A defining memory from a childhood spent growing up in a small village on the Mendip Hills, where nothing much ever happened, was when the Hells Angels came to stay at Lukins Cider Farm. I clearly remember the mix of fear and excitement, standing in our front garden on a hot summer day as they rode through town. I must have been about 8, and I’d never seen anything like it.
Lukins didn’t make the kind of socially acceptable, drinkable cider we know today. There were no pear or blackberry variations, and no one ever served it with ice. They made scrumpy. Cloudy, lethal. The rumours about chucking in a rat or two to get the fermentation process going were never proven, but nevertheless were an important part of their marketing strategy.
What could possibly go wrong when nihilists go camping on a scrumpy farm? I went to bed expecting to be woken up by revving engines, screams, and the church on fire.
But nothing.
Apparently they were model guests. They went for a lovely tour of Cheddar Gorge, then hung out in the field, taking the opportunity to catch up on some bike maintenance and chapter admin, and left on the Monday morning, feeling refreshed.
Why do I mention this?
Because I spent some time on Rightmove looking for properties in Devon, Cornwall and Somerset. And one of the sites I found is the old cider farm.
I don’t think it’s quite right. It’s a bit too near the road, and the buildings and cabins lack charm. But it’s a good reference point, and it’s not totally out of the question.
