THEY can't decide whether they love or loathe us. To many Devonians, we teeming millions living on that giant anthill at the top of the M5 are nothing more than an unfortunate necessity.

Yes, we may be grockles' but the natives know full well that this is a symbiotic relationship. The huddled masses require the rest and relaxation and our hosts need the money. Think remora fish and sharks or rays - if in doubt, look this up on a website and you will soon get my drift.

By late summer though, the relationship is becoming a trifle strained. Over the border into Cornwall, it is indeed a rash person who asks for a knife and fork to eat his pasty.

"Don't let a Cornishman see you do that," is the tense comment as I am handed the necessary eating utensils. The barman's not being offensive, just letting me know that I'm a foreigner who doesn't understand local customs.

However, some grockles never return back up the M5. There are a few old migratory birds who decide not to fly back whence they came and they remain to beat the locals at their own game. These days, you are just as likely to hear a Yorkshire accent as local burr when you are greeted on the steps of the guesthouse. And as in many other parts of rural Britain, the thatched cottage is no longer the farm labourer's humble home, rather the domain of a pony-tailed faded pop star living a pastoral idyll that never existed in the first place.

Some locals end up marrying visitors - the guest house in which we are staying is on a farm. The farmer's wife is Dutch and one gains the distinct impression that this was one holiday romance that never came to an end.

Elsewhere, ex-pat Brummies abound. Some are retired, turning their lives into one endless holiday in the land of their dreams. Others have opened shops, selling everything from boiled sweets and newspapers to fruit and veg. In another 20 years, thanks to inter-marriage, the process will be complete and, as in the rest of Britain, strangers will have become locals and blended in with the scenery.