more from 'Two Go Mad in Devon (and Cornwall)
Jul 23rd, 2010, 06:42 AM
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more from 'Two Go Mad in Devon (and Cornwall)
Tors, becks and cream tea!
Monday saw another change in the weather. We’d passed Dartmoor the previous day, glowering under a dark sky. Monday was a Simpsons Day. You know the blue sky with fluffy clouds on the Simpsons cartoon show on TV?
This was our walk on Dartmoor day. It felt quite adventurous to us- a 5-6 mile circular route in an unpredictable landscape. The start was in a village called Manaton, north west of Bovey Tracey and not far from Widecombe of Uncle Tom Cobley and mates fame. We parked off the road in the village. The instructions read ‘ With the church behind you, head off down the lane’. First problem- we couldn’t see a church! And, worryingly, I couldn’t see the PH for the Public House (inn) that we were standing by, marked on the Ordnance Survey map! There was no-one around to ask so we wandered up and down the village’s main road (think high hedged narrow lane) looking for some evidence of a church. Then a woman appeared, walking her spaniel. She explained that we were actually in the village of ‘Water’ and Manaton was about ¾ mile further on. When I’d seen Water marked on the little sketch map that accompanied the walk’s description, I assumed it meant you could get water to fill your bottle there! Doh!!
We decided to leave the car where it was as we weren’t sure whether there’d be anywhere else suitable to park along the very narrow road. By this time we’d probably walked a mile and a half and hadn’t even started the walk proper! As we passed the ubiquitous red telephone box the phone started to ring. Already a bit spooked we both looked at each other in astonishment. Then I ran over to the box and picked up the receiver. ‘Can I speak to Wendy, please?” said a female voice. ‘Sorry, this is public phone box in Manaton, sorry…… Water!” I said. The woman laughed. ‘Thanks anyway. At least I know it’s the wrong number now!” she said.
Tramping on we came to a bus stop at the cross roads, a large car park and a sign to the parish hall. Still no sign of the church but I guessed we should turn left down a bright sunlit lane with stone banks full of wild flowers: red campion, bluebells and celandines. Passing Mill Farm on our right two sheep dogs came to the gate to bark at us. We then took a footpath just past the farm and began to head across fields to the edge of the moor. As we began to walk uphill I glanced back and there, in the distance, was the elusive Manaton Church with a prominent white tower. A cuckoo heralded our walk through the woods and, eventually after a fairly steep climb, we came to Bowerman’s Nose, the first of our Dartmoor tors. One old story tells of a Bowerman or bowman out hunting when his dogs disturbed a coven of witches. They cursed him and turned him and his hounds into petrified stones. Certainly the rocks around here have a variety of different shapes, some of which could be human or dog shaped (with a lot of imagination or drinking too much scrumpy cider!). Relaxing in the sunshine with the silence broken only by skylarks and the persistent cuckoo, Lin and I started talking about why humans feel the need to climb to the highest point. What is so attractive about being high up, whether it’s a hill, a mountain, a tower or a bridge? Here, it’s easy to feel that you’re above everything, superior yet insignificant in the wider landscape. You’re at the mercy of the elements although thankfully not today, and there’s a feeling of remoteness yet the nearest village is only a few miles away. Perhaps we feel a connection with our ancient ancestors who felt safer high up where they were able see enemies approaching and be forewarned of danger.
Anyway, on with the walk, as we haven’t reached the half way point yet! Down the other side of Bowerman’s Nose, scaring skylarks from their nests, to reach the gated road below. Soon we reached Houndtor which, being close to a road, is very popular with visitors. ‘The Hound of the Basketmeals’ (geddit?) a snack van in the car park seemed to be doing a good trade. We followed the well defined path up and over the other side of Houndtor (remember it from an episode of Dr Who?) and decided to eat our picnic lunch overlooking the wooded valley below. The walk’s instructions casually mentioned ….”passing a medieval village on your left” which we took to mean that it was insignificant. Instead we found walls standing to about 2-3 feet in places, the outline of small cottages and larger longhouses (where cattle, sheep, goats and humans shared accommodation) and even lanes and pathways. We spent some time there, imagining what a harsh life it must have been and how the tors (Haytor can be seen in the distance) must have had a spiritual influence on those long-dead people.
