Tag Archives: Devon

Our Devon world looked a little brighter this morning in that the rain had ceased and, surprise of surprises, even the sun put in the occasional appearance under the still threatening clouds. Having studied yesterday’s weather forecast for today, however, I wasn’t particularly hopeful that the improvement would be very long lived. Nonetheless, after a leisurely breakfast consisting mainly of coffee, Carol and I set off to investigate Plymouth leaving Rosemary and Steve to be visited by friends.

Just as “one swallow does not a summer make”, neither “does one brief glimpse of sun a dry day make”. ‘T was obvious from the colour of the sky ahead of us that we were heading in an ill-chosen direction and, sure enough, exactly as we drove across a line marking the beginning of the Dartmoor Park, the rain once again began falling. How appropriate! By the time we found the Plymouth Park & Ride scheme, it was falling quite hard.

Riding on a bus for the first time in more years than I can count was quite enjoyable. The scheme was excellent and we were soon alighting near The Hoe. As luck would have it we’d hit a rain intermission, too, so we stowed the umbrellas and struck out for Carol’s main objective. The naval memorial at The Hoe bears the name of her great uncle who was killed on HMS Defence in the Battle of Jutland on 1st June, 1916. No sooner had Carol located her great uncle’s name on the memorial than the rain started up again so she grabbed a photo or two, we redeployed our briefly stowed umbrellas and headed back towards the covered Pannier Market looking for a roof and supplies for the evening.

As befits a coastal town, Plymouth’s Pannier Market sported a couple of excellent looking fish counters where we couldn’t resist a couple of gurnard for our last night’s dinner in Devon. If we don’t have any sunshine, at least we could prepare sunshine food so we grabbed the ingredients for a reliable ratatouille to go with them.

Not being a day for sauntering and taking in the sights, we didn’t get to see very much of Plymouth but, on our limited experience, neither of us was particularly impressed. I’m no historian but, given that Plymouth is a naval dockyard, I imagine it suffered considerably during WWII. For whatever reason its current architectural style, or lack of it, seems to share much in common with Aylesbury (where I spent considerable years working) in being largely very unattractive 1960s concrete. Now that we know how to deal with the Park & Ride scheme, we’ll have to return for a better look, including the waterfront, during more conducive weather.

Here we are back at Wortham Manor for our final evening and it is still raining. The near constant rain during our visit has transcended the merely boring and has reached the heights of thoroughly frustrating. It’s been raining for 5½ days out of 7 and not just showers, consistent day-long rain.

We will have spent an enjoyable week in truly memorable surroundings with excellent company but it will have been in weather which has been as bad as any I can remember.

Tessa & Robin, Selina and partner all left yesterday followed by Mike and LInda this morning. Having got as far as Swindon, Mike and Linda reported reasonable conditions so it seems as though Devon and Cornwall may have been singled out for special meteorological attention. There can’t be much water left in the Atlantic ‘cos most of it has been dumped around us over the last few days. A hardcore of four of us remain.

I know that the Chinese have the Year of the Cat (cue Al Stewart), the Year of the Tiger and the years of various other interesting creatures but I don’t believe that they have the Year of the Jigsaw. They should have – and this should be it. Recently we spent an enjoyable though rather wetter than anticipated two weeks in Spain during the first week of which Carol spent much time solving jigsaw puzzles in the company of our hosts while outside the rain fell. Now, here we are in Devon celebrating Rosemary’s 60th and the vindictive god of meteorology is chucking rain at us again. It rained throughout last night and is still raining today We have now had rain four and a half days out of the six that we have thus far been here. Once again a jigsaw puzzle is maintaining the sanity of three of the remaining four weather prisoners.

Since there is little else happening today, here’s a few further pictures of our accommodation:

On the brighter side, this tiresome weather does enable one to catch up on one’s blogging.

