Leave only Footprints

I stirred around 4:30am to the gentle sound of raindrops falling on the roof of the tin tent. I drifted back to sleep.

Next time I awoke it was after 8am and the rain was still falling steadily and monotonously.
Tap tap tapping endlessly on the roof,
reminding us that weather was currently happening outside.
Fellow caravanners and caravanners were noticeable by their absence, as they stayed hidden in their shells.



Unfortunately. we were also out of water...
Yes, it was a question of "Water Water Everywhere nor any drop to drink!"


Fortunately, DH volunteered to go and fill up the water,
as my coat was buried in the depths of the boot of the car.
Rain was forecast to fall throughout the day,
so we decided to head home.
The season's reading matter was removed from the top lockers - not good to have too much weight up top whilst travelling.
Washing up was complete.
The toaster emptied of crumbs.
Floors swept/hoovered.
Seats and airers stashed away.
Bins, and other essential services emptied.







Then the van was hooked up,
lighting checked,
pitch card handed in,
and off we went.
I had nearly dried off by the time we stopped for lunch,
along with a few thousand others,
at a service station along the way.

Then, something strange happened in the queue at Costa.
Fellow survivors of the boggy Bank Holiday weekend
began to chat to each other,
sharing experiences of breaking camp during such sodden weather.
This is just not how British people are supposed to behave, but then again,
we do like to talk about the weather,
so the importance of matters meteorological
overrode the default 'reserved' mode.

Unless something unexpected happens, we have had our last sleep in the van for 2018.
It has been a good year.
Next year will be different,
visiting other places,
travelling other roads.

Leave only our footprint

This was all we left behind.

By now the mower will have tidied up the stray long lenths of grass and weeds, which DH could not reach with his shears. 

After all the rain, grass shoots will soon start to appear.

Meanwhile we take with us memories of beaches, castles and towers, moors, steams and bridges, cafes & towns, shops and churches.
Devon is a very beautiful and varied place.
No matter how many times we visit,
we still keep finding new places to explore.







The motorway was fun, with lots of spray.
We passed quite a lot of breakdowns,
small bedraggled groups -  sadly, but wisely sheltering under trees behind the crash barrier, waiting for the breakdown services.










Soon we were home to the joys of laundry, unpacking and deep cleaning the tin tent, prior to its return to storage.

Well done faithful servant, you have served us well.
We could not have done it without you!

Wave Therapy

We have a family planner, on which we write momentous happenings such as appointments, meetings, birthdays and other important events. Hopefully, this enables us to avoid embarrassing clashes, or omissions.
Our seasonal caravan pitch comes to an end early in October. Over the last few weeks, the aforementioned planner has come under intense scrutiny, as we tried to work out the best time to bring the 'van back. Eventually, we reached the reluctant conclusion that despite the poor forecast, the Bank Holiday weekend was going to be the only time we could sensibly rely on being available to go and retrieve the tin tent.
Last year the season lasted until after the autumn half term, so we didn't have to allocate a weekend specifically for this purpose. On reflection, it would probably have made more sense to bring it back last time we were there, but at that stage, we weren't ready to admit that our summer was over!

So down to Devon we drove, beating the Bank Holiday rush.

The KHT had asked to go to the shops at Dartington - formerly the Cider Press Centre. Saturday seemed like as good a day as any, particularly if we added in a walk to Totnes and back for some exercise.
The day was cool, and grey with the threat of precipitation. However, exactly when the rain was due to fall was unclear - and weather forecasts differed in their interpretation, and regularly recalculated their uncertainty as the day progressed.

It is probably a couple of years since we last visited. In the toy shop, I was delighted to find presents suitable for G3 (aged 9) and G6 (aged 2). I probably could have found the items cheaper on Amazon, but a good toy shop is an emporium of wonder and delight. Wouldn't it be sad if toy shops ceased to exist, and all we could do was select our purchases online? Some of my favourite purchases have been made when browsing stores, uncertain of what I want, and then I have found something that I had not even been aware existed.