A steep path downhill through a small bluebell wood and tall pine trees led to the clapper bridge over Becka Brook. We were enchanted by this spot. The little brook burbled over glistening gold and black pebbles under the ancient clapper bridge made out of just two large granite blocks until further downstream a small fall in the riverbed made a chattering sound as the water hit hard rock. It was just like a fairy glade- mossy rocks, trees just coming into leaf with some tracks and more obvious signs that animals cross here and probably come to drink. We had to tear ourselves away and climb steeply through a wood to where the footpaths diverged. We had to follow the sign to Leighon (I wanted to put a ‘T’ in there). Leighon was just a few houses around the beck. One of the houses was being renovated. A very friendly black and white spaniel came out to greet us and even lay on her back for a tummy tickle. A woman up on the scaffolding wished us a good day.
Only another few miles of glorious countryside, pretty lanes lined with huge stones and colourful wild flowers, old farmyards basking in the sunshine and horses snorting at us through deep hedges before we came along the lane to see Lin’s car parked where we’d left it, unlocked as it turned out!! And Lin’s savings of £2 coins (for treats) were intact!
It was about quarter to four and what could be better to round off such a perfect day than a perfect cream tea? Lustleigh was only a few miles away so I suggested we see whether the Primrose Cottage tea shop was open. It was! 4pm on a Monday afternoon and, as the lady behind the counter replied to my anxious enquiry, “It’s never too late for a cream tea!”
Tuesday we venture over the border!
The Seth Lakeman concert did not start till 8pm so we perused the maps and guidebooks, with which 141 is liberally endowed, to find a likely place to visit en route to Fowey. I remembered my sister Anne saying Lostwithiel was a nice little place. It used to be the capital of Cornwall……in the 13th century. First impressions were not good. We drove down a steep hill, over a river bridge (the Fowey) and up the other side, leaving the town before we knew it. We turned back, found a free car park and took a little walk. The church, St Bartholomew’s, was nearby with a very distinctive tower (Breton style, I read later in Pevsner’s Cornwall) There was an elderly couple mowing grass and weeding the churchyard. The old man called over that the door I was trying was locked and to come round to the other entrance. He had a real old Cornish drawl. The woman insisted on accompanying us to the other door, much to his disgust……”I’d a thought they’d be able to find it themselves, me dear!” But that door too was padlocked. The church closed at 3pm so we’d just missed it. We admired an ancient stone cross (medieval) although I’d guessed (wrongly) that it might be Saxon. We wandered the quiet little streets. An early 14th century bridge with five pointed arches spanned the river and people in the nicely converted flats opposite were sitting out in their gardens. A stout old building that would not have looked out of place in France dominated one of the streets near the river. It was the remains of the Stannary Court. The Coinage Hall was the centre of royal authority over tin-mining in the area. A corner or quoin was knocked off each block of tin for the benefit of the Duchy of Cornwall. On to Fowey, once one of England’s busiest ports, where we parked above the town and walked down steps and steep lanes to the river front. At the first of many delightful little shops, Lin pushed the boat out and bought a postcard whilst I was attracted by the shiny ‘laser’ ear-rings. As we neared the town hall we noticed several ‘pirates’ including female piratess with child in buggy! I thought they were advertising some show as they were standing by a small stage that had been set up in the square. Later when Lin and I were tucking into large plates of fish, chips and……mushy peas, one of the pirates came over to us. He told us that they were rowing from Lands End to Poole in aid of five charities. I was explaining to Lin that Poole was near Bournemouth ….at the mention of Bournemouth he gave a magnificent curl of the lip. We fumbled in our purses for change for his collecting bucket. Lin told him we were staying in Plymouth (very dangerous to give too much away to a pirate I thought) and he told us to meet him on the Barbican at 8pm the next night bringing twenty pounds in 1p and 2 p coins so as to make a loud noise in his bucket! With more ‘aaah”s and ‘arrghs’ between us, he was on his way.
