‘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.
