Tag Archives: Devon

A Tavistock Trip

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Having ascertained that there is a regular bus service from the road near our site at Lydford, we opt to go and visit Tavistock, a Dartmoor town with some quaint features. The heatwave has continued apace and, having reached the bus stop [an achievement in itself] I’m glad to see there’s a shelter. Inside the stone shelter there are two windows, which is fancy, but no proper seating- only one of those perching planks. This strikes me as odd.

Although the shelter is on a steep bank, when the bus turns up [on time!], the lowered entrance is in the exact position level with it, which is impressive. I/m starting to notice these things.

The bus winds through the villages and up over some of the moor before getting to Tavistock. We get off at what looks like the centre, opposite the church. Here, most of the buildings are grey stone, including a huge, posh hotel. Across the road there’s a market entrance, flanked by a beautiful plant stall, which I peruse while Husband queues up for an ice cream.

The market is impressive, some outside and a lot inside a vast, stone market hall. I’m taken with the hat stall [I love a hat] and Husband [in the manner of husbands] is drawn to the tools, where he buys some screws for a van job. We wander a bit more until the hip protests, then Husband leaves me on a bench to explore a bit more until the bus comes, although there’s not a huge lot more to Tavistock.

The cab to the pub is booked. At the appointed time, we go to the site gate and it’s there- with a lady driver who turns out to be very lovely. When we chat about my dodgy hip she confesses to have had a replacement hip joint and assures me that ‘I would never regret it’ even though I haven’t actually been offered a new hip.

The pub, [The Dartmoor Inn] is lovely and rustic and has a great menu. We’ve allowed two hours and, sure enough, our lady driver is there to collect us. It’s a family firm, with her husband and son also taxi drivers.

On day two we’re going to Lydford Gorge, which is just up the road but we’ll still need the bus, which can drop us at one of the two entrances; one for the waterfall and one for the ‘Devil’s Cauldron’. We’re heading first to the waterfall and I’ll need to ascertain how difficult the walk down is. Having chatted to the National Trust lady I determine that I can get down and up, although Husband remains sceptical.

There’s a small cafe at the entrance, where we’d expected to get lunch. The only offerins, however are sandwiches or a pasty. We get pasties and sit outside on a rickety bench [it’s still very hot] where I share my pasty with a scruffy robin.

We set off down the slope. And inevitably, we get so far and it begins to be clear it will be too challenging for dodgy hips. Goodness! This is the easier of the two walks! We sit and have a conflab, with Husband urging me to abort and finally convincing me. I pass him my camera and prepare to go back up, which is a little easier than the descent. It’s bitterly disappointing…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Fingers Crossed for a Van Jaunt

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We return home from Crete. The weather at home cranks up into heatwave mode. We get busy unpacking plus preparing for my visiting Offspring 2 and Grand-offspring 3, coming for a weekend. During this time, the jab I’ve had administered as a temporary measure to get me mobile, wears off- sadly, having been successful for all of one month. Nevertheless I decide to cope and hobble about the best I can- which I do. And it’s delightful to able to introduce my newest grandchild to the joys of the seaside and the discoveries of the garden because she’s only visited in the winter months before.

Once they’ve returned, we turn our thoughts towards another trip. I’ve resolved to make the best of my lack of mobility. We need to make a ‘tryout’ trip, following the depressing debacle of our last year’s French jaunt: [https://gracelessageing.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=8132&action=edit]. We’ve done what we could to ensure there will be no problems this time, by getting the garage to give the van a health check. But you never know!

For the tryout, we’re sticking to the UK and we fancy a visit to Cornwall, where we haven’t been for a long time. The heatwave has continued. We prep the van with our lightest bedding and stock the fridge with salad items, although we’ll eat out when opportunities crop up of course!

Cornwall is the most south westerly corner of the UK and should, by rights, have a mild and pleasant climate, although these days we can no longer expect weather to be predictable. We’re not travelling to Cornwall in one journey but will break it up by stopping over in Devon, which is between our county, Dorset and our destination. We’ll spend a couple of nights at Lydford, where there is a wonderful gorge, tended by the National Trust.