After a disturbed, restless night for Mike fretting about potentially collapsing house sales, we awoke to yet more of the depressing wet stuff. With the almost constant farm traffic up and down the track between Wortham Manor and the tarmacked road, conditions outside have deteriorated to a scene that would have been at home at the Battle of the Somme. Though regular cars do not actually seem to be losing traction, 4x4s are more comforting. Tractors and caterpillar-track-laying vehicles would be more comforting still. The grass strip outside the building, with only foot traffic, is also becoming waterlogged and treacherous. Our considered opinion is that, with a house that rents for £3500 per week in winter and about £5000 per week in summer, the Landmark Trust really should do something to sort out the access and parking.

Largely to divert Mike from his mental turmoil, despite the rain we took a trip to Bude on the north Cornwall coast. When we arrived and parked, Mike delivered the news that their contracts had been exchanged and all was well, their house sale would complete in just over a week. Bude wasn’t particularly appealing but, with a collective sigh of relief, we didn’t much care now. We began tacking our way back down the coast road towards Crackington Haven.

Carol knows no bounds with an Ordnance Survey map in her hand and we soon ended up on a dramatic, largely single-track roller coaster of a road with hairpin bends mixed in with comforting signs announcing descents and ascents having a gradient of 30% (1-in-3). Yikes! Both cars being equipped with Honda 2.2CTDi engines, we bravely carried on regardless and negotiated the worst that Cornwall could throw at us. It was certainly the most challenging road that I’ve personally seen in Cornwall. Having made it to the top of the most “interesting” section, we spotted a couple of intriguing signs.

We spotted the first sign on a lonesome house atop a hill. Though seemingly standing all alone, the house proudly displayed a “Neighbourhood Watch” sign. Curious.

The second sign occurred at intervals beside our difficult-enough–to-drive-along road. Despite having 1-in-3 gradients, this road was apparently designated as being part of the Sustrans National Cycle Network route 3. Strewth! I know I am not the fittest person in the world but on a bicycle I can just about manage a 1-in-7 hill, which should preferably be one that is a short, sharp shock; if it drags on too long, I’m going to have trouble. I have yet to meet anyone capable of cycling up a 1-in-3 hill, certainly not up a long and persistent 1-in-3 hill. It’s hard enough to push a bicycle up a 1-in-3 gradient. Armed with a bike, I’ve been down Chimney Bank, a 1-in-3 hill in Yorkshire, which greets cyclists with an instruction to dismount in order to descend in safety. Most bicycle brakes won’t hold you back on a 1-in-3 descent. Whilst I applaud the concept of the National Cycle Network as being a wonderful idea, I would have thought that its planners might have paid a little attention to the physical suitability of the routes chosen. Good grief, they have to be joking!

Crackington Haven turned out to very pleasant in a dramatic coastal views kind of way and, furthermore, provided an enjoyable pub serving Cornish Rattler cider accompanied by fish and chips for lunch.

The rain continued unabated all day long.

It was back – we woke to rain which continued all morning. The farmer adjacent to Wortham Manor had invited us to go and see his new calves so this decidedly damp morning seemed like a good time to do so. At least, it seemed to some, those with a less strong aversion to rain, to be a good time to do so. With this latest rain following close on the heals of our previous 36 hours-worth of rain, the track down to the Wortham Manor has become a muddy mess so walking boots were necessary. Despite having a strongly developed attraction to animals of all sorts (dogs excepted), I also have a particularly well-developed aversion to rain and mud so I soon tired of standing out in both muttering, “ah, sweet” at admittedly painfully cute calves.

The weather brightened by 2:00PM so everyone was eager to escape their weather-enforced prison. While Steve took Rosemary & Linda to visit a “riveting” so-called chair museum [Ed: well, someone must find chairs fascinating], Carol and I decided upon a visit to the Tamar Otter Sanctuary just a few miles away along some typically narrow Devon lanes. Mike elected to come with us. Despite there being three cars in the car park, there was a disappointing sign declaring that the otter sanctuary was “closed until April 1st”. Drat!

