Donetta (Donning) Woollcombe

Donetta Woollcombe

– History of Rumleigh House –

A chapter in the Woollcombe family story ended on Saturday 16^th February 2019 when my aunt, and godmother, Donetta – Aunt Donning to me and my family – died. She was the last surviving child of Frank and Beatrice Woollcombe and, with her home at Rumleigh empty and up for sale – today is all about drawing down the shutters – and remembering – an era now past: an era, and a personality, which we can, and must, celebrate with enormous joy. For – though you will find no mention of Donetta Woollcombe on the Internet, and no trace of her on social media, though she left no children nor any great achievements that we can remember her by, she leaves us powerful memories – memories that are rich and poignant – evocative of a time when life was simpler, less chaotic, more focussed, more human.

We all remember her as delightfully eccentric, with a gentle, self-deprecating humour and an engaging twinkle in her eye that we all loved. Rosanna remembers how she, and her brother, always made us feel incredibly welcome at Rumleigh, rushing up the drive to meet us, and waving out of the windows long after we disappeared. Kate and Will loved the place so much, they called their home in Canada Rumleigh!

We also remember her dress sense. It was, how can I put this? – memorable: my brother, John, reminded me that Karl Lagerfeld died in the same week as Donning and that, in stark contrast to him, our darling aunt was most certainly not a dedicated follower of fashion: in her lack of concern for it, she conveyed an admirable, if bizarre, concern to minimise her impact on the environment - so for example: if a jersey was wearing thin on the arms she would happily cut the arms off another jumper and sew them on to the first one oblivious to any design or colour clash. The resulting jumper might look extraordinary, but it served to keep her warm – it’s primary purpose! Likewise her car use: her last car, a little Ford which she bought new – was discovered, after she’d owned it for ten or fifteen years, to have only a couple of hundred miles on the clock! Donning and her brother, Dick, were some of the most un-materialistic people on the planet, living very simply and always repairing, recycling and re-using things. If the rest of the world’s population were to follow their Rumleigh principles, human behaviour would, at a stroke, become much more sustainable!

As well as being a published writer, my sister, Kate, reminds me that she was also, like her elder brother, a talented water-colour artist. She would take herself off to Cornwall and paint on the beach. And when she came to see us at Berryfield, she would always find time to paint and write.

Our father was incredibly fond of her and though, like many big brothers, he did tease her terribly, he was very concerned to ensure that she was well looked after. And, like the good lawyer that he was, he did so. It was, perhaps, a mercy that he never saw her in her last years for it would have upset him, as it did us. On behalf of our side of the family, I want to offer our profound thanks to the staff of the Blackdown nursing home and everyone else who looked after her so brilliantly in her declining years.

Donetta was born on December 14^th 1925 in Roborough(?), South Devon. She was educated at Sherborne Girls School where, by all accounts, she was a talented and successful student. When war broke out in 1939, she returned to the Fruit and Flower farm her father had set up in Rumleigh, near Bere Alston – the home where she was to live for most of the rest of her life. Pictures of her at the time show a golden-haired young woman with a lovely soft smile, self-assured and confident with that firm Woollcombe nose leading from the front. My father often told of his joy, returning to Bere Alston by train after being demobbed at the end of the War. He walked down Tuckermarsh Hill from the station and the first thing he saw was his sister – a golden bundle, tumbling out of Rumleigh and tearing up the drive to hug him and welcome him back into his family. Her smile, her welcome, were more powerful than anything else in convincing him that the nightmare of war was over – and that normal life could resume.

For Donning – that normal life was working on the farm, picking flowers, grading tomatoes, helping with the accounts and generally being the all-purpose second-in-command to her father, and then her brother, Dick. That was the Donning that we got to know and love when we came down here in the 50s and 60s. Rumleigh was a holiday haven for us – croquet in the Rose Garden, Phoebe with her goats and chickens, days on the beach in Cornwall – where Donning would come with her deck-chair, her paints and easel. In her youth, she’d been a lovely young woman, and her mother, my grand-mother, told me that several young men in the village tipped their hat at her. But she was a shy girl who preferred the certainties of her own family circle than the stormy waters of relationships and setting up an independent family. By the time she reached her middle years, she was already committed to the full-time care, first of her father, then her mother. A duty that she carried out for both with immense generosity of spirit and a 24/7 commitment. After they were gone, she moved into the downstairs flat at Rumleigh – and made it her home. Her sitting room was the warmest and cosiest room in the house – and, in her kitchen, she created simple, delicious meals for her nephews and nieces – and the most wonderful fruit-cakes which set a standard that few of us could aspire to.

In an effort to impress, I took my girl-friend, now wife, Rosey to Rumleigh on one of our first trips together: I felt that anyone who could deal with – and love – Rumleigh as I did might be able to put up with me: and she did! And she has! She did a writing course recently and, in one of her exercises, wrote about that first visit to Rumleigh – remembering Donning and her kitchen:

“There was always bread, because Donning was part Italian. Butter came from an old fridge which didn’t work and was now a larder. The entire kitchen was in 1920s green or cream apart from the wooden table and the splashes of colour from the pots of pink geraniums sitting on their saucers on the window ledge beside the cat’s bowl. The tablecloth was damp as was everything else in the kitchen. It was easy to imagine Beatrix Potter’s Jeremy Fisher swimming in through the green paned windows and flopping on to the table.”

We all have different memories: my sister, Kate, and her children, Michael and Fiona, remember her clotted cream and meringues; I remember the fruit-cakes – Rosey the bread, and Phoebe’s jam! But we all remember the cats – legions of them down the ages. They defined Rumleigh, lurking in the corridors, each one a character that T S Eliot, or Andrew Lloyd Webber, would have waxed lyrical about. They were suspicious of any visitors and either terrified of, or a terrorist to, any dogs those visitors might dare to bring. In some ways, the cats were like Donning: intelligent, canny – effortlessly knowing exactly what was going on and taking steps to ensure that whatever it was didn’t impact on her serene lifestyle.

And that serenity was what she created at Rumleigh – which made it such a wonderful haven for me and my cousins as we raced around the world, doing, doing, doing crazy things. I always looked forward with enormous pleasure to coming down to Rumleigh – sleeping in what used to be the dining room – where I would surprise myself by sleeping for hours and hours! The world stopped when you got to Rumleigh. The place, and Donning herself, were insulated from its madness. I would read an Agatha Christie novel in one sitting – go for long walks down the Tamar to Calstock; come back for Cake and Tea with Donning; go upstairs for dinner with her brother Dick, beautifully cooked by her sister-in-law, Phoebe – who did so much to look after, and care for her in her later years.

They were keenly aware of all that went on in the world and, in response, they lived peaceful, very sustainable lifestyles. I have tried to work in the field of peace all my life – but I never got close to the Peace that Donning, Dick and Phoebe created at Rumleigh. That peace Donning created was as rich as her fruit-cake, as loving as the hug she gave her brother at the end of the war, and as caring and humbling as the way she looked after her parents through their declining years.

She did write well – and Rosanna remembers her delight at selling one of her articles to Readers Digest. We have her history of Rumleigh and other snippets of her writing, many of which inspired me as a writer. For in her writing, she speaks simple truth and wisdom, just as her brother did in his Sage who Knows Nothing essays.

Blessed be Donetta – as she blessed us with her friendship and her love.

And her fruitcakes.