At 10am we will look at the grave of Captain Michael Farr in the graveyard and hear more about this remarkable survivor of Colditz from his neice. We will then walk around some of the interesting WW2 sites of interest on Harford Moor, returning to the church to eat our packed lunches. Tea and coffee will be provided.
Here is a poem about Michael Farr, written by a visitor to the St Petroc’s graveyard:
Harford, a tiny settlement on the edges of that last great wilderness – Dartmoor, holds the last resting
place of a remarkable man…
CAPTAIN MICHAEL FARR, M.B.E.
Where the wind runs up to Hangershell past hawthorn and stone wall;
Where old hamlets hear on Sundays the bells of Harford call,
Where softened turf on granite beds feels the footprints of the years,
Where paths lead out to wilderness and a man might face his fears,
Where the cockerel sears the rain soaked air, where streams burst down a lane,
Where crows might whirl in monstrous skies and sing their mocking strain,
A lych-gate stands as sentinel. The hinges quietly creak,
The gravel rolls beneath each step and there the peace might speak
As the listener and the watcher note the message on the grave –
Where a prisoner finds his last escape in a Kingdom for the brave.
Captain Michael Farr his name, born on a distant shore
When blood and mud and broken souls filled a wretched war;
A soldier’s blood coursed in his veins, the infantry his fate…
Captured in the fields of France, he stood up true and straight
Against a hardened, darkened foe who sought to break his soul
From Laufen through to Eichstatt, he knew the hero’s role.
In ’43 another move, dressed with a dreaded name:
Oflag IV C in Germany gained its lasting fame…
The Bad Boys Camp its epithet, for Colditz held the men
Who, duty-bound, felt England’s heart turn and call again.
The loneliness Farr countered with his Glenbucket still
Made with gathered rations, a brew to ease the ill
Of missing all compassion and love and family ways…
To bring a truly heady light to many darkened days.
Two years inside the mighty walls, yet his spirit ever there
In all his words to Whingreen,where they said a Devon prayer.
A medal and an MBE for the bitterness he’d known
Where a man might feel his countryside in a weeping stone-clad home.
And after ceremonies and work and the perils of life’s race…
The bitter-sweet of Dartmoor and a sighing, resting-place.
The sighs of winds and bird-song and petals in the breeze,
The sighs of dying chimes, the sighs of souls at ease.
Remember, then the likes of him – their defiance and their hopes;
Remember Captain Michael Farr on his precious Harford slopes.
Sleep we shall and dream we must and like such men the prize
Of peace for those we leave behind under cherished Devon skies.
Harford Moor 