Echoes of Appledore.

No soul met us the night we entered Snowdrop Cottage. It was black as pitch until I lit the storm lamp, then shadows danced on the walls as the wind outside rapidly gained strength.

It was late, and with my birthday the next day, I made my way to bed. The dog, not happy to stay below, chased me up the stairs to the low beamed room.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but an ancient dialect jolted me awake in the early hours. Hastily I lit a candle and looked over at the dog. She was deep in slumber. I wanted to rise, to go the window and see what all the noise was about. But, pinned to the mattress by some unseen force I could only witness the sounds of people issuing orders, panicked screams and something roaring, whooshing like the sea. It was so noisy I thought the whole street must have woken. The sound of clanking metal followed, with more rushing, and the slosh of water.

It must be a storm, I thought, the wind bellowing through the village causing irreparable damage only visible by morning. After a time the noises retreated, but as I turned my head toward the stairs, a swinging light winked from the landing space. Again, I tried to get up, but something forced me to lie flat. As if another person was across me, and with this pressure on my torso, I was soon forced back to sleep.

The morning of 17^th August came, and with some trepidation I rose and looked out of the window. All seemed calm and normal- I heard the friendly chatter of people going about their business, and the closing of doors as the milk was taken in. We had breakfast, then I clipped the lead to Judy’s collar and made my way to the village shop. The man behind the counter could see I wasn’t a local. He asked how long I was staying.

‘Just for the week,’ and not admitting my birthday, ‘Did you hear the storm last night?’

‘There was no storm.’ He gave me a doubtful glance. ‘What did you hear, then?’

‘Well, lots of shouting, a roaring sound, clanking, and water,’ I trailed off as he bent behind the counter. When he straightened up, I was handed an information leaflet on the area.

‘Have a look at page 5,’ he said.

I took Judy to Tintern Abbey that morning. Sitting in the shade of the beautiful ruins I read the item on page 5 of the pamphlet.

The Great Fire of Appledore tore through the village in the early hours of 17^th August 1738. Villagers worked tirelessly through the entire night and using metal and leather buckets formed a human chain from the river to put out the blaze. Many homes were later repaired or rebuilt after the fire destroyed much of the housing. The village church was used as a temporary shelter to accommodate some whose homes were lost.

Two lives were lost to the fire, those of Robert and Annie Davies, (87 and 84 years) of Snowdrop Cottage, who were sadly suffocated by the fumes before they could be rescued.

Sarah Starr