We doubted we’d make it back up the hill to Fowey Hall where the concert was being held after stuffing ourselves. On the way (slowly, so slowly) I took a small detour to see the Victorian Gothic tower that is visible from all over Fowey and rather outfaces the church tower of St Finbarrus. "Place" is the seat of the Treffry family. It has high walls and battlements and is altogether very fanciful. Pevsner says ‘the tower is of an ambitious somewhat elephantine Walter Scottian romanticism..” Quite a description! The showpiece is the Porphyry Hall of 1841-3 which has polished walls of ………………..(guess what!) porphyry which is a sort of igneous rock and, no Lin, it’s nothing to do with the madness of George III.
On to the concert- we were early so we sat in the bar and “people watched” - one of my favourite occupations when on holiday! The clientele for the Daphne Du Maurier Festival are to a man AND woman, English, very English if you know what I mean. We couldn’t quite imagine them in the ‘mosh pit’ jumping up and down to Seth’s wild fiddle playing.
I decided to get a pint of beer and was most disappointed to be offered Tetley’s or………………. Tetley’s…..all those great West Country beers like Tribute and Doom Bar were not on offer. Then Lin spotted Sean Lakeman (Seth’s bro.) over by the marquee. I couldn’t see him because of the flap of the tent we were in. We tried to surreptiously move the table without standing up. It looked like something off Monty Python and by the time I’d moved my chair over to follow the table he’d gone! Before we went into the marquee I went off to the Ladies and passed the ‘Artiste’s only’ entrance. I was just about to press my face against the glass for a sighting of a Lakeman brother when a huge bouncer blocked my path!
The concert was great. Seth played all the old favourites alongwith some of his new album. Lin and I were in the middle of a row some way back so we couldn’t get down to the front for a ‘bop’ and had to be content in jigging about in our seats. The audience was a strange mix of Seth fans who wanted to dance and people, probably at the DDM Festival, who clearly had no idea what to do and barely moved throughout an hour and a half of infectious wild music!
And another thing to note ….the toll on the Tamar Bridge has gone up by 50%.......now £1.50 to get back into Devon !! I had my £1 coin clutched in my hot little hand only to see it’d gone up. Lin told the toll guy ‘We’re strangers here’ as I fumbled about for the extra 50p. “You’re not strangers, me dear!” he replied, although he didn’t let us off paying the extra!
Wednesday Misty fruitfulness…………………… and floweriness
The cloud was well down and there was persistent drizzle but we decided to go ahead with our plan to visit the Garden House at Buckland Monachorum. Still full of young Mr Lakeman’s songs from the night before we went for lunch to his ‘local’, The Rock at Yelverton. Disappointedly the bar was full of OAPs (must remember that chronologically Lin and I are also pensioners); no handsome young men at all. We enjoyed a spicy lentil soup but, when a young woman with a piercing, annoyingly posh voice came to sit on the next table and talk loudly at her grandparents, we decided to head off for the Garden House for dessert and coffee.
At the Garden House I asked the woman on the entrance “Are we mad to come to a garden on a day like this?” The mist shrouded the valley and I did wonder what the garden would look like! It turned out to be an inspired choice. We had the place to ourselves apart from one or two gardeners well camouflaged in their green over-trousers and jackets. The garden was mystical in the haze and drizzle. The seed heads of fritillaries and the red and black leaves of the acers sparkled. In the walled garden, which is magical whatever the weather, the purple and red tulips stood to attention. The bluebells were a mist of pale blue under a row of giant trees and there were hundreds of tiny tadpoles in the pond. The churchtower of Buckland Monachorum was just discernible in the mist. Later we drove into the village- a delightful spot with St Andrew’s Church, its square tower with crocketed pinnacles, the old school endowed by Lady Modyford in 1702 and the Drake Manor Inn (Francis Drake lived at nearby Buckland Abbey).
I have already made my list of places to go and things to do for our next visit which will be in August, we hope
Monday saw another change in the weather. We’d passed Dartmoor the previous day, glowering under a dark sky. Monday was a Simpsons Day. You know the blue sky with fluffy clouds on the Simpsons cartoon show on TV?