In the Kitchen Shop, the KHT was bemused by the single-handed oven gloves and was convinced that two would be required for the safe removal of hot dishes from the oven. I tried explaining the difference between single and double oven gloves, but she was resolutely unconvinced.
Unsurprisingly it was the items embellished with cats that caught her attention.



















We then walked to Totnes, past this comical sculpture, who welcomes you to walk in his woodland wonderland.




On the way, we passed a large branch that had fallen from a tree.
"I was just thinking..." mused the KHT
"Don't..." I replied, knowing full well EXACTLY how this conversation would continue.
"What if..."
"Just no!"
"Well that's a strange conversation!" responded a bemused DH.
"OK," I said the KHT, conspiratorily, "Go and tell your Dad..."
And so she began"I heard a saying once, and I was just wondering - if a tree falls in a forest and there is no-one there to hear it, would it still make a sound?"
DH starts to fall in. "You've had this conversation before?"
"Many, many times..."
We walk on, debating hearing and vibrations. Sometimes you can't see the wood for the trees...

Saturday was sunnier, so we headed off to our favourite beach, and found a sheltered spot.
The KHT was keen to have one last dip in the ocean and she did.

I got my camera out to take some decent photos, but it was totally dead.
This came as rather a surprise, as I had charged it before we left home. I broke the news to DH, who told me that I should have charged it before I left home...
In reality, it has served me well for quite a few years, but I am aware that it is not taking photos of the same quality that it was a few years ago. Sadly, I will have to chose a replacement in the not too distant future.
Meanwhile, the KHT had a great time floating and swimming in the waves.



The tide soon caused a hasty retreat or two...
As we sat and watched the waves of the advancing tide, I realised once again, that watching the sea is my favourite way of de-stressing.  It is so relaxing.
What a better place the world would be if we could all have more beach days.
All politicians should be sent to sit by the sea and remember that compared to the ocean they really are insignificant.
Offenders should be offered sea-watching therapy and remind themselves that there are forces that are stronger than anything they can imagine.
Those who are heavily burdened with worry, or who are suffering from ill-health should be encouraged just to come and sit by the sea, and to see that whatever happens the tide will still rise and fall.
I am convinced that any, and all, of these,
would help make the world a better place.

Revenge of the 'Mushy Moo'

In an attempt to improve my day, after a bout of battling with bureaucracy, I decided that I would do some cooking.

Because of to DH's intolerances to various items, we have had to go VERY simple with ingredients - avoiding anything with gluten, pepper, mustard, oats, carrots or red wine.
Eating out with DH and the KHT is reminiscent of the 1990's cookery show Can't Cook, Won't Cook, only for our family it is Can't Eat, Won't Eat. It is not a lot different at home...

Earlier in the week, we had purchased some beef, so I decided to cook this in tomato.
Then I had a brainwave, why not tone down the tomato-ness of the sauce, with part of one of the three marrows that developed on the allotment whilst we were away.

Adapting a recipe for stuffed marrow, I cut the marrow in cross sections, peeled, deseeded and then bunged the resulting rings in a bowl of hot water.

DH examined my culinary endeavours with interest.
'It's a new dish I have created. I shall call it Mushy Moo!"
To save time I made sure I cooked enough for two days.
"I hope it doesn't taste too bad, as it is tomorrow's dinner as well!" I reminded DH, just before we ate.
"It could do with some Worcester Sauce." was his verdict, and he was right. While the marrow did tone down the tomato, the resulting dish was a tad bland.
"We could always add some black pepper.." I suggested helpfully, and got a look.

DH went out for a very important meeting, so I pottered around, deadheading flowers, watering pots and sorting laundry.
I was out in the garden as dusk fell, watching the solar lights come on, and appreciating the beauty of the shadows cast by the verbena and olive tree, and enjoying the peacefulness.
I planned that tonight's blog would be all about nightfall in the garden - marking the slipping away of the end of the day, and the beauty to be seen.


There would be no strange naked, but anatomically incorrect, blue character trailing a large red blankie in my account.
The birds in the trees would not be bright pink, blue, green or purple and chirping like a carefully rehearsed and choreographed operatic society chorus. Instead, they would be muted shades of browns, greys and blacks, with subtle highlights of white yellow or blue, and squawking in dischord and outrage, not harmony.
No strange train would come trundling, through looking as if it has escaped from Aladin and no green airship, modelled on a puffer fish, would float in the airspace above MY borders.

