Please Do Not Feed The Farmers

I should have been more careful than to send my spontaneous wishes out into the universe, because I usually get exactly what I ask for. I asked for drama and drama was exactly what I got.

I had awoken to a heaven-sent email detailing an opportunity to go to Africa before the end of this month. Humming the theme tune to The Lion King, I managed to make the small window of opportunity for breakfast, which was in a room behind reception, decorated in floral wallpaper with an archway leading through into the kitchen. Beaming like a cheshire cat I ordered some scrambled eggs and helped myself to a mini-pack of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.

Sometime after breakfast I stepped outside into a glorious sunny day. So far so good, I thought.

The nearby pub seemed a quiet place to read a book, and offered a great view of the bay, so I settled into a corner of the terrace, turned on my iPod, and lost myself in the adventures of Bilbo Baggins the hobbit, our timeless furry friend.

I came out of my revery a good while later, and something seemed very different. I switched off my music, and immediately heard a loud hum of racous voices and the clinking of countless pint glasses. Turning around I was more than a little surprised to see numerous groups of young people wearing an array of obscene t-shirts which wouldn't have been out of place inside the head-quarters of Club 18-30. I was apparently in the midst of the biggest 'Young Farmer's Reunion Weekend' in the country. More arrived every ten minutes, until I was surrounded by tribes of young farmers sporting the colours of their individual clans, who only had two things on their mind. Cider and sex.

I decided to make a move, and hoped to leave the boozing mobs to continue with their cider binge as far away from me as possible. Already they were at the buttock flashing, cleavage baring stages of their mating rituals with each other, and having no interest in joining the farmers' procreation displays I hoped to find a quiet fish and chip shop by the harbour front instead.

The fish and chip shop was perfectly located to watch the sun go down. Signs on the tables instructed, 'PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE SEAGULLS'. Suddenly I viewed the town through the eyes of Alfred Hitchcock and saw an ominous scene with the wings of destruction looming on the horizon. With appropriate dramatic timing, destruction did loom on the horizon a moment later in the form of a massive group of drunken teenage farmer's, testosterone fuelled and heading straight for the harbour front and all its culinary delights. Within minutes I had two inebriated lads with thick set necks and reeking breath standing uncomfortably close behind me in the queue.

"Heyyyyyy." One slurred to his mate. "Sheez nice." He patted me on the arm. I turned around and smiled with one eyebrow raised in a 'do you mind' kind of expression.
"Heyyyyy. Nice smile love. You should be an FHM Girl Next Door!" I turned back around to face front and tried to hold my nose against the cider fumes billowing over my shoulder.
"GIRL NEXT DOOR! GIRL NEXT DOOR! GIRL NEXT DOOR!" They turned it into a football chant, and continued with gusto in my right ear until I got my cod and chips and beat a hasty retreat. As I was leaving, a young man in a t-shirt featuring an image of a cockerel on the back and the words "Suck My..." on the front, bent over on the path and vomited, while his friends cheered and smacked him between the shoulder blades.

I walked briskly up the hill towards my hotel just as a police riot van roared past at high speed towards the town centre. Once inside I shut my door with relief, and as I sank into a chair, the leaflet on the side table made me smile.

'Discover Devon - unique, peaceful, gloriously beautiful, green and wild, rich in history and wildlife.'