This was our walk on Dartmoor day. It felt quite adventurous to us- a 5-6 mile circular route in an unpredictable landscape. The start was in a village called Manaton, north west of Bovey Tracey and not far from Widecombe of Uncle Tom Cobley and mates fame. We parked off the road in the village. The instructions read ‘ With the church behind you, head off down the lane’. First problem- we couldn’t see a church! And, worryingly, I couldn’t see the PH for the Public House (inn) that we were standing by, marked on the Ordnance Survey map! There was no-one around to ask so we wandered up and down the village’s main road (think high hedged narrow lane) looking for some evidence of a church. Then a woman appeared, walking her spaniel. She explained that we were actually in the village of ‘Water’ and Manaton was about ¾ mile further on. When I’d seen Water marked on the little sketch map that accompanied the walk’s description, I assumed it meant you could get water to fill your bottle there! Doh!!
We decided to leave the car where it was as we weren’t sure whether there’d be anywhere else suitable to park along the very narrow road. By this time we’d probably walked a mile and a half and hadn’t even started the walk proper! As we passed the ubiquitous red telephone box the phone started to ring. Already a bit spooked we both looked at each other in astonishment. Then I ran over to the box and picked up the receiver. ‘Can I speak to Wendy, please?” said a female voice. ‘Sorry, this is public phone box in Manaton, sorry…… Water!” I said. The woman laughed. ‘Thanks anyway. At least I know it’s the wrong number now!” she said.
Tramping on we came to a bus stop at the cross roads, a large car park and a sign to the parish hall. Still no sign of the church but I guessed we should turn left down a bright sunlit lane with stone banks full of wild flowers: red campion, bluebells and celandines. Passing Mill Farm on our right two sheep dogs came to the gate to bark at us. We then took a footpath just past the farm and began to head across fields to the edge of the moor. As we began to walk uphill I glanced back and there, in the distance, was the elusive Manaton Church with a prominent white tower. A cuckoo heralded our walk through the woods and, eventually after a fairly steep climb, we came to Bowerman’s Nose, the first of our Dartmoor tors. One old story tells of a Bowerman or bowman out hunting when his dogs disturbed a coven of witches. They cursed him and turned him and his hounds into petrified stones. Certainly the rocks around here have a variety of different shapes, some of which could be human or dog shaped (with a lot of imagination or drinking too much scrumpy cider!). Relaxing in the sunshine with the silence broken only by skylarks and the persistent cuckoo, Lin and I started talking about why humans feel the need to climb to the highest point. What is so attractive about being high up, whether it’s a hill, a mountain, a tower or a bridge? Here, it’s easy to feel that you’re above everything, superior yet insignificant in the wider landscape. You’re at the mercy of the elements although thankfully not today, and there’s a feeling of remoteness yet the nearest village is only a few miles away. Perhaps we feel a connection with our ancient ancestors who felt safer high up where they were able see enemies approaching and be forewarned of danger.
Anyway, on with the walk, as we haven’t reached the half way point yet! Down the other side of Bowerman’s Nose, scaring skylarks from their nests, to reach the gated road below. Soon we reached Houndtor which, being close to a road, is very popular with visitors. ‘The Hound of the Basketmeals’ (geddit?) a snack van in the car park seemed to be doing a good trade. We followed the well defined path up and over the other side of Houndtor (remember it from an episode of Dr Who?) and decided to eat our picnic lunch overlooking the wooded valley below. The walk’s instructions casually mentioned ….”passing a medieval village on your left” which we took to mean that it was insignificant. Instead we found walls standing to about 2-3 feet in places, the outline of small cottages and larger longhouses (where cattle, sheep, goats and humans shared accommodation) and even lanes and pathways. We spent some time there, imagining what a harsh life it must have been and how the tors (Haytor can be seen in the distance) must have had a spiritual influence on those long-dead people.
