Trew's Weir

Trew's Weir

The first thing is to get the name right. John Trew was the Welsh engineer engaged to build the first short, shallow section of the Exeter Ship Canal, so the weir on the River Exe which bears his name merits an apostrophe. But these days pedants are held in as much contempt as experts.

The smooth muscle of water wrapped around the bone of the weir is scrambled into an eggy foam as it cascades into the channel beyond. Two days after a downpour, when rainfall harvested in Exmoor has traversed all of Devon, the river rises, disturbed sediment turns the water an opaque brown and the weir becomes invisible under a furious cloud of spray. It takes only a few weeks of dry weather for the weir to be transformed into a mere rocky outcrop abandoned of purpose. Moss is exposed on the desiccating surface and small boys tightrope the weir’s lip, arms flailing for balance. Downstream, scrappy islets emerge like memories of lost civilisations and are commandeered by nesting swans oblivious to the peril of flash floods. These seasonal fluctuations in flow would make a hydropower installation at Trew’s Weir, even were it permitted, a risky enterprise.  

A narrow footpath enclosed by railings on both sides passes the weir. On the nearside, they serve to prevent people falling into the lagoon. Chains looped through metal hooks just above the water level would be the only means of escape. The railing on the far side prevents trespassing on to a triangular promontory no larger than a Basingstoke back garden, which abuts the eastern end of the weir. A sign asserts that it is reserved for private fishing, although I have never seen anyone using it to catch their dinner. A local man believes he bought it from the Council when he acquired several unconnected riverside parcels with a set of allotments, but he confessed that he has never trawled the historical trail to establish ownership and no one is of a mind to challenge the matter. (Astonishingly, more than 10% of land in England and Wales is still not registered because there hasn’t been a transaction on that property since registration became compulsory in the 1980s.) The putative owner has given a nearby resident permission to maintain the land. Periodically, dressed in heavy duty wellies, vivid orange overalls and a welding visor, he unlocks the gate and strims the tussocky undergrowth. He has improved my view, so I should not deprecate his efforts.

© David Thompson 2020