The peculiar pilgrimage begins

Monday 29 October, 2018

The morning was spent dashing along Brunels’ remarkable coastal railway. I was scarcely able to believe that the line had survived all these years as this high-speed train was splashed in spray from the waves breaking on the narrowest of beaches and against the sea wall on the section from Dawlish to Teignmouth.

Some impressions:

• South Devon seems to be all farms, green fields and hedgerows that don’t seem to have moved in a couple of centuries, or at least since the Enclosure Acts. Frost is hiding on the north side of hills, the woods are thick and the farmhouses look like they have been there for ever (except I am sure they are very modern inside). I think that is a particularly English trait, an unwillingness to throw the old away, although this certainly doesn’t apply in London; but in the counties, it provides a continuity that is certainly a significant attraction and a good reason to get out of London, even with all it has to offer.

• As we scoot in to Plymouth, we pass two excellent names from South Australian history: Saltram and Laira. Now I’m wondering what the connection is between two wine brands and two hamlets along the estuary.

• All country and outer suburban stations seem to have the same air, whether it’s in Australia or the UK. Slightly down at heel, slightly under-maintained, with a combination of anticipation, desperation and disappointment. Actually Plymouth is about the size of Strathfield, but it feels like Penrith on a Saturday morning: getting the train in the hope of money or a day with a friend on Platform 2, wandering along the platform because you know that you’ll have to wait for a lift on Platform 3, the look of shear frustration on Platform 1 because you’ve missed the train!

• Wadebridge is full of what one might call “pensioners on push bikes”, except you’d be doing it just for alliteration! These are not your average retirees, just like the local land prices are not UK average! No, these are Lycra-clad, late-Sixities refugees from the middle-class suburbs, enjoying the cool but stunning sunshine on very expensive-looking battery-powered trail bikes.

• Just outside St Minver’s, a pub called the Pity Me Inn.

Going to Port Isaac was, of course, completely barmy. I should have just stayed on the train and gone straight to St Erth and on to St Ives; but the chance was there and the village does not disappoint. The mazy streets are far more confusing that Doc Martin would have you imagine; but I did manage to have dinner in the bar of the Golden Lion, which doubles as the pub in the series – and very nice it was too.

It’s very similar to Robins Hood Bay, in that there are almost two villages: one at the top and one at the bottom. Thankfully, the parking is at the top; but so is my B and B (very nice), which meant a pretty steep hill before and after dinner. The cliffs are pretty scary for walkers, over 200 metres high in places. I walked three kilometres towards Tintagel and at time you aren’t more than a metres from the drop. Thankfully it was a beautiful day with no wind.

Not much else to say really: three hours getting here, three hours walking around, dinner and a book. Repeat tomorrow and then things get serious on Thursday – as may the weather.