Later DH returned from his meeting.
"I have reacted to something. I think it is the marrow! I have been suspicious about courgette for a while..."
And so the meal for tomorrow was decanted into two ziplock bags and bunged in the freezer for me to eat at a later date.
I HATE bags of food lurking in the freezer, they terrify me.
If I defrost them, what unknown horrors will they contain? Argh! However, tomorrow is a complicated day and I need something simple we can both eat.
"What about tomorrow?" enquires DH, hoping that I have a plan, as he trails his blankie of allergies right through my catering arrangements.
"We can defrost some chicken," I reply, in an Upsy Daisy sort of way, knowing that mine is the role of the optimist, but quietly drawing the line at dancing, or being chased by a bed, especially if it was a flower bed...

Later, as I am concluding this blog, I realise that the strange tinkly noises that have been invading my subconscious, is actually the sound of raindrops dripping on to the metal watering cans. The sound varying according to the part of the watering can they land on.
With its regular rhythm and simple structure of repeating notes, it sounds unnervingly like the sort of tinkly music that would feature in a programme for small children...


Now all I need is a plot and some characters and I could be on to a winner!

The Last Supper

Tuesday evening saw us in Plymouth, so I had another attempt to track down the Yarmouth Stores, where the husband of one of my Great, Great Aunts was the manager, over a hundred years ago!














I have several old postcards sent to this address from a time before the First World War.

We have visited an Italian Restaurant opposite this shop on many occasions, as the KHT is partial to a Lasagne, but I had never really noticed that the building I wanted to trace was just across the road.







Sadly a notice on the shop announces its closure in 2017.
I found this recording on youtube of an interview with the last manager at the Plymouth branch immediately prior to it shutting down. One of the previous managers he refers to would have been my Great Great Uncle, who was probably the first manager of this branch of the company.

The Yarmouth Stores is woven into the story of my Father's family, as in addition to the store in Plymouth, another Great Great Aunt was married to the Manager of the branch in Milford Haven. Later my Grandad took over as the Manager of the Milford store, and the family moved to live in the generous accommodation over the shop.

The two Great Great Aunts both retired to Torquay, and as my Gran was their only relative she inherited their property and also ended up living in Torquay in her retirement.

Throughout my childhood my parents would bring us all down for a holiday in Torquay, to see our Devon relatives and enjoy all the town had to offer. When the weather was good we went to the beach. On dull or wet days one place we would visit was Torre Abbey Museum on Torquay seafront.

After months of good intentions, I finally took DH & the KHT on their first visit to Torre Abbey I remember wandering through rooms where oil paintings were hung upon the walls. The entrance was into a museum and I recall a large range in the first room. Recently the building had major renovation work. The room with the range is now the cafe and the entrance has been moved around the corner.

Included in our ticket price was an immersive piece of art The Last Supper by Giles Walker A group of robotic figures are set around a table, pondering on the meaning of life and then switching to detailing the last meals ordered by prisoners on Death Row, who were eating their own 'Last Supper'.
I imagined that we would sit at a distance from the puppets. Instead, we are ushered into a darkened room, and were able to stand at the shoulders of the puppets, listening to snatches of conversation, interspersed with sounds of a creaking ship and angelic singing.




The piece is short, lasting around 13 minutes, and you spend the whole time trying to make sense of it - aware that there are probably deeper subtle undertones that you have missed.
It is fascinating, unsettling and excellently executed.
Small bird-headed figures with human bodies adorn the table, partaking in strangely posed and possibly deviant activities - prompting questions such as "Have the vultures themselves been picked clean?" and "What on earth are they doing?". 
If art's brief is to be provocative, it succeeded -  but not in a way that offended sensibilities.


The top floor of the gallery is very interactive, with many sound files to listen to, a trifle disconcerting when you are listening to more than one commentary at the same time!
The KHT dressed up as a monk.















