Day 8: Sidmouth to Beer

It’s about 17 km between the two towns, and the guidebooks warned that it would be strenuous, so it was only Al, Ben and me that set out for Beer. It was strenuous, but the views were worth it — without trying to make the others jealous. They had the pleasure of wandering around Sidmouth for a morning, and the town looked as it it had kept much of the architecture that made it an Edwardian favourite. The blokes just headed straight up the hill.

The others, meanwhile, had a chance to saviour the quintessential Edwardian genteel resort. I was a little envious, as Sidmouth in many ways was very pretty. As we walked in, we were reminded of Delderfield’s association with the place, as a nature reserve is named after him at the top of the town. He has certainly made his mark on Devon, despite having been born in south London (Croydon, of all places!): google ‘West Buckland School’, where he went for a couple of years. to see how he has been remembered there, which was the model for Bamfield in To Serve Them All My Days.

A very cursory look at a satellite view will explain the challenge: every time a stream cuts across the path, it has worn away a steep valley — almost a gully — and rather than retreating back towards the road where it is less steep, the Path tends to send you down a set of stairs and then up again. Ben demonstrated the enthusiasm of youth and showed a clean pair of heels to Al and me, but we were stopping regularly just to take photographs.

We reached Weston Beach down the steep hill, soft pebbles underfoot and few sun-bakers because it’s so far from a car park. Then on past Street and Branscombe to our left, then down to Branscombe Beach, where the crowds made any idea of an ice cream out of the question.

Where had all the people come from? Incredibly, they had plonked up the hill from Beer and then down the 45º slope to the beach. They were now starting to go home, and we joined them, plodding up the areobically challenging track.

We had not had much contact with the others during the day, but after getting to Seaton by bus, they had thirty or so minutes of walking along the beach and over the hill to reach Beer. We actually beat them into the village, and had already settled by the time they arrived.

Beer was pretty, even though it was filled with holiday makers from the campsite on the hill. Paula and I found the most beautiful porcelain bowl in one of the art galleries in the Main Street. The beach was surrounded by tall cliffs, except where the brook running down the main street met the sea. Mackerel and crab boats were lined up at the high-water mark on the pebbles, on top of the tall shingle bank. There wasn’t much enthusiasm for swimming unless you had a wet suit, but the beach was lined with bathing huts and deck chairs. The pub was at maximum capacity downstairs, but the bar maid told me that they had been rationing everything to make sure they could keep going through the Bank holiday.