D O ANY of us, I wonder, take a step back sometimes and consider how lucky we are to live in North Devon. OK it's not exactly the hub of the universe but to my mind there are plenty of worse places to be situated.

Cumbria for example, all jagged peaks rising up forever and perpetually shrouded in mist. Or East Anglia, flat as a dab and equally divided between watery Fens and sugar beet fields. They must take a lot of the sweet stuff in their tea over there because practically the only employment that seems to exist is either growing it or refining it.

Yes, we have our fair share of unemployment and the wages are not exactly earth-shattering but at least we live in a beautifully diverse part of the world.

We have windswept moorland, arable pastures and more farmsteads then you could shake a stick at. We have rivers in abundance leading eventually down to the sea via glorious sandy beaches. We have ancient castles in all directions whilst even-more-ancient churches dot the landscape, almost as numerous as the pylons that march across the scenery looking like the tripods from H G Wells' classic tale. Not that they are too pretty mind and they make me wonder what all the fuss is about concerning wind turbines, which look so much more graceful.

Admittedly we have a six-lane motorway that rips through the county like a badly healed scar but we also have hundreds of miles of minor roads with hedgerows beside them that are a haven for a whole abundance of wildlife. Some of these little roads, wending through lush countryside or shadowed by the bowers of overhanging trees can take you to places even time seems to have forgotten. The smallest church in Britain for example, or the place where Lorna Doone met her tragic and untimely death.

And there, snuggled up against Hillsborough, brooding over her like a sleeping elephant, and on the very edge of this pastoral wonderland sits Ilfracombe, our town.

No motorways carve through our little piece of Devon, bringing the endless rumble of tyre noise on the road. Just winding lanes with tall hedgerows over which you can sometimes glimpse the sparkling sea as its waves glisten in the afternoon sun. Lanes that lead ever downwards as you are transported from the high ground above where buzzards fly to the surf-tossed and rocky nook where we have all made our home.

A place where the endless procrastinations of planners and developers have somewhat worn us down and sullied our view of where we live, where recently past history of drug dealers and associated crime has tarnished our reputation with others.

But this is not the true Ilfracombe, a harbour town that has for centuries been a thriving centre of maritime commerce and ship building. A place thronged with rumbustious seafarers, merchants of every description and a constant trade with South Wales dealing in all sorts of commodities.

Our churches are well established and, as it happens, well attended. Our social life could not possibly want for more with an excellent theatre, a multi-screen cinema, more pubs than can be counted and yet more excellent eateries catering for even the most jaded of palates. We also have a rugby club, a football club, a literary club for those inclined to less physical pursuits and a first-class swimming pool.

Whatever the prospects we envisage it might be worth taking that step back to consider what we already have before we bemoan our lot concerning what we might encompass in the future.

WELL, the weather was pretty dreadful but in all fairness we're used to that when it comes to Carnival Night. Although I do remember, a couple of years back, when we had a lovely evening for the event. LLW and I had a ringside seat at No6 St James, munching on supper and working our way through a nice bottle of wine as the procession past by us.

Not so lucky this year. I'm afraid the weather was a little bleak to say the least but it didn't seem to dampen anyone's spirit one iota. To be honest it's the kids I feel sorry for when it rains on their parade. They put a lot of hard work and effort into this annual extravaganza and it's such a shame to see little fairy wings drooping in the rain and the make-up starting to run.

Mind you by the time they get to the finish it is not just the wings that are drooping but the little ones themselves. It's a long day and an even longer walk, from the Rugby Club to the harbour, when you are only five or six-years-old.

Crikey, we even had a cycle race this year to kick the whole shebang off, which certainly brought every one to the edge of the pavements. A fitting start to the night's entertainment, let's hope it remains on the agenda for the years to come.

Uncle Tom Cobley was there, of course, and I do believe the giant horse has become something of an institution on its way to Widecombe Fair judging by the ovation he and all his friends, too numerous to mention, received.

Personally I put my money on Mark Booker's Ghost Ship to come first in his class after that appearance by the Dawn Treader recently, but a third place is more the creditable and I must admit the Knights And Damsels were rather spectacular. I just hope they didn't go rusty in the wet weather.

All in all a ripping night and what's a little bit of rain among friends when you are all enjoying yourselves.