A steep path downhill through a small bluebell wood and tall pine trees led to the clapper bridge over Becka Brook. We were enchanted by this spot. The little brook burbled over glistening gold and black pebbles under the ancient clapper bridge made out of just two large granite blocks until further downstream a small fall in the riverbed made a chattering sound as the water hit hard rock. It was just like a fairy glade- mossy rocks, trees just coming into leaf with some tracks and more obvious signs that animals cross here and probably come to drink. We had to tear ourselves away and climb steeply through a wood to where the footpaths diverged. We had to follow the sign to Leighon (I wanted to put a ‘T’ in there). Leighon was just a few houses around the beck. One of the houses was being renovated. A very friendly black and white spaniel came out to greet us and even lay on her back for a tummy tickle. A woman up on the scaffolding wished us a good day.
Only another few miles of glorious countryside, pretty lanes lined with huge stones and colourful wild flowers, old farmyards basking in the sunshine and horses snorting at us through deep hedges before we came along the lane to see Lin’s car parked where we’d left it, unlocked as it turned out!! And Lin’s savings of £2 coins (for treats) were intact!
It was about quarter to four and what could be better to round off such a perfect day than a perfect cream tea? Lustleigh was only a few miles away so I suggested we see whether the Primrose Cottage tea shop was open. It was! 4pm on a Monday afternoon and, as the lady behind the counter replied to my anxious enquiry, “It’s never too late for a cream tea!”
Tuesday we venture over the border!
The Seth Lakeman concert did not start till 8pm so we perused the maps and guidebooks, with which 141 is liberally endowed, to find a likely place to visit en route to Fowey. I remembered my sister Anne saying Lostwithiel was a nice little place. It used to be the capital of Cornwall……in the 13th century. First impressions were not good. We drove down a steep hill, over a river bridge (the Fowey) and up the other side, leaving the town before we knew it. We turned back, found a free car park and took a little walk. The church, St Bartholomew’s, was nearby with a very distinctive tower (Breton style, I read later in Pevsner’s Cornwall) There was an elderly couple mowing grass and weeding the churchyard. The old man called over that the door I was trying was locked and to come round to the other entrance. He had a real old Cornish drawl. The woman insisted on accompanying us to the other door, much to his disgust……”I’d a thought they’d be able to find it themselves, me dear!” But that door too was padlocked. The church closed at 3pm so we’d just missed it. We admired an ancient stone cross (medieval) although I’d guessed (wrongly) that it might be Saxon. We wandered the quiet little streets. An early 14th century bridge with five pointed arches spanned the river and people in the nicely converted flats opposite were sitting out in their gardens. A stout old building that would not have looked out of place in France dominated one of the streets near the river. It was the remains of the Stannary Court. The Coinage Hall was the centre of royal authority over tin-mining in the area. A corner or quoin was knocked off each block of tin for the benefit of the Duchy of Cornwall. On to Fowey, once one of England’s busiest ports, where we parked above the town and walked down steps and steep lanes to the river front. At the first of many delightful little shops, Lin pushed the boat out and bought a postcard whilst I was attracted by the shiny ‘laser’ ear-rings. As we neared the town hall we noticed several ‘pirates’ including female piratess with child in buggy! I thought they were advertising some show as they were standing by a small stage that had been set up in the square. Later when Lin and I were tucking into large plates of fish, chips and……mushy peas, one of the pirates came over to us. He told us that they were rowing from Lands End to Poole in aid of five charities. I was explaining to Lin that Poole was near Bournemouth ….at the mention of Bournemouth he gave a magnificent curl of the lip. We fumbled in our purses for change for his collecting bucket. Lin told him we were staying in Plymouth (very dangerous to give too much away to a pirate I thought) and he told us to meet him on the Barbican at 8pm the next night bringing twenty pounds in 1p and 2 p coins so as to make a loud noise in his bucket! With more ‘aaah”s and ‘arrghs’ between us, he was on his way.
