It was a headline in a recent Tavistock Times/Gazette which brought back the memories; ‘Cattle freed from slurry pit’ it stated in bold fashion. As the saying goes – ‘been there, done that and got the t-shirt’. Mind you, a filthy, very smelly shirt it was; the fact is, though, that during my eight or so years as a retained firefighter, based in Tavistock, the hub of a large rural, farming area, such calls were not that uncommon; and always they were to be dreaded.

It was difficult enough – even hilarious at times – to extract a large, terrified bovine from its dung laden bath, but that, in reality, no matter how long it took, was almost the easy part. For once the fire and rescue appliance returned to base, hours – literally – of cleansing of the fire engine and equipment took place; then as soon as one arrived home, a washing machine was abused in the pursuance of clean – and odour free – ‘togs’, whilst a long stint under the shower using copious amounts of soap neutralised most of the farmyard influence.

Mind you, in my early years as a fireman (the correct description then as all firefighting personnel were male) I was not involved in any farmyard calamities; for in the early 1960s I served for two years as a full time fireman in Plymouth before my inherent wanderlust; plus the fact I knew I did not wish to do the job permanently, caused me to leave and seek my fortune elsewhere (not that I have ever found it).

Being in the service in the ‘Ocean City’ was a very different experience from that which came my way in the ‘old stannary town’ and the wide open spaces which surround it. For the city produced the incidents one would associate with a large urban area. House blazes, often in vulnerable high rise flats, chimney fires, cars set alight, so often deliberately, automatic alarms causing attendance at department stores – at times activated by real smoke and flames – road accidents and so very much more.

In many ways though, the men I served with were vastly more interesting than the work; for so many of them were middle-aged gents nearing their retirement – ‘old sweats’ who had joined the wartime auxiliary fire service and had endured the holocaust that was the Plymouth blitz. We younger men in the service knew that they had fought fires the like of which we would never see; generally they were unconventional, often cynical men of great practicality and courage to whom the official manuals and rule books meant nothing; often this included the officers.

Well do I remember a ‘shout’ we attended late of a summer evening; someone reported that there was a lot of grass on fire in a local park; everything being very dry, we hastened forth. On arrival it was discovered that the area in flames was about the size of a modest coffee table. The gnarled veteran in charge was disgusted we had been called out for something as trivial; ‘I could urinate and put this lot out’, he rasped (although he did not use the word urinate). He then proceeded to do just that. When asked what message should be sent back to the control room – which was standard procedure – he snapped, ‘hose reel in use’.

Those two years will remain with me always as will the period from the mid 1970s to early ‘80s I spent in the retained service here in West Devon. I was privileged to man appliances with some of the finest people I’ve ever known, folk whose regular employment was diverse; thus each brought background knowledge which often was crucial in times of emergency – and the whole purpose of the service is to confront potential calamity.

Even though it is going on 40 years since I left, my memories of the massive range of incidents and emergencies we attended remain vivid, especially the unusual such as the rescuing of a small dog from a rabbit hole, likewise cats from trees (several), plus the ‘back breaking’ such as hay and straw barn infernos, moorland blazes, removal of a boy’s head from railings – without severing it, one must add; a multitude of false alarms (many malicious) also come to mind.

I have much pride in the fact that other members of our family have been in the local retained service – son James and daughter-in-law Penny, whilst these days our grandson Tom is a most able and conscientious member; my dear late brother, Stan, served the people of the Bere Peninsula in a like capacity for many years. Mind you, I have to be honest and say I was never an asset to the profession whether full time or retained; always I lacked many of the practical abilities needed – indeed, in the crucial field of tying knots, I scarcely knew a sheepshank from a sheep tick. However, I could always be relied upon to make a good cup of tea.