Real stories, real people, real West Country
From Poldark's clifftops to Broadchurch's seafront, the West Country has spent years quietly doubling as everywhere from Victorian Cornwall to fictional Dorset towns. We went behind the scenes to find out what it's actually like when a film crew moves in — and what happens when they leave.
Somewhere between a WhatsApp group and a barn door, a different kind of food economy is quietly flourishing across Devon, Cornwall, and Somerset. It's local, it's personal, and it exists largely outside the gaze of the supermarkets — and sometimes, the regulators too.
On the windswept heathlands above Exmoor, one man and his flock of Exmoor Horn ewes are doing something no rewilding project has yet managed — keeping a fragile ecosystem breathing. But the conservationists don't always see it that way, and that's where things get complicated.
The government says go electric, the adverts make it look effortless, and your neighbour just got a shiny new EV on the driveway. But out here in the West Country, where charging points are rarer than a warm January and the nearest motorway services is a forty-minute drive, the gap between the sales pitch and lived reality is hard to ignore.
Tucked behind vestry doors and beneath choir loft stairs, hundreds of forgotten books are quietly crumbling in West Country parish churches. Former librarian Margaret Holt has made it her retirement mission to find them, catalogue them, and drag them back from the brink — one dusty shelf at a time.
Deep in a Somerset village, a dormant bakehouse has been coaxed back to life by one determined baker who thinks the industrial loaf is one of the great quiet disasters of modern British life. She's not just baking bread — she's rebuilding a food culture, one slow ferment at a time.
For over thirty years, Exeter-based photographer Della Marsh has been quietly building one of the most remarkable visual archives the West Country has ever produced. From sheep markets in Hatherleigh to harvest suppers in the Blackdown Hills, her lens has caught a way of life that nobody else thought to save. Now she's on a mission to make sure the next generation keeps watching.
Somewhere in a Devon farmhouse, an 84-year-old man is describing the way his grandfather used to call the cows in — and a linguist with a digital recorder is hanging on every syllable. Meet the archivist quietly building a sound library that could save centuries of West Country speech from disappearing without a trace.
In a ramshackle studio on the edge of a Cornish village, a retired potter is pulling centuries-old techniques back from the brink — one lump of clay at a time. Margaret Treloar spent decades watching traditional ceramics get swallowed up by factory lines and fast homeware, and she's decided she's had quite enough of it. Now she's passing on what she knows to a new generation before the old ways disappear entirely.
Deep in a Somerset barn that smells of old oil and older stories, Ray Calloway is doing something quietly extraordinary — rescuing motorcycles and classic cars that everyone else gave up on. Each machine that rolls in carries a history, and Ray feels honour-bound to uncover it.
In the flint-walled towers of rural Dorset, a small but fiercely dedicated band of ringers is fighting to keep one of England's oldest musical traditions from falling permanently silent. We spent a Tuesday evening with one of the county's most passionate campanologists to find out what it actually takes to keep the bells ringing — and why it matters more than most of us ever stop to think.
Tucked behind a market town high street in Somerset, a working letterpress studio is doing something quietly radical — teaching young creatives to slow down. We visited the printer who's spent three decades refusing to let moveable type become a museum piece.
In a cluttered studio on the edge of Dartmoor, textile artist Rachel Penhaligon is doing something quietly radical — turning scraps of forgotten industrial cloth and centuries-old weaving traditions into art that stops people dead in their tracks. Her work isn't just beautiful. It's a rescue mission.
In a yard tucked behind a Purbeck village, master stonemason Ray Holbrook is doing something quietly radical — teaching a new generation to read the grain of stone the way their great-grandparents once did. His apprenticeship scheme is small, unhurried, and possibly one of the most important things happening in the West Country right now.
Somewhere between 'dreckly' and 'proper job' lies a whole world of language that's quietly slipping away. One former Devon schoolteacher has made it her mission to capture it before it's gone for good — one crackling recording at a time.
From the craggy headlands of Cornwall to the windswept shores of Devon, a dwindling band of keepers and community campaigners are fighting tooth and nail to preserve the West Country's beloved lighthouse towers. Automation may have silenced the keeper's lamp-room routine decades ago, but these coastal sentinels are far from finished — not if their guardians have anything to say about it.
Down on the Cornish coast, where the mornings smell of diesel and brine, one fisherman is quietly waging a personal war against the industrial tide. Mick Treloar still fishes the way his grandfather taught him — and he's determined to pass it on before the knowledge disappears entirely.
In a cluttered workshop on the edge of Dartmoor, Rob Trevithick is doing something almost nobody else in England still does — and doing it properly. We spent a morning with Devon's last working tinsmith to find out why a trade older than the Industrial Revolution is quietly finding its feet again.
Long before craft beverages became a marketing buzzword, the Hatchwell family of Somerset were pressing apples the way their great-great-grandparents taught them. We spent a morning in their orchard to find out how one family has quietly outlasted empires, supermarkets, and the rise of alcopops.