It’s a long, hot journey and in a reminder that our van is wearing out along with myself, the air-con has given up the ghost. This is not life threatening, however, as we can cope with the windows down and slugs of water along the way.

The site at Lydford is good, although sites in general have become much more expensive now. It’s still hot when we arrive and we’re led to a pitch quite a way from the showers etc but we do have a patch of much needed shade. There are only a few others- a Dutch motorhome with multiple dogs, a German motorhome and a couple of others. We’re on Dartmoor, an iconic part of Devon, and will be able to get a bus from the end of the road.

Once we’re installed, Husband goes for a reccy, to see how far the village is and where there might be a likely pub, which is not all that much of a chore for him because pubs are some of his favourite places! The good news is that there are two. The bad news is that I’m unlikely to get to either of them. Husband looks smug. He spotted a taxi service in the village. One of the pubs looks nicer than the other and is a little further away so a taxi is the answer. Sorted!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

An Otter but no Beavers

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Having setttled in at the oddly named ‘Pooh Cottage’ site, we opt for a wander into Budleigh Salterton, along the lanes into the back of this tiny Devon town, then down to the front. Whlle Budleigh Salterton is a typical, British, seaside town it is pleasingly undeveloped, boasting no high rise hotels, lurid arcades or Bingo parlours. The beach is pebbly and fringed with a few beach huts, plenty of fishermen’s paraphernalia and a promenade. A cursory stroll on the prom reveals a little gem- a small, rustic seafood restaurant with all kinds of delicious-looking items. Rockfish Cafe. Over a coffee we peruse the menu and resolve to return in a day or two.

On our way back to site we stop in Knowle village and get a beer at the lone pub, The Dog and Donkey, which also offers a tolerable menu, meaning there won’t be a whole load of cooking going on before we get home!

The weather is still good and we’re up for a good walk next day, striking out and up a long hill by the golf course. Once we’ve gained the top there are great views down to Budleigh beach one side and Exmouth the other, then a narrow, downhill track leads to the town. The streets behind the beach offer a few interesting, independent shops as well as a Co-op and the usual crop of charity shops. One tiny shop has attracted a sizeable queue for ice cream so it seems churlish not to join it. The quirky store’s walls are lined with jars of interesting herbs, nuts, spices and pulses as well as old favourites such as peanut brittle, so there’s plenty to look at while we wait.

Later we’re back for the seafood at Rockfish Cafe and it’s a chance to have lobster- something which doesn’t present itself too often. It’s delicious- served with very little besides mayonnaise, crusty bread and some lettuce. Perfect!

On our last day we opt to start off at the estuary of the River Otter and follow the river upstream- a scenic route beside water meadows. Of course, seabirds are everywhere here, searching the mud for tasty treats. There are beavers here in the river, though we’re unlikely to spot any unless we’re up at dawn- which is never going to happen for us!

The footpath comes to a halt at a bridge and a water mill where there is a cafe, gift shop and farm shop selling all kinds of items. It’s pleasant, tables placed outside by the millstream. It’s also very busy, thronged with tourists. After restorative coffee and cake we retrace our steps back along the river to the estuary and back to Pooh Cottage.

Later, at the Dog and Donkey, we eat a mediocre meal and sit back as an ’80s Night’ begins to get underway in the huge room at the rear of the pub. A trickle of people files past us, attired in appropriate 80s garb, which is enough entertainment as we finish beers and creak our way up the hill to the site and our van. Farewell Devon for now…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Not Winnie…

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For our third day at Bagwell Farm we’re off on another walk- in the other direction this time but again, from the site, starting off up a hill and eventually coming across Fleet and old Fleet church, tiny and charming with its own miniature churchyard. You can go inside, too, which I do and there are just a few pews, an altar and everything a church needs. A left behind cardigan slung over the back of a pew signals that the church is used. We have a sit on a stone bench outside. There are glimpses of the water through the trees.

Then we’re following the lagoon behind Chesil Beach again, coming round the coast path to an enormous, white hotel, Moonfleet Manor, sitting in an imposing position overlooking the sea. It’s a warm day and we’ve been walking so when we spot an ice-cream sign it feels rude not to investigate. But we have to work for it! The obvious entry point to the hotel is embellished with ‘no entry to hotel’. We backtrack. We must enter through the garden, which is behind a wall. It’s very lovely, with raised beds full of all kinds of interesting plants, but there’s no sign of an ice-cream. [It occurs to me that recent posts must convey the impression that I am on a constant search for ice-cream, although on this occasion it’s Husband’s idea…].