The dining table with talking place settings is a trifle disconcerting, especially as you see the eyes flick one way then the other, according to which character around the table is talking at this re-enactment of a dinner party.




Admittedly we did have lunch in the cafe, but we did have to rush the last bit as the car park charge goes up significantly after five hours. We could easily have lingered longer.


For me revisiting Torre Abbey was a very enjoyable trip down memory lane, whereas for DH and the KHT it was a new place to discover. No doubt we will return!

It is sad when stores close, particularly when they have been in situ as long as the Yarmouth Stores - a casualty of the convenience of internet shopping.

Things change.
Nothing stays the same.
Memories remain.
Stories, however,  are passed down from one generation to the next - like verbal postcards.

Sedimentary, My Dear Watson!

Last week, on two separate splendiferously gorgeous wall-to-wall sunshine days, the KHT said
"Let's go to Ashburton!"
We replied "Not today! It is FAR too hot to be inland. it will be much more pleasant on the beach."
But we remembered.

A week later, on a day that was warm but cloudy, and punctuated by the odd splattering of rain. We set the sat nav and departed for the aforementioned location. The KHT's smile broadened to a wide grin, as we entered the town and her wish was granted.

After a few hours wandering around the small town centre, what can I tell you about the place?
Ashburton has lots of second-hand stores, but they prefer to describe themselves as Antique Shops - with the profits going into the owner's pockets, rather than to some good cause.
Unfortunately, we only found one genuine charity shop. The KHT does enjoy browsing DVD's and books in a well-stocked charity shop.


In its favour, Ashburton does have Church's - a genuine old-fashioned ironmongery, with a roof so low they have to warn the taller customers, such as DH.
Staff reported that a visiting policeman put his helmet on, stood up and made a hole in the ceiling.
True story or a country tale? I do hope it is true!

DH fell into raptures in the kitchenware department, and purchased a red mini colander for the caravan and a pot for salad.
The KHT discovered some cookie cutters and decided to have a go at making cookies. There were a variety of shapes - teapots, hearts, stars - small, simple tidy shapes with a good chance of success.
The KHT chose the outline of mainland Britain.
Look out for news of cookies with Wales, Scotland or Cornwall omitted, and for hearing about who is offended by this culinary disaster. It could even lead to devolution...

Udder cloths? Naively I thought these were a new name for pads breastfeeding mothers placed in their bras to avoid embarrassing leaks. Google advises me that these are for use with dairy herds - exactly as the illustration indicated...

I discovered the perfect present for Grandchild 5 (aged 3) in an interesting toy shop.
DH was a little surprised, "Is this for Christmas?" he enquired, suspiciously.
There speaks the man who usually only buys presents for one person...
"Yes, or her birthday, which is in January. If you don't buy things when you see them, you drive yourself potty in December!"

I have visited many towns, but Ashburton is unique. For some reason, there is a conspiracy against displaying menus, so they are visible to potential customers.
One promising looking tearoom had a window full of very tempting cakes with a sign indicating that they did 'Light Lunches' but no further information was supplied.
As you had to go in through two doors just to discover what 'Light Lunches' might consist off, I made the executive decision that they won't get our custom.
I spied another place across the road - again no visible menu.
As the door was open I felt more comfortable wandering inside, but I had to fight my way past two overgrown flowering shrubs on sentry duty either side of the door.
Once I had gained entry, I requested a menu. Then I noticed that most people seemed to be drinking or using computers. I opened the menu and my heart sank. It was all posh stuff that wouldn't have met the requirements of my gluten-and-pepper-free husband, or limited-diet daughter or fussy-eater self.
I made my apologies and left.

Salvation was just around the corner when we discovered The Hound of the Baskerville  - a small themed restaurant/bar which DID most boldly display food choices.
Here DH had gluten-free fish and chips,
the KHT selected a fish finger sandwich and I enjoyed a homemade steak pie - a rare treat since DH has adopted his current restricted diet.
The pub was a curious place with a murder scene pictured above our table.
The KHT required little encouragement to interact with the mural above our table.









