THE LYME REGIS 'COBB' CAPER
by Richard Henley
In order to give you some background, this narrative must begin with a salute to a Luke's nemesis, namely Keith Fielding, who, in the late sixties, was undoubtably the fastest winger in the Country, (and probably one of the fastest rugby players of all time.) Unfortunately he was a student at Loughborough, not Luke's, which lead to us being knocked out of the 'Middlesex Seven's' on a couple of occasions.
Marty Underwood, who headed up the Luke's coaching staff, and Fielding, both shared the distinction of having played on the wing for England and were, I believe, personal friends. Anyhow, for what ever reason, one day Fielding showed up at Heavitree Road and played some exhibition seven a side. I was on the touchline that day, which was overcast and the pitch, due to recent rain, was soggy to say the least. This did not worry Keith Fielding. He went by me going flat out; I swear to God, you could feel the wind of his passing, and I've always described the mud coming up behind him as being like the 'rooster tail' from a Class One offshore powerboat. I had never seen, nor have I since seen, a human being who could move that fast. The relevance of all this will shortly become apparent.
The Killertonians of 67-70 , in spite of being somewhat removed from the main campus, were actually a very dedicated and conscientious, (if you think I had to 'Google' the spelling on that one, you are right!), group of prospective teachers. It was rare for us to ditch a lecture for any reason, but on the odd occasion there were exceptions.
One beautiful Spring morning four of us were driving into College, when we were overcome by the temptation to become tourists for the day, so instead of stopping in Exeter, we headed for the coast. Now, as you know, the resorts around Tor Bay are very picturesque, and famous for their beaches and country pubs. We had sampled a couple of these before eventually arriving for a late ploughman's lunch at Lyme Regis, which was as far as we intended to go. Exiting the harbour side pub we spied a large fishing fleet, maybe forty boats, making it's way home. Being curious about the catch, we elected to stay and greet the fleet.
The harbour at Lyme Regis is protected from the Channel sou'westers by what they call 'The Cobb'. Why it's named that, I have no idea, it's a friggin' huge wall that stretches out to sea for several hundred yards around the harbour entrance, but it occurred to us the far end would be an excellent point from which to watch the boats come in. So off we went.
It may well of occurred to more intelligent men, or indeed more sober ones, that there might be some reason that nobody else was taking advantage of this obvious vantage point, for we found ourselves alone at the end of the wall, looking back at an empty 'Cobb' and the town of Lyme Regis, from seaward.
What the locals knew, and we didn't, is that the returning fleet is always accompanied by an 'air umbrella' of about three thousand screeming seagulls, all of whom have recently gorged themselves on the residue of the fishing boats, and all of whom are now ready to take an even bigger shit than usual.
Remember we had been on the way to Luke's when this expedition began, so all four of us were still wearing white shirts and dark blazers, not the best protection against the hail of seagull shit that we encountered before even the first boat had reached the harbour mouth. We looked at each other, and, as one man, we sprinted for shore, all the while being bombed by the white feathered Luftwaffe.
Back on shore we were catching our breath after this unexpected run, when one of our number, gasping for air, said
"Well, I'm proud of myself after that"
We asked why?
"I just made Keith Fielding look bloody slow"