Getting through the garden is not the last part of the quest- we need to circlumnavigate the entire hotel building until we find the cafe at the top of a great lawn and there, finally, is the ice cream machine. We get our reward, a brief interlude before the hike back to site. It’s the last day before we move so we give The Red Barn- the site’s own pub/cafe, a try. The food on offer is mostly pub grub, ie burgers, battered fish, lasagne- all with chips, but it’s good enough for a cook-free evening after a long walk.

Next we’re off into Devon, our next-door county and to a site called Pooh Cottage in the village of Knowle, near Budleigh Salterton. On arrival to the site, off Bear Lane, we trundle up a slope and are met by loops of caravans and motorhomes immaculately parked on hard standing pitches round manicured ovals of lawn. Reception is in a kind of log cabin. it’s quiet- eerily so.

We’re led off to our pitch by the owner- who I’m tempted to call Mr Pooh but I manage to suppress the urge, although we’re allotted a pitch in a field at the back where there’s just one other unit. It feels a little second class here in a featureless field with tall hedges but no matter. The village of Knowle is down the lane, across a busy road and down again. There isn’t much to Knowle but it does have a pub, at least! And it is walking distance to Budleigh Salterton, where we’ve been before but will revisit.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Our Close County Neighbours

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Last week I described some of the features of Dorset’s iconic landscapes and seascapes and it’s easy to see why visitors to our lovely county flock here, not only in the summer but throughout the year.

Our neighbouring county to the west, Devon is also a popular tourist destination and we’d booked a few nights just over our county border, in tiny Axmouth, where we’ve stayed before. The site is in the heart of the village, facing the River Axe as it becomes an estuary flowing out to sea at the small town of Seaton. It’s easy to walk into Seaton from the campsite, by walking along the river and across a bridge. A new, road bridge has replaced a much older one, notable for being the first one constructed of concrete!

The site is much busier than it was the first time we came. It is in a wonderful position- not only having interesting views but also near to the two village pubs and bus stops. Across the other side of the River Axe we can see the cute, Seaton trams trundling backwards and forwards around the ‘Axmouth Loop’. I’m a sucker for a tram at any time, but these are restored, vintage vehicles, dinky, colourful and fun.

We head into Seaton and to the tram station. It’s a large, imposing building for such a small tram network! But of course it houses the ticket office, gift shop and is a station. A tram is about to leave, luckily an ‘open-top’, which gives a good view of the estuary mud flats and Seaton marshes. So we clamber up the narrow, winding steps and bag seats on top; soon we’re off, rumbling along a track that winds out of Seaton, past the old tram shed and along the river, where the tide is out and there are flocks of waders congregated on the muddy shores.

An occasional tram passes on the other side, sometimes waiting on a siding. There is one station along the way, in a wooded section, then we roll along to Colyton, where the track ends. The station here capitalises with [another] gift shop and a cafe. After a short turn around the gift shop there’s little to do except wait for the return tram to Seaton, which we do, rattling back the way we came.

We’ve booked to have dinner at the pub which adjoins our site, which is a result! Next day we take advantage of the bus service and go off to Lyme Regis, famous for ‘The Cobb’ and featured in John Fauld’s well known novel, The French Lieutenant’s Woman [also a film]. The Cobb is merely a part of the sea wall surrounding the harbour, but from the end there is a fine view of Lyme Bay. It’s a quaint, characterful town and although it’s crammed with visitors on this sunny afternoon I get a pang of nostalgia as it’s here we stayed 25 years or so ago when Husband and I first got together, taking a room and ‘The Red Lion’ in the High Street and striding out for one of our first SW Coast Path walks.

It’s heartening to see that The Red Lion still exists! For some reason our room’s en suite bathroom had a mysterious, bogus door. Stepping out of the bath, I wrapped a towel around myself and, curious to see where the door led, I opened it, just as people were walking along the corridor it accessed. I wonder who was more surprised?