Fortunately, DH was on his best behaviour, as a large hound kept a careful eye on him all the time we were there. The hound was rumoured to be a model, but the owners kept him behind bars, just to be on the safe side.












After lunch, we headed on to the moors so the KHT to indulge in her favourite hobby of exploring streams. We found a suitable place and admired the beautiful Dartmoor ponies who were also enjoying the spot.

One decided to go across the bridge. A car followed s-l-o-w-l-y.
On reaching the far side of the bridge, the horse then turned around and stood its ground.
The car inched forward.
The horse stood resolute.
The driver waited.
The horse waited.
The passenger got out the car and immediately the horse moved off the bridge.
The car crossed the bridge, the passenger got back in and off they went.

Meanwhile, the KHT was also putting faith in the human touch and attempting to catch fish. However, the fish had very quick reactions - possibly they were not keen on the humiliation of being caught in a pink net.





Holmes may have had his own opinion concerning the rocky outcrops on the moor.
"Sedimentary, my dear Watson!"
Nah, they are made of sterner stuff!

Blue is the Colour

After the continuous rain all day Saturday, we were not really surprised to encounter flooded roads on our way to church on Sunday morning.
This week our destination was Churchstow, purely because we were invited by a ringer that we met at South Milton on Wednesday evening.
The service of Holy Communion was led by the Team Vicar, whose wife grew up less than 10 miles from where we live - it is a small world!












As this was a village church, the ringing was call-changes Devon style and they do like their regular patterns.
Given the weather, and the muddiness of the puddles we had encountered on the way there, I was rather amused to note that the offering was called 'Chamber Pot'.

Blue sign

In view of the weather, we decided to go and throw some stones in the sea at one of our favourite beaches, and hopefully see some interesting waves.
As we drove through the village the KHT and I randomly started commenting on blue things that we passed.
"Blue car"
"Blue gate"
"Blue sign"






Once we started, we just kept noticing more and more blue things

Blue noticeboard

"Blue stripe on vehicle"
"Blue coat"
"Blue van"
"Blue trim"
"Blue noticeboard"
"Blue patch of sky"






As we arrived at the car park the rain appeared to have stopped, so we got our beach gear out of the car and started to walk towards the beach.
Then it started to rain again, so I turned round disappointedly
"Where are you going?" asked DH.
"Back to sit in the car until it passes!" I replied.
"Look it is stopping, and we have an umbrella..."
Memories of trying to shelter three of us under a brolly, and me getting very wet, gave me no desire to repeat the experience, but DH was right, the sky was clearing.
The dark grey rain clouds had given way to lighter whispy clouds, and then the sun made a very welcome appearance! What a transformation!

Suddenly, it was a very pleasant Sunday afternoon, and the beach quickly began to fill up. The KHT wasted no time in getting on her surf suit.

Needless to say, the sky didn't stay blue but it was warm and we were treated to some very dramatic cloudscapes. At one point I thought that the rain was about to recommence, and we did feel a few drops, but the bad weather passed to the south of us and we could see the rain falling over the sea.

It was noticeably wetter when we arrived back at the campsite, as if it had rained there for most of the afternoon - which just goes to show, if in doubt go to the beach!

Ring of Confidence

Saturday was a Bellringing Festival at Buckfast Abbey - part of the celebrations to mark the millennium of the Abbey and the culmination of months of planning and organisation by Devonshire ringers and the  staff at the Abbey.

Devon is a vast, predominantly rural county with hundreds of village churches. Many of these have rings of bells, but there is a shortage of ringers.

2018 also marks the centenary of the end of the first world war, and there is currently a national drive to recruit 1400 ringers to replace the estimated number of ringers who were killed during the WW1.
The festival was just one way the ringers is Devon are encouraging folks to learn to ring or to tempt lapsed ringers back on to the end of a rope.




Two mini rings of bells had been assembled in the grounds of Buckfast Abbey, to allow anyone who was interested to have a go at ringing a bell.

Even the KHT was tempted to have a pull.
I think tower bells seem too big to her, but a mini ring feels more like a toy.

Actually, they are not as easy as they look, and the required action is reminiscent of milking a cow - pull the rope with one hand then grasp the 'sally (the fluffy green bit) with the other give it a little bit of a tug before releasing, and repeat.