Somewhat dampened by the lack of otters as opposed to the presence of rain, we paused on our return journey at an interesting looking bridge over the river Tamar. Beside the river and accessible only from it was a gate into a field. Beside the bridge was a track leading into the river. It seems that, to gain access to the field, it is necessary to ford your way through the river; a curious arrangement requiring decent 4x4s such as Land Rovers, I would think. Whilst studying the traffic flow of the river Tamar, a couple of buzzards treated us to a reasonably close display of their flying skills. Buzzards are doing very well in England and, though relatively commonplace now, are a delight to see.

Mike’s spirits were further dampened by phone call announcing a problem which had developed over their house sale – their house in England, that is. They have been trying to sell it for a year in order to live full-time in France. Today they were supposed to exchange contracts. As a diversion and consolation prize for unavailable otters, we zoomed off to Roadford Lake, a reservoir, where there was a nature reserve at the northern end. We arrived and found a very well positioned observation hide. We amused ourselves for half an hour or so watching an interesting array of water fowl but none of them were venturing close enough for my new-and-eager-to-be-used long lens. As we were leaving Mike, who is quite knowledgeable about fungi even when depressed about house sales, spotted this Scarlet Elf Cup fungus (Sarcoscypha coccinea).

‘T was a pity about the otters. I’m sure the new lens would have liked them.

Now we are 10 following the arrival yesterday of Mike & Linda Eaton (our friends with a pad at Arçais, France), and Selina (Steve and Rosemary’s daughter) plus partner Phil. Birthday girl’s day began rather poorly with the usual tuneless chorus of …

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday dear Rosemary,
Happy birthday to you.

… but rapidly improved with a spot of Buck’s Fizz to accompany a proper English breakfast. Even better, it had stopped raining for the first time since we arrived. In celebration both of Rosemary’s birthday and of the appearance of the sun, a group trip to the attractive north Cornish harbour of Boscastle was planned.

Boscastle was the scene of devastating flooding in 2004. The surrounding precipitous valley funnels three rivers out tio sea through Boscastle’s harbour. Under normal conditions the main river looks small and innocuous. However, following prolonged heavy rain, normality was set aside and a severe flash flood swept through the village and out through the harbour carrying over 100 cars plus a few buildings with it. Carol and I had visited Boscastle shortly before the flood so it would be interesting to see how the restoration work had done.

It had done very well; dear old Boscastle looked very much as I remembered it. Of course, having visited only once for a day, my memory may not be that great but Boscastle was looking good, especially so in Rosemary’s birthday sunshine following a day and a half of rain.

Catering for 10 is an interesting exercise. We’ve been taking it in turns to wear the largest toque [Ed: the tall white hat worn by chef’s, just in case you were wondering]. Today, for Rosemary’s birthday feast, Tessa was in charge and two slow-cooked lamb shoulders were on the celebratory menu. Given our numbers and situation, the baronial dining hall seemed particularly fitting. It’s rather cool, though, compared to the cosy scullery so a few of “the boys” set about lighting a log fire.

Something in the gene pool dictates that it always the males who enjoy playing with fire. This must stem from the days of living in caves as hunter/gatherers, I suspect. The same gene is likely to be responsible for most men suddenly wanting to cook when a barbecue is involved Normally, they turn their back on such domestic tasks and let the lady take over. it’s the fire-thing again, though, and the fire gene seems to trump the domestic gene.

Our number of diners suddenly jumped to 11 with the arrival of a former colleague, Ed, from (some of) our days working at Walker International and the baronial dining hall needed a little adjustment. However, minor adjustment made, with the log fire lit and occasionally bursting into showers of sparks when attended, and with the baronial table formally set in the baronial dining hall, the scene was set for a particularly atmospheric and memorable 60th birthday dinner.

Our newcomer, Ed, saved the day when it came to the cheese course. One just had to admire a man who travels with an emergency supply of oatcakes in his car. Thanks Ed!