Later, after dinner I remember we gatecrashed a disco being held by a group called The Buffaloes’, distinguished by hefty chains around their necks, but not by their dancing, as we were the only revellers gyrating on the dance floor. Some of them must have been passing our bathroom when, towel-clad, I opened the door. If they recognised me with my clothes on they gave no sign…

But we aren’t staying in the hotel this time, so it’s back to the bus stop and home to our lovely van-

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

A Fine Week for Devon

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We reserved a table outside at The Ship Inn at Cockswood for 6.00pm, hoping that the sun would last long enough for us to be comfortable. In the event, although we’d selected a table that would catch the last rays, the wrought iron chairs, surrounding trees and an invading cloud thwarted any hopes of warmth. It was a good meal, but I envied those who’d had the forethought to bring cosy blankets to wrap up in. A chilly edge to the wind persisted.

Half way through our week exploring the Ex estuary we moved to the other side of the river, to a site called Prattshayes, joining a handful of vans and caravans in a field next to a small stream, presumably once a farm but now a holiday complex consisting of camp site and rental cottages. Less than half a mile up the lane lies the village of Littleham, a large community with two pubs. We wandered up in evening sunshine and had a beer in the garden of The Clinton Arms, although the menu wasn’t tempting.

Cycle fanatic van neighbours, older but clearly more sprightly, recommended a route along an old railway track to Budleigh Salterton, which we decided to tackle next day.

The first climb came up through Littleham village, then after some confusion about where the cycle path began we rode up…and up…

The path curved up through woods, occasional gaps giving glimpses of wonderful views over the Devon countryside and farmland. While it was never steep the gradient was relentless. I vowed not to get off and push as I had on the way to Dawlish and was relieved to make it to the top without walking and even with one or two gears left! Then it was the blessed downhill slope and a hopeless muddle of attempts to find the cycle path in the back streets of Budleigh.

At last we plunged down into the tiny town and to the pebbly beach, where a kiosk was doing brisk business in ice creams and coffees. Feeling that an ice cream might be deserved by now we indulged, then walked the bikes along the prom until we were back in town.

We followed up for our final day with a walk up and along the coast path via ‘Sandy Bay’ holiday park, memorable in that in must surely be the most vast array of chalets the world has to offer, [unless you, reader, know better?]. Once we’d crossed it, though, the coastal views were wonderful and we could loop back along the lanes and a footpath to our site without retracing our steps.

That was it for south Devon- until the next time- and somewhere I’ve never been…

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

A Tiny Taste of Freedom

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We are in Devon, south west England, just for a week. I’ve paused my antipodean travelogue for this diversion, mostly because any kind of change of scene is a novelty in these restricted times.

The 20/21 winter was long, difficult and gloomy, with its deluge of grim news and statistics pouring out day after day. It prompted a longing for at least some spring weather and lighter evenings. Nobody wants to wish their life away, least of all those of us with fewer years ahead, nevertheless I longed for spring. Now here it is; and with it a small loosening of the bonds that tied us.

We are re-aquainting ourselves with our campervan, which we have used for odd days out but not for an overnight stay since last summer. The weather is fine, with a cold-edged wind as we prepare and pack and I know for sure I’ll have forgotten items or will have packed entirely unsuitable clothing.

We sweep down and across our home county of Dorset following a route we’ve travelled many times but that always provides magnificent views of the Jurassic Coast and charming villages along the way.

We’ve had to begin reserving, planning and booking- a strategy we’re unused to employing as we usually travel on a ‘where shall we go today?’ basis, once, famously turning right at Bordeaux instead of left for the Med due to a forecast of snow, and landing up in the beautiful sunshine of Portugal instead.

Our first destination is in the village of Starcross, between Exeter and Dawlish, a farm site in a valley with a stream and a pond, beautifully laid out. We have a pitch overlooking the hens’ enclosure. It is warm enough to have coffee or lunch outside and I become fascinated by hen society; the way they move en masse from one area to another or individuals make sudden bursts of running for no apparent reason. When I approach the fence they all gravitate to me, presumably in hopes of food although I prefer to imagine it’s in greeting.