How wonderful it would have been if the sun had shone and people could have sat around and listened to the quiet tinkling of the mini rings, which sounded like windchimes, and perhaps lingered longer, instead of rushing from one relatively dry spot to the next. Instead we had drizzle, intermingled with outbreaks of rain.

The KHT also enjoyed the bell-themed craft activities and designed her own clay bell and flag. There was also an art exhibition and the usual attractions of the Abbey to enjoy.




Throughout the day the bells of Buckfast Abbey bells were also being rung by teams of ringers from across the West Country - their magnificent deep tones ringing out across the valley.
We tagged along with the Mid Devon ringers.
Let me tell you, it is a long, long, long exhausting climb up to the ringing chamber.
At one point you appear on a balcony above the chancel crossing. It was all rather vertigo-inducing, but not as bad as the notorious Pershore Abbey, where the bells are rung from the infamous cage!

On the way down I got my husband to take this photo leaning slightly over the parapet, while I kept the wall steady. It was a tough job, but someone had to do it...
"Just don't drop the phone, dear!" 





DH got the chance to ring the heaviest ringing bell, which weighs nearly 42 cwt - or just over 2 tons! Talk about heavy metal!
DH found it easy enough to start, but stopping was trickier, as you have to take it just past the balance point and rest the bell against the stay. Let's just say he didn't succeed the first time,
or the second,
but he got it just right eventually, or we would still be there...

The highlight of the programme was The Big Ring, when the bells of Buckfast Abbey, and the former bells of Buckfast Abbey (now situated in the ruin of the burnt out church at Buckfastleigh) were going to ring simultaneously.
Around 60 people waited in the room where the live feed would show both the Abbey ringers and bells turning full circle.
Unfortunately there was a technical hitch and the screens were resolutely blank. Various people wandered up to the screens and examined them knowlegeably, before admitting defeat and retreating. As luck would have it, the techy was up the tower on the end of a bellrope...


We wandered over to the conference room, where the live feed was working, and enjoyed watching some 'four in hand' handbell ringers in action. I struggle to ring one handbell, let alone four!



At 4pm there was a special ringers service in the Abbey to bring the days activities to a suitable conclusion, over which one of the monk who could ring, presided. A Ringers Choir, led the enthusiastic and harmonious singing.
Before the service, the organist was going for broke with loud triumphant chords resounding off every pillar.
As we were sat in the choir stalls, we could watch closely, as shutters opened and closed. as the volume crescendoed and diminshed.













Afterwards we looked up at the stunningly ornate ceiling of the chancel crossing and I exclaimed
"We were above there! Our feet were on the other side of that ceiling"
followed shortly by 
"Goodness, isn't that balcony high!"
Yes, THAT was the balcony DH took the third picture in this blog from.










We on pour way to the car park, when we passed the video room and noticed that the live feed was now working so we popped in.

While we were there the lady from the craft tent appeared and watched the demonstration with interest.
"I've never seen bells ringing before!" she admitted, to my surprise, as I had assumed that she was a local ringer, not someone roped in by the Abbey.
"I had a go on the mini rings." she went on to say. I thought this was very encouraging and encouraged her to go and find a tower where she could to learn to ring.




What will be the outcome from the festival?
No-one will ever really know.
Visitors come from far and wide to visit Buckfast Abbey. In fact the first group I heard a helper talk to, were from Russia!
It is easy to wring your hands and say no-one wants to learn, and that applies to any activity, not just bellringing. So all credit to those who put time and effort into making today happen.

It will be impossible to evaluate the effect that this day has had, for most of the people who had a go at ringing were not from the local area.
As a consequence people could go to a tower anywhere and ask to learn to ring,
or even prompt the start of a bell project to get an unringable bells made ringable again,
or even start the ball rolling to get a new set of bells hung and a band trained to ring them.
If they do, will anyone ever tell the Devon ringers?

Stand.

Greek Starter, Fish to Follow

Beware of what you promise!