We doubted we’d make it back up the hill to Fowey Hall where the concert was being held after stuffing ourselves. On the way (slowly, so slowly) I took a small detour to see the Victorian Gothic tower that is visible from all over Fowey and rather outfaces the church tower of St Finbarrus. "Place" is the seat of the Treffry family. It has high walls and battlements and is altogether very fanciful. Pevsner says ‘the tower is of an ambitious somewhat elephantine Walter Scottian romanticism..” Quite a description! The showpiece is the Porphyry Hall of 1841-3 which has polished walls of ………………..(guess what!) porphyry which is a sort of igneous rock and, no Lin, it’s nothing to do with the madness of George III.
On to the concert- we were early so we sat in the bar and “people watched” - one of my favourite occupations when on holiday! The clientele for the Daphne Du Maurier Festival are to a man AND woman, English, very English if you know what I mean. We couldn’t quite imagine them in the ‘mosh pit’ jumping up and down to Seth’s wild fiddle playing.
I decided to get a pint of beer and was most disappointed to be offered Tetley’s or………………. Tetley’s…..all those great West Country beers like Tribute and Doom Bar were not on offer. Then Lin spotted Sean Lakeman (Seth’s bro.) over by the marquee. I couldn’t see him because of the flap of the tent we were in. We tried to surreptiously move the table without standing up. It looked like something off Monty Python and by the time I’d moved my chair over to follow the table he’d gone! Before we went into the marquee I went off to the Ladies and passed the ‘Artiste’s only’ entrance. I was just about to press my face against the glass for a sighting of a Lakeman brother when a huge bouncer blocked my path!
The concert was great. Seth played all the old favourites alongwith some of his new album. Lin and I were in the middle of a row some way back so we couldn’t get down to the front for a ‘bop’ and had to be content in jigging about in our seats. The audience was a strange mix of Seth fans who wanted to dance and people, probably at the DDM Festival, who clearly had no idea what to do and barely moved throughout an hour and a half of infectious wild music!
And another thing to note ….the toll on the Tamar Bridge has gone up by 50%.......now £1.50 to get back into Devon !! I had my £1 coin clutched in my hot little hand only to see it’d gone up. Lin told the toll guy ‘We’re strangers here’ as I fumbled about for the extra 50p. “You’re not strangers, me dear!” he replied, although he didn’t let us off paying the extra!
Wednesday Misty fruitfulness…………………… and floweriness
The cloud was well down and there was persistent drizzle but we decided to go ahead with our plan to visit the Garden House at Buckland Monachorum. Still full of young Mr Lakeman’s songs from the night before we went for lunch to his ‘local’, The Rock at Yelverton. Disappointedly the bar was full of OAPs (must remember that chronologically Lin and I are also pensioners); no handsome young men at all. We enjoyed a spicy lentil soup but, when a young woman with a piercing, annoyingly posh voice came to sit on the next table and talk loudly at her grandparents, we decided to head off for the Garden House for dessert and coffee.
At the Garden House I asked the woman on the entrance “Are we mad to come to a garden on a day like this?” The mist shrouded the valley and I did wonder what the garden would look like! It turned out to be an inspired choice. We had the place to ourselves apart from one or two gardeners well camouflaged in their green over-trousers and jackets. The garden was mystical in the haze and drizzle. The seed heads of fritillaries and the red and black leaves of the acers sparkled. In the walled garden, which is magical whatever the weather, the purple and red tulips stood to attention. The bluebells were a mist of pale blue under a row of giant trees and there were hundreds of tiny tadpoles in the pond. The churchtower of Buckland Monachorum was just discernible in the mist. Later we drove into the village- a delightful spot with St Andrew’s Church, its square tower with crocketed pinnacles, the old school endowed by Lady Modyford in 1702 and the Drake Manor Inn (Francis Drake lived at nearby Buckland Abbey).
I have already made my list of places to go and things to do for our next visit which will be in August, we hope
Jul 23rd, 2010, 08:16 AM
#2
bellini: I'm dashing out just now and will have to come back later to read your reports . . .
But just a hint. It is difficult to follow trip reports that are split up into multiple threads. You would do better to post each installment as a post to the original thread.
But just a hint. It is difficult to follow trip reports that are split up into multiple threads. You would do better to post each installment as a post to the original thread.
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Jun 6th, 2009 07:26 AM