Having set up, we walk into Cockswood, a few minutes away, to sit in the outside area of The Ship pub for a drink and to reserve a table to have dinner next evening. There is just enough warmth in the sun for it to be comfortable.

We swing easily into van routine, sleeping well and waking to tea before morning chores; emptying and water-filling. There’s plenty of time to read, write or potter [Husband’s preferred activity] then after lunch we set off for our first, amoebic cycle of the year, towards Dawlish. I’ve got over my first cycle wobbles by the time we reach Dawlish Warren, a funfair and tourist spot which is seething with revellers, although my thighs are aching, but when we turn up towards Dawlish itself the hill proves too much and I have to alight and push. I’m alarmed! Is this the end for me and cycling?

Next day we stride out along the footpath towards Exeter, past Powderham Castle and the church then along the river bank towards the canal. we stop for a rest at the loch, where the pub is doing great business, most tables being occupied. We turn back and sink onto a bench, footweary by the coffee kiosk in Starcross for reviving tea and cake.

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook

Autumn Getaway

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I’ve returned from time-travelling travel to present day travel for this week’s post.

It occurs to me that we, [that is to say, Husband and myself] have not got the hang of this Covid thing at all. Yes-we are practised in the art of mask-wearing. Yes-we wash our hands lots. Yes-we keep our distance [not from each other, you understand]. Yes-we don’t throw big parties. But we haven’t got to grips with planning ahead, reserving, booking and being organised.

We have come west to Cornwall, via Dartmoor in Devon, where we stayed at a pub campsite and took advantage of the hearty meals on offer. Our departure was delayed due to Biblical quantities of rain which penetrated our house roof [again]. But that is another story. The rain has turned from relentless deluge into squally, intermittent showers punctuated with gusts of wind, a marginal improvement, although I wouldn’t volunteer to swap places with the occupants of the two tents on the site.

We head off in the morning, making for St Just, beyond Penzance, which is towards Cornwall’s ‘toe’ and on the Atlantic coast. But we aren’t in a hurry and having picked up home-made pasties in a farm shop we attempt to park in Launceston without success then find a picnic area where we can stop, make coffee [a distinct improvement on the kiosk Nescafe from yesterday] and continue on our way. After a blustery drive we stop for a break and spot a castle perched on a hill, poking up behind a field. It is, of course, St Michael’s Mount, twin of French Normandy’s Mont St Michel.

It’s years since I visited St Michael’s Mount. We decide to take a detour. When we reach Marazion, the tiny town that faces the mount, the car parks are choc-a-bloc and having been denied access to the National Trust park we have no choice but to pay a steep £8 to park in the ‘alternative’ one.

Then we battle our way across the cobbled causeway towards the Mount, sandblasted and peppered with rain, but when we get to the threshold there are NT staff in masks checking tickets and there is nothing for it but to turn back. We fight our way back across the causeway, mercifully still not breached by the waves and have a stroll up through Marazion, which, though pretty enough is upstaged by St Michael’s Mount sprouting from the broad beach in a dramatic fashion.

We return to the car park where we feel smug making a cup of tea to utilise our £8 fee.

We head off to our pre-booked site at Batallack, near St Just and a few strides from the coast path. The owner is amenable, the site pleasant, with a smattering of occupants.

Next day is cloudy but dry as we set off to walk along the coast path towards Pendeen, where we can get a bus back to the site. As soon as we reach the path the scenery is rugged, rocky cliffs falling steeply down the sea and peppered with the remains of chimneys and wheelhouses from all the old tin mines, all of which have been at least partially restored. The path dips and rises, providing some stiff climbs and descents. In one cove the rocky cliffs are striped with green where arsenic has leeched from the old mines.

After a couple of hours a dank October drizzle sets in, soaking us as we climb steeply up towards the road to Pendeen. We reach the village, legs aching, and scan the main road for a bus stop. The map app on Husband’s phone has disappeared so having spotted a car park sign I make the assumption this is the village centre and we make for it, nipping into the village pub to confirm we’re en route. Sure enough there is not only a bus stop but a shelter! and a few minutes later the double decker ‘coastal breezer’ comes around the corner to take us back to our site. Bliss!