We had been asked if we could go and help make up a band of ringers at a six bell tower in Torquay the following Friday lunchtime.
At that time we were still glorying in the hot and sticky embrace of a heatwave, and the thought of interrupting precious beach time for bellringing was not very appealing. An evening was one thing, but the middle of the day was hardly a convenient time!
"We will come if it is raining!" I said, rashly.

A few days later there was a discussion on social media regarding ringing in the South Hams area, where towers are plentiful, but finding out when ringing will take place is rather more complicated - especially at small village churches in August. Many towers stop practising, as often ringers get roped in to help with the harvest.
During the course of the Facebook discussion, I was reminded of the Friday lunchtime ringing, so I agreed we would be there.

Friday dawned wet.
VERY WET!
We arrived at the tower during a very heavy downpour!
At least the ringers were pleased to see us, as we made six!

These were not the easiest of bells, as they are not often rung and I am not sure who maintains them.
For those interested, this is the only Greek Orthodox church with a ring of bells hung for English style ringing.
This is because it is was Anglican Church - the oldest one in Torquay in fact, which being surplus to requirements by the Diocese of Exeter, is rented by the Greek Orthodox Church.

The caretaker was very friendly and welcoming and we admired the beautiful icons on the windowsills, and shrine to Mary.





Afterwards, we headed over to Meadfoot, where at least we could park for free.
Given the continuing rain, lunch was eaten in the car, as it was at least dry there.


The skies soon cleared so we crossed the road to the beach.









When I was a child, Meadfoot was my least favourite beach, on account of the rocks, shingle and seaweed. However, it is very sheltered and there is some free parking. Therefore, there are days when Meadfoot definately comes into its own.
Today was one of them.

The KHT set off hunting for glass, of which there is usually a good supply - not surprising given the fact that it is located within a town. Ten minutes later we were back in the car, as the heavens had opened.


The skies cleared again, and we spent a while on the beach, until the advancing tide threatened to cut us off. We took the hint and packed up.

We spent the evening in and around Torquay Harbour
The KHT quite fancied the wheel, but neither DH or I could face the thought of that vertigo inducing torture.

Meanwhile we browsed the menu of every cafe/restaurant in the harbour area. Rockfish, with their gluten-free alternatives, won our vote and fortunately had a table free.

Meanwhile, having obtained a table in a restaurant serving food DH could eat, I discovered to my horror that there was NOTHING the KHT would eat.
We had eaten at Rockfish in Brixham, and all had been well then.
In desperation I asked the waitress
"Do you do fishcakes, or fishfingers at all?" At this point the KHT disowned me.
"We do Cod Bites on the Children's Menu." replied the waitress.
"Is my daughter allowed to have those?" I asked, knowing that some places will not allow anyone over the age of twelve to order from the Children's Menu.
"Oh yes, no problem!"
"Please can we order those - with a side order of garlic bread!"
Phew! My visions of having to leave the restaurant faded.
The waitress was also gluten intolerant and so a discussion of triggers and ailments followed...
Just what I want when eating out, but at least DH was happy!

In the toilets, a rather amusing take-off of the shipping forecast is played. I found a link on you tube - do have a listen, especially if you come from Wolverhampton...

After dinner we toured the piers, and watched the fishermen. We would have walked further, but we could clearly hear the raucous noise emanating from the funfair on the Abbey Meadows. We gave that a miss...

As the buildings reflected back an ever goldening hue, we returned to our tin tent,
hoping that the sun would continue the next day, but having seen the forecast, we were somewhat doubtful!

Fishy Tails and Tail Ends

Another day, another ancient monument.

On Thursday we traveled to Dartmouth, to tour the compact castle, situated on a rocky promontory, close to the entrance of the Dart.
We have often visited the town, but it was our first visit to the castle.
As it is not a large site, there are no audio guides to hear here, but there are a couple of places where short videos play, which helps to bring history to life.

Afterwards, we took the passenger ferry back to the centre of Dartmouth.
The boats are small and can only take a dozen passengers at a time. We were the last three on that particular boat, but the shuttle service is continuous on a busy day, so we wouldn't have had long to wait for the next one.
The waters were slightly choppy, especially as we had to begin by crossing to the deeper water close to the opposite bank.

