Here we attempted to make a complete circle of the tree without being judged to having put a foot on the ground.  To do this meant navigating the huge circumference of the tree by its protruding gnarled roots. 
If we were successful we could make a wish which we fervently believed would come true.

From here we turned left along Balls Farm Road a quiet small road that eventually led back to the Broadway past the lovely white house where Donald Wolfe lived. 
A little way along the lane there was a stile which led across the field to Ide Brook.  There was a worn pathway of sorts and a little bridge which spanned the little stream called Ide Brook. 
Ide brook begins on the higher land towards Moretohampstead and the moors and trickles through the little village of Ide and then irrigates the lands on either side through the local pasturelands towards Clarke’s Pond.  It is not that Clarke’s pond is significant in the grand scheme of things; it is just that, it was ours.  
It was ours when we were there alone and a truce of shared ownership if other kids from Bowhay lane (The Shanghai Kids) had got there before us.
Carefully removing our socks and shoes for fear of getting them dirty we would gently dip our lily white toes into the ice cold waters of the little river.
Bending low, we would peer into the waters until our eyes became adjusted and there we would spot the tiny darting fish.
Although pike, carp, roach, chub, perch, dace and bream are common in the South West we were searching for lesser prey.
Minnows and tadpoles and frogspawn were the staple contents of our jam jars at the end of each weary day.
The journey home could be perilous and was undertaken with a good deal of caution because we might meet up with members of the Shanghai kids, local ruffians from the council estate near to our house.
They would mercilessly with deadly aim, fire their catapults loaded with stones at our precious jam jars, and the contents would be lost, spilt on the roadway of Little Johns Cross Hill.
I would be furious at the little sneaks, and pick up stones to throw at them in retaliation and all the while Teresa would be wailing and crying and calling them names.  We would peer at our fish in their little jars if we managed to get them home intact, sometimes they would last for about a week.
Another way to get to Ide brook was by an altogether far more interesting route.  At the top of Dunsford hill at it’s junction with Little Johns Cross was Hamber lane which a narrow lane that ran off to the left and meandered lazily over the brow of the hill into farmlands.
Some little way along Hamber lane there is a gate leading to a steep grass covered field.  Prime pasture land but very steep.
This is roly-poly hill.  Here we would indeed, because of the even surface of the field, lay on our sides and literally roly-poly all the way to the bottom where there was a sty.  Clambering breathlessly over the style after our adventure we would be a short distance from the entrance to Clarke’s pond.
On the little bridge which crossed the stream in the field we would sometimes meet up with “Stan”.  Nowadays we would warn our children about men in dirty scruffy raincoats with cloth caps, but there was little to frighten us in those days just after the war and least of all Stan.  Everyone knew Stan.
Stan knew all about the fish in the rivers and the wildlife of the area.  He spoke to us gently of how to treat the countryside with respect, and always to tread quiet for fear of startling animals. 
Stan had ferrets in his pockets, these were not pets, but to put down rabbit holes to chase the rabbits out into his nets and then home and into his pot for his supper.
Stan taught us how to recognise the different fish and how to tickle trout which came upstream to spawn at a certain time of the year. 

Sometimes we would walk into Ide village for a change.  Although now things have changed, in the pretty village of Ide, a slipway beside the Huntsman Inn takes you into one of the longest fords in Britain.  
Nowadays motor vehicles are banned so now it is one purely for the cyclists, web-footed or wellied pedestrians and equestrians - unless of course you are accessing a property further on. Anyone else can at least walk along the asphalted quayside beside the cottages.

  The cottagers put on a fantastic show with flower arrangements during the spring and summer.  Here we would wait to see vehicles driving through the Ford there making great splashes, and sometimes breaking down.  When the cars or Lorries broke down in mid-ford the drivers would be stuck in their cabs or they had to alight and get their feet wet.  This always attracted a crowd and would cause great merriment as the drivers cursed their luck.  Old dears would emerge from the cottages to offer advice or censure the driver for having driven too fast and splashed water up onto his engine.

The reality is of course, is that before they became desirable residences the cottages which lined the ford were for the poorer of the poor, two up two down and were tithed to the agricultural workers.
My father’s brothers courted several of the Ide village “Satterly” girls before the Second World War and both Uncles Tony, Tommy and Henry married local Satterly women.                                                                          

Augustus Satterly had been the Vicar of Ide in the 1800’s.

Ide was a romantic place for us as children and even now this place is so close to Exeter, is an oasis from the noise and smells of the City and carries a quiet old fashioned feel.

 
(A poem inspired by the fields around Ide Brook )

Night life       

Wraithlike mist eddies, swirling, across barren winter fields; cold winter air burns the lungs.  
Barn owls, Ghostlike, silently swoop in the silvery frost.
The hunting Vixens yakking screech of territory splits the early morn. 
Glistening delicately, webs of spiders, heavy with morning dew, decorate tall grass and hedgerows. And treading careful, less we break their silvery threads.
The Squirrels harvest hoarded tasty nuts Lay hidden,
Snugly sleep together in their secret tryst awhile.  
Field mice, Curled, as only they can do.  Safe from hoar frost, dreaming Field mice dreams, safe from dying screams. 
The waddling Badger sow looks for earthworm feasts.
While Voles beady eyes darting, chomp away scrumping berries delicately held in each tiny paw. 
Night recedes, dawn progresses, animals away to bed
and leave the daylight, the sunlit day, to other animals and birds of prey.

 

Edmund Forte  2003