "weak Southern piss" called London Pride, and right at the very end, almost guiltily hidden, a pump with a clip saying 'Dartmoor Looney Juice'.

Father enquires of t' sullen bugger as to the nature of the Dartmoor Looney Juice who cannot stress hard enough that it is traditional, VERY STRONG, scrumpy. Heedlessly two pints are ordered and despite a well meaning suggestion of 'trying a half', two glasses of non extra cold, non cream flow, opaque orange fluid are taken back to the table. Being a hot day and having no bubbles the scrumpy slips down a treat, it even masks the taste of the Latvian Traditional Cheddar, and once the knack of straining the 'foreign bodies' or dead rats through the teeth has been learn it could be described as 'pleasant'. In fact that pleasant that it is suggested by gran, as she wipes her mouth and adjusts her falsies, that refills are required.