As he headed into the middle of the river, the ferryman informed the passengers that he was taking the passengers to Dartmouth, not Kingswear, but that he needed to cross close to the far bank to begin with.

Any passengers feeling seasick were encouraged to throw up over the side, rather than in the boat.
When we were in the middle of the river the ferryman collected his fares.
A cunning ploy, I thought. Who, but a total idiot would refuse to pay, when we are at the mercy of the captain of this vessel, especially as we transversed the wakes of the larger vessels, which were heading out to sea on adventures unknown.."

From one of the viewing decks at the castle, DH had been identifying other nearby fortifications, but one opposite was unlabeled, so DH asked the ferryman what it was.

"How old do you think it is?" he asked us.

"Victorian?" I guessed.

"Is that a shot in the dark?" he enquired.

"Well, it does seem to have very straight edges, like a Victorian folly."

"It's about 20 years old". He replied, "And the only bit that has planning permission is the summer house..." He then told us of the tale of how a landslide had mysterious happened, the house was then built on the land that appeared and the council had given up trying to fight it as it cost too much. 

How much was true, I know not, but it made an interesting tale.

The boatman was very efficient at guiding his less able passengers to terra firma as we disembarked at the quayside in the centre of town.
Meanwhile, as we had been seated in the stern, we were the last to leave.
I found myself hoping that everyone on the opposite side of the boat wouldn't leave first, causing us to do a 'Mary Rose' and capsize...

Our plan had been to eat in our usual cafe in an old railway station on the quay, but it has gone upmarket - the familiar bench seats mostly replaced by trendy stools and tables, lasagne superseded by shellfish and champers. Close by we found a cafe that could meet the exacting requirements of our party, and they got our custom.

Art galleries and an art exhibition in the Masonic Hall were graced by our presence, but we avoided buying anything  - arty, or otherwise.

If you visit the town you may notice that anyone vaguely posh seems to wear navy blue, preferably striped.
Was there a checkpoint we bypassed?
The 'Navy Gate', through which only those wearing nautical-themed clothing may enter?

We browsed the adverts, promising voyages by coast and river, to see wonders various.
Then, no sooner had we sat down on a bench to admire the view over to Kingswear, than the heavens opened and raindrops fell - slowly and sparingly initially, then with great gusto and generosity!

We retreated to a shelter the other side of the road,
and watched, amused,
as those waiting for a bus attempted to shelter under the limited canopy of a small tree...




When the skies cleared,
we walked back to to the castle,
where we had left the car,
pausing regularly to admire glimpses
of the very photogenic reaches of the lower Dart, and to keep an eye on the grey clouds that gathered over the nearby hills.






That evening we had been invited to ring with some traditional Devon call-change ringers out at Chivelstone, the other side of Slapton, so we decided to have our picnic tea at Slapton Sands.
This should have been a straightforward journey, but the main road was washed away at Strete Gate earlier this year and is still being repaired. As a consequence, we had to take a long and very winding detour through exceedingly narrow lanes to Slapton.
On reaching the car park we discovered that only tariff available for after 6pm, was a hefty sum of £5 - which admittedly covered parking until the next morning. We only wanted a couple of hours! We sat in the carpark overlooking Slapton Ley eating our tea.



Suddenly I noticed an inflatable pink flamingo on a balcony of a house. DH, couldn't see it.. though












Later, walking along the beach we noticed a strong fishy aroma - not unusual besides the sea.
Then we noticed small fish washed up close to the edge of the tide.











As we watched we could see shoals of fish moving close to shore. We watched sadly as shoal after shoal were driven on to the beach by larger fish.
It all seemed a rather pointless part of nature. Any that did manage to flip themselves back into the sea, were just washed back on to the shore by a subsequent wave.
At times mother nature seems rather cruel and unnecessarily destructive.





We then headed off, along more very, very narrow lanes, with right angle bends to the tiny settlement of Chivelstone - the parish of which includes the most southerly tip of Devon, where we were made very welcome by the call change ringers.

Much nicer tail ends to finish the day with!