Yealmpton to Wembury

‘We’re going to walk the Two Moors Way. Like to join us?’

It was my first month as an Exeter resident (the designation ‘Exonian’ is reserved for those with several generations rooted in the city) and this felt like a test.

‘Sounds good, what’s the plan?’

‘We’ll do it on Tuesdays. I try to keep Tuesdays free of meetings.’

I was becoming familiar with the conceit of the newly retired that their diaries are bulging. ‘Don’t know how I found the time to work’ is the refrain when discussing retirement lifestyle.

The two moors in question are Dartmoor and Exmoor and the route runs from Ivybridge in the south to Lynmouth on the north Devon coast. But Jill explained that the route has now been extended southwards and renamed the Mariners’ Way.

Jill collected me from my temporary accommodation at Old Abbey Court a little after 9am. John had succumbed to the cold virus ravaging Exeter and would not be joining us, so there was a slight change of plan and we would now walk the southernmost section. Cresting the hill at Wembury, the first glimpse of the sea includes a small island not much larger than a massive boulder framed by the sides of the valley, a compelling focal point.  

Eileen was waiting at the National Trust car park and while she and Jill discussed the route, I readied myself.

‘We’re not walking,’ Jill smiled when she saw me struggling with my backpack, ‘we’re going to Yealmpton.’

I’d forgotten the intricate motoring ballet which brackets a linear walk. Frequently, as much time is spent ‘shuffling cars’ as leaving footprints. There was an advantage to this extra drive: we parked at Ben’s Farm Shop and indulged in coffee and florentines before eventually hitting the trail at 11.15.

I’m resigned to getting lost on country walks, notwithstanding guidebooks, maps and GPS but this one confused me from the start.

‘I thought we were on the Two Moors Way, why does this sign say the Erme-Plym Trail?’

‘Oh, that’s the southern extension.’

A later sign claimed it was the Devon Coast to Coast Walk but there was no mention of the Mariners’ Way.

During our assault on the South-West Coast path, Jill was assiduous to the point of obsession about traversing every inch of the route, and in the right direction. Times change, and today we were walking the first section of the route backwards because she had already walked some of the sections most accessible for day outings. Despite its many aliases, the signage was intermittent and ambiguous. Crossing a muddy and uneven field we struggled to find the exit and reconcile our whereabouts to the route on the map. I recalled I’d downloaded the South Devon OS map and produced my phone. A red marker showed us exactly where we were.

‘Hm, you kept that quiet,’ remarked Jill poring over the screen. It was apparent that we had bypassed a chunk of the route. She shrugged.

Field crossings were the theme of the day, made more challenging by generous volumes of mud, illegally ploughed footpaths and fields where dips or rises obstructed the view of the opposite boundary harbouring stiles or gates.

It was pheasant country and, passing a sign with a stern injunction to keep dogs under control, we were assailed by an overbearing woman with two dogs, one on a lead and the other frisking merrily.

‘Can you tell me the way to Top Vale?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve done this walk before but not with the dogs.’

Before we could answer, her mobile rang. She waved imperiously at us. ‘Won’t keep you a moment.’

After her call, she asked benignly ‘Now, how can I help you?’

We didn’t require help, that being a rare moment when we knew where we were going, but she insisted on directing us anyway, asserting authoritatively that we would be better off taking the main road through the next section. We murmured thanks then, once out of earshot, spluttered at the absurdity of recommending a busy road in preference to the footpaths. Dog woman had the last laugh, though: the section which followed was ankle deep in mud and populated by a herd of cows, fortunately occupying a remote corner.  

Lunch was on the stone parapet of a bridge over the River Yealm, no more than a picturesque brook until it expands into an estuary between Wembury and Newton Ferrers.

The afternoon brought more fields and eventually more cows. These were stationed directly in front of the gate through which we would have to exit the field and planted knee-deep in mud. We looked for alternatives. The most attractive option was a lane leading up to a farm, until we read a sign stating ‘trespassers will be composted’. On the whole, this seemed a lesser risk than being trampled by cows or drowning in mud. When we rounded the corner in front of the house, Jill assumed her most ingratiating voice and explained to the farmer, an imposing figure in dungarees, that we were only passing this way because of her anxiety about cattle. He assured us they were harmless, in much the same patronising tone of voice dog owners assert ‘ee won’ urcher’ when you’re confronted by their snarling pet. Further along the drive, several dozen caravans, boats and mobile homes were parked in a field. There was no sign of occupation and we speculated on their purpose – a subsequent Google search revealed it to be a storage facility, no doubt a more profitable use of land than farming.

At Wembury, I admired the sun setting over the small island. Eileen informed me it is called Great Mew Stone.

‘They’re all called either mew stone or black rock,’ she remarked drily.

The National Trust café was closed but we knew coffee and cake was awaiting us at Ben’s.  

The New River

The New River

The UK had voted for Brexit but Trump was not yet president. The candle of sanity was flickering but not yet quenched.  On the last day of summer it was still and mild. Gerry called me when I was on the way to the gym to suggest a walk. London Bridge station was closed and he'd abandoned his plan to pay Nadia a surprise visit in Sevenoaks. We agreed to meet at Stratford at 1pm and in the meantime Gerry would research a suitable route. I rushed through my gym routine, leaving in a sweat and getting home in time to make a sandwich before setting off. On the train, Gerry called to say we should meet at platform 11. We took a train to Tottenham Hale and changed to the Hertford East line.

