A Visit to West Somerset by Edward R. Murrow Lyrics
Tonight I can give you some idea of what it's like to get away from it all, away from the bombs, the guns, and the strained faces. I spent nearly two days down in West Somerset, right near the Bristol Channel. The train left from a station that’s been bombed and burned by doctor doubles (?) but I couldn't see any signs of damage.
Dinner on the train was as usual - the coffee is still undrinkable and the cheese is just cheese, it doesn't masquerade under such fancy names as Gorgonzola or Stilton, but they still serve those little red radishes with it. We were only fifteen minutes late at the end of a four hour trip, then half an hour by car to a little village tucked away at the end of a finger of salt water. A dozen houses and a tiny little hotel, a row of red geranium standing guard in front of a whitewashed, stone wall. The landlord said you'll sleep well tonight, but I didn't.
All night a gentle breeze off the channel nibbled and scratched at the thatched roof outside my window, sounded like incendiaries coming down. The swish of gravel on the beach as each wave retreated resembled that distant sound of falling brick and mortar following a bomb explosion. The clang of iron shod horses’ hooves on stone roads was like distant gunfire, but it was only the mounted night patrol riding up to Exmoor, lying brown and wrinkled like a carpet mountain behind the hotel. “That’s hunting and shooting country down there," and they take their night patrol seriously.
At eight in the morning, a German bomber crashed on the beach three hundred yards from the hotel. Three members of the crew walked out, the fourth was dead. The three Germans were taken away across the field in a small car with an armed horseman in front and another behind. It was the first time the war had come to the village, there was great excitement. The bar did a rushing business. The tide (?) came in and covered the twin-engine bomber.
The bombing of London, the progress of the war was forgotten, you must remember there had been only two air raid alarms in the village during the last year. An old lady said she was sorry the Germans had discovered her village.
I walked across the moors on grass that seemed to have springs for roots to a little village beside a stream. There was an old Roman footbridge across the stream. The name of the hotel was the Royal Oak. The landlord provided a huge tea; thick cream and all the rest. Explained that he had enough food to last the year even if nothing came in, offered me a fresh pork sandwich. I said, "I thought you weren’t allowed to kill pigs under the new government order.” “That’s right.” he said, “but sometimes they have accidents, now this one caught his hind leg in gate, and we had to kill him.”
His wife wanted to know about London, but the landlord forestalled my answer by saying, “They'll be all right. I was worried about ‘em for a couple days, but they’ve got their teeth into this thing now and they'll be all right.” And then looking at his snug little hotel and up at the brown slopes of Exmoor, he said a strange thing. He said, "It’s too bad some people have to live in terror and fear, being bombed every night, when nothing happens to us. If we could spread it out a bit, all share in it, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad." And then I understood what people mean when they say this country is united.
Everywhere I noticed a change in people faces, there was no strain, there was color given by sun and wind. They told me how the beach hedges lining the roads that snaked across the moor were cut back every fourteen years and it would soon be time to cut them back again. And all the time as I listened to those soft voices down in the lawn of dune country, I kept wondering, what was happening in London? So late in the evening a train brought me back to London.
As we neared the outskirts, the conductor came in, turned out the lights, and said apologetically, “I’m afraid there's an air raid on.” Arrived at the station, I found a taxi, gave the aging driver the address and he said, "Right you are, sir. I hope it's still there." It's a strange feeling to ride through dark streets lit by the flash of anti-aircraft fire wondering whether your home is still standing or whether it's become a pile of ruined rubble during your brief absence. All was well. Somehow, I thought London would have changed, but it seems the same. The night raid is still on; the hours away from the city have evaporated. As the man who shared my taxi remarked, "it's like coming home to the front lines after a short leave"
I return now for CBS in NY.
Dinner on the train was as usual - the coffee is still undrinkable and the cheese is just cheese, it doesn't masquerade under such fancy names as Gorgonzola or Stilton, but they still serve those little red radishes with it. We were only fifteen minutes late at the end of a four hour trip, then half an hour by car to a little village tucked away at the end of a finger of salt water. A dozen houses and a tiny little hotel, a row of red geranium standing guard in front of a whitewashed, stone wall. The landlord said you'll sleep well tonight, but I didn't.
All night a gentle breeze off the channel nibbled and scratched at the thatched roof outside my window, sounded like incendiaries coming down. The swish of gravel on the beach as each wave retreated resembled that distant sound of falling brick and mortar following a bomb explosion. The clang of iron shod horses’ hooves on stone roads was like distant gunfire, but it was only the mounted night patrol riding up to Exmoor, lying brown and wrinkled like a carpet mountain behind the hotel. “That’s hunting and shooting country down there," and they take their night patrol seriously.
At eight in the morning, a German bomber crashed on the beach three hundred yards from the hotel. Three members of the crew walked out, the fourth was dead. The three Germans were taken away across the field in a small car with an armed horseman in front and another behind. It was the first time the war had come to the village, there was great excitement. The bar did a rushing business. The tide (?) came in and covered the twin-engine bomber.
The bombing of London, the progress of the war was forgotten, you must remember there had been only two air raid alarms in the village during the last year. An old lady said she was sorry the Germans had discovered her village.
I walked across the moors on grass that seemed to have springs for roots to a little village beside a stream. There was an old Roman footbridge across the stream. The name of the hotel was the Royal Oak. The landlord provided a huge tea; thick cream and all the rest. Explained that he had enough food to last the year even if nothing came in, offered me a fresh pork sandwich. I said, "I thought you weren’t allowed to kill pigs under the new government order.” “That’s right.” he said, “but sometimes they have accidents, now this one caught his hind leg in gate, and we had to kill him.”
His wife wanted to know about London, but the landlord forestalled my answer by saying, “They'll be all right. I was worried about ‘em for a couple days, but they’ve got their teeth into this thing now and they'll be all right.” And then looking at his snug little hotel and up at the brown slopes of Exmoor, he said a strange thing. He said, "It’s too bad some people have to live in terror and fear, being bombed every night, when nothing happens to us. If we could spread it out a bit, all share in it, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad." And then I understood what people mean when they say this country is united.
Everywhere I noticed a change in people faces, there was no strain, there was color given by sun and wind. They told me how the beach hedges lining the roads that snaked across the moor were cut back every fourteen years and it would soon be time to cut them back again. And all the time as I listened to those soft voices down in the lawn of dune country, I kept wondering, what was happening in London? So late in the evening a train brought me back to London.
As we neared the outskirts, the conductor came in, turned out the lights, and said apologetically, “I’m afraid there's an air raid on.” Arrived at the station, I found a taxi, gave the aging driver the address and he said, "Right you are, sir. I hope it's still there." It's a strange feeling to ride through dark streets lit by the flash of anti-aircraft fire wondering whether your home is still standing or whether it's become a pile of ruined rubble during your brief absence. All was well. Somehow, I thought London would have changed, but it seems the same. The night raid is still on; the hours away from the city have evaporated. As the man who shared my taxi remarked, "it's like coming home to the front lines after a short leave"
I return now for CBS in NY.