Today began as yesterday ended – with hole in my right lower molar and rain. We have an as yet untried travel dental repair kit which might help fix the first issue so I set about trying. Actually, Carol volunteered to attempt the filling but very quickly decided that she couldn’t hold my tongue out of the way whilst trying to cram temporary filling material into the cavernous hole in the rear inside edge of my very rear tooth. Peering into a mirror in this dimly-lit 15th century pile of stone trying to cram emergency filling material into my own tooth remnant, I saw her point. After several minutes of gagging with a mouth full of fingers grasping a wooden stick containing some weird consumer dental material, I managed to get my own emergency repair in place. Elegant it was not but it did seem to be somewhat effective. My tongue breathed a sigh of relief.

Regrettably we could do nothing about the rain. It wasn’t particularly heavy but it did seem to be persistent. Living in one ancient manor, we chose to visit another ancient manor: Cotehele House. I say “we” but really should say “they”, by which I mean the National Trust members of our group. The NT members were in a large majority. I don’t normally “do” large baronial mansions. To be frank, they bore me witless. They are usually full of dark old antiques that I dislike and have walls covered in oil paintings of po-faced, long-dead family members that I didn’t know in the first place but, hey, it was raining so why not?

One advantage of the NT members greatly outnumbering the heathens in our party (me) is that I could get in for free. Excellent! Cotehele House proved to be largely as expected. Actually, this baronial pile was darker than I’ve ever seen before because, instead of the po-faced family members, its walls are nearly all covered in very dark, very old tapestries. It did, however, have an entrance hall crammed with a fascinating collection of ancient and very brutal-looking weaponry. I never cease to be amazed at the inventiveness mankind displays in designing and developing terrible new ways to inflict excruciating fatal tissue damage on his fellow man.

Rather less expected was the trophy mounted on one of the walls of the entrance hall. Was it perhaps a stag? No. Was it perhaps a boar? No. A bear, then, not that bears inhabit this sceptred isle? No, it was the head of an albatross; it looked quite bizarre and, frankly, a little grumpy. Come to think of it, we don’t get many albatrosses in this sceptred isle either. So much for the Ancient Mariner, then.

We had a very pleasant homemade Cornish Pasty for a late-ish lunch overlooking the river Tamar and very nice it was, too … until my temporary filling came out.

So there I was last night, calmly munching the only morsel of cheese in our house, a chunk of Parmesan, after digging the debris of the preceding rib-eye steak out of my teeth, when I sensed something rock=hard and probably indigestible in my mouth. Using my tongue, I separated it from all the softer, more digestible feeling contents of my mouth and removed it allow further investigation. Four or five months ago my lower right molar had been the recipient of £380-worth of ceramic crown, Though called a crown, it was really an insert shaped by computer; a kind of high-tech filling. A piece of cheese, admittedly the hardest cheese on the planet, had removed about £190-worth of the crown and a large, very rough hole was now back in my tooth and cutting my tongue. Drat (or rather stronger words to that effect)!

We’d planned to leave for Devon at about 8:30 this morning but, having loaded the car, I took myself off to the dentist at 8:00 AM to see if anything could be done. Sure enough, the ceramic insert, which I thought would be more or less indestructible, had broken. Suitably apologetic, my dentist smoothed off the rough edges and inserted a temporary filling. The last time I had a temporary filling it proved to be very temporary, lasting a little over two hours. I’ll see how this one goes. After Devon, I apparently need  £500-worth of complete gold crown for “a stronger reconstruction”. However, the £380 spent on the ceramic will be deducted. OK, fair enough.

Patched up, we left about 30 minutes later than intended. The journey was pleasingly uneventful apart from the fact that the rain started at about the halfway point. It continued until we arrived in Launceston, just over the border in Cornwall, at 1:30 PM to meet Steve and Rosemary. A friendly newsagent directed us to the pre-arranged meeting venue, the Launceston Arms where my rain-dampened mood lifted as I saw Steve sitting nursing a pint of Cornish Rattler, my favourite cider. Excellent! Carol and I joined.