Our walk followed the New River, which a notice board admitted was neither new nor a river, having been created in the early seventeenth century as a twentyfive mile aqueduct to supply water to London.

'Must have been as challenging as building a third runway at Heathrow,' commented Gerry.

Before starting the walk, we took a turn around Hertford. Although the responsibilities of being a county town vanished with local government reorganization, the accoutrements endure. An unaccountably grand station and buildings elaborately decorated with swirling plasterwork which Gerry informed me was known as pargetting. One, housing an estate agent and various chichi shops, was for sale. At £5m it seemed overpriced, even given the unusual decoration.

The street market had the usual collection of SWAG (Sold Without A Guarantee) tat. Gerry gleefully unearthed a DVD of Brideshead Revisited. A pall of grease hung over the street and we tracked the source to a wagon branded ‘Neil's Meals on Wheels’ and enjoyed 50p cups of tea. The vendor was unexpectedly well-informed about the town and keen to share his knowledge. The imposing station, he explained, was due to the flourishing brewing industry which had previously acquired ingredients by barge but on the demise of river traffic had to switch to the railways. It didn't seem an entirely convincing explanation. At his suggestion, we visited the castle. The outer wall dates from the eleventh century but the gatehouse, the only remaining building, has been rebuilt and except for a castellated tower, now resembles any other council offices touting for weddings and similar functions. Other buildings have been adapted to the modern world: the sturdy Victorian Bluecoat school buildings in the centre of the town are now luxury flats.

The walk along the New River, or as it should properly be known, the Old Canal, starts through an unprepossessing development of modern town houses and apartments catering to the increasing exodus from London with commuters into Liverpool Street week served by the elegant station. Dusk fell as we trudged along the river banks so we headed to the station at Broxbourne and resolved to continue the route another day.

Dozing in the train, I thought of the other end of the New River. On the way to its final destination at Sadler’s Wells, sections surface in north London in short linear parks where tranquil winding paths offer relief to crowded estates. In Clissold Park, an almost stagnant stretch hosts ducks and Canada geese, sources of endless entertainment to small children in buggies and frolicking dogs. Recent park refurbishment has included the provision of tennis courts, a skateboard rink and, curiously, a butterfly house. Inside the perimeter railing which separates park from pavement, a mile long running track has been fashioned. Periodically as it compacts to mulch it is refreshed with wood chips harvested from fallen trees. In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it used to be my pleasure to run three or four circuits in the early morning and be rewarded with a hot shower and breakfast on Sally’s patio.

Lighter

(15 minute writing exercise with random object stimulus: cigarette lighter.)

Lighter

‘We’ll take the scenic route and have lunch at the Royal Oak.’

Martha knew what that meant: a couple of pints, he’d be just under the legal limit and she’d spend the rest of the journey clutching the side of her seat wishing she’d learned to drive back when everyone else had.

‘Anyway we need to test the mileage, it’s supposed to do seventy to the gallon.’

‘They don’t measure it like that any more, it’s kilometres per litre.’ Martha knew that would annoy him, but couldn’t resist a minor triumph.

‘Whatever, the days of petrol are over, that’s for sure.’

Martha took out her cigarettes.

‘No smoking in the new car,’ Martin said, ‘you’ll have to wait for the pub.’

Martin had always been a petrolhead, and proud of it. Their marriage could be tracked by the cars they’d acquired in the same way other couples marked the years by the progress of their children. Martin even insisted on commemorating the day in the year each car was bought. 15 March was the Morris Marina, that was the only one Martha remembered because it was the ides of March and seemed appropriate to a car which had proved such a disaster.

Usually Martin would use any excuse for a road trip but this one, the annual visit to her parents, was always a battle. This date was rejected because of work commitments, that date because there was a rugby international which couldn’t be missed. And so it was that they were setting off in early winter with frost replacing the mist which Martha had seen rising over the fields in recent mornings.

‘Wow, look at this we’re getting over eighty,’ Martin couldn’t have been happier if he’d won the lottery.

‘Still more expensive than a regular car when you think how much it cost.’

‘Oh yeah, and the depreciation, can’t you ever enjoy anything?’

Lunch was tense, the main topic of conversation how many days they would stay with her parents. ‘God, we haven’t even go there yet and he’s thinking of reasons to leave early,’ Martha thought.

In the afternoon Martin put his foot down.

‘I think this has got even better acceleration than the Mustang.’

Martha sighed, checked her seatbelt and settled into her seat. Her doze was interrupted by the car slowing jerkily.

‘What’s up?’

Martin was glowering at the dashboard.

‘There’s some wrong, we’re out of juice. I don’t understand it.’

‘Must be the cold weather, they said it affects the battery. And you’ve been hammering it. Just as well it’s dual fuel, switch to the tank.’

‘I…I didn’t put any petrol in. Makes the car too heavy, reduces the performance.’ Martin looked sheepish.

‘Just as well I’ve got my lighter then. l filled it yesterday, should be enough to get us to Mum’s, we’re only a few miles away.’