Helped by the fact that Wortham Manor, our lodgings for the coming week, was actually marked on our OS map, astronavigatrix Carol had spotted an inconsistency in the directions. However, the 6.5% ABV of Cornish Rattler clarified the issue nicely, a right turn typo was swapped for a left turn and, in the continuing rain, we were soon bumping our way towards home down a very muddy farm track which was beginning to resemble a river bed.

What a terrific old place it is. The kitchen is surprisingly cosy, being warmed by under-floor heating, and is well equipped with a range of pots and pans suitable for feeding a potential army of 15 inhabitants. We had fun learning our way around its many corridors and rooms and nabbed ourselves a double room. 

Tessa and Robin turned up at about 5:00 PM. Now we were six and, following further doses of social assistance fluid, we settled down to my pre-prepared spaghetti Bolognese.

My temporary filling fell out. Well, it lasted a few more hours than the last one.

After having to regress and re-install Jalbum for a reason that I still do not understand, I have finally managed to publish a web album summarizing our recent trip damper-than-we-would-like trip to Devon and Cornwall. You can find it at:

http://www.curdhome.co.uk/photos/2009_Southwest/index.htm

or, of course, just click on the flappy England flag beneath “2009_Southwest” on our photo album index page.

Today was our originally intended day to travel home. The day dawned sunny – sunnier than anything we had experienced since our first two days of the trip. We didn’t want to go home so we decided to ask the site manager to let us stay a day longer to enjoy this rare appearance of the sun.

Carol remembered an appointment with her optician on Monday morning.

We packed and came home.

This is the weekend of the Ten Tors Challenge. About 400 teams of six youngsters each are let loose on Dartmoor to walk one of three circuits (35, 45 and 55 miles) over the weekend visiting check points on each of ten tors. The whole exercise is organized and managed brilliantly by the army. It transpires that the low flying helicopter ducking under both our radar and cameras was a support helicopter for the Ten Tors event. It must have been on a training flight checking the route prior to the event proper, which began this morning from Okehampton.

We had a grandstand view from Billy Bailey, albeit at considerable distance. As we breakfasted in comfort, we began seeing collections of six ants breaking the skyline of Dartmoor before us and working their way across our field of vision. A neighbour on our campsite assured us that everyone was set loose at the same time but the teams were appearing at oddly regular intervals. This pattern seemed more in keeping with a release at timed intervals rather than a mass, “on your marks, get set, go” sort of affair. However, our neighbour’s son had competed in previous years so she should know.

Since it was another oddly dry day, though the much advertised “plenty of sun” never seemed to turn up, Carol and I decided to join in and do an abbreviated FIve Tors Challenge of our own. We had only one day rather than two, so half the number of Tors seemed fair. As a concession to our lack of youthful vigour, not to mention our lack of training, we also cut the overall distance down to about five miles and returned to the comfort of Billy Bailey for our overnight camp rather than roughing it out on the moors. Our Two Wrinklies Team successfully visited Vixen, Heckwood, Pew, Feather and Staple tors. Well, I say successfully but Vixen Tor was surrounded by a wall with “no public access” scrawled across it. Hrumph! We claim it as a moral success, though. Following our moral success, we showed our appreciation of the dedication and effort involved by cheering on on a few of the real Ten Tors teams as they went by while we sat recovering with a pint of Addelstone’s cider (Cornish Rattler remains superior) after our own far less strenuous event.

The Ten Tors has its critics, of course, in these days of coddling and over-protection. They say it shouldn’t be allowed and is too dangerous. In my opinion, such criticisms are ill-conceived and unfounded. Of course accidents could happen but the support and back-up is extraordinary and this is classic youthful adventure. We should continue to nurture the courage and spirit that embarking upon such an event requires. Guess what – life can be dangerous and it’s as well to be prepared.

Congratulations to all the Ten Tors teams. Just starting takes guts. The distances are serious, it is far from easy walking and their achievements are truly praiseworthy. Bravo!