Extopia

The houses in Extopia are built on gently rising terraces which have been constructed not for agriculture or defence but so that every resident can enjoy an uninterrupted view of the lagoon. Before daybreak, fishermen in smocks and boots cast off from the jetties which, from above, appear to attach the lagoon to the shore, in search of the exotic fish for which the city is renowned. This is the focus of leisure activities too, and by early afternoon a scatter of small craft - dinghies, skiffs, kayaks – have displaced the waterfowl which congregate to feed at dawn. All ages delight in being afloat. Small children shriek in pedalos, courting couples loll on cushions in gilded gondolas, older folk gaze from the bow of the ferry as it is tugged across the bay by a cable..

The water’s edge is lined with cafes, their tables elevated on boarded platforms so that anyone who has not been lucky enough to rent a boat can watch the activities on the water while warming their hands on mugs of hot chocolate. So fervent are the citizens of Extopia in their devotion to the water, that the watchers have developed the ability to feel as though they are in a boat while observing it, combining two complementary but otherwise irreconcilable pleasures into a doubly satisfying experience. Those enjoying this conflation of sensations have a glazed, faraway countenance and gently rock while seated at the cloth-covered café tables, as though responding to the movement of a boat. This technique for heightening ecstasy has been extended to other spheres. In Extopia, spectators at football matches or in theatres both view the entertainment and savour the thrill of participation. The most skilful exponents of this art are able to summon the sensations of multiple activities while engaging in none of them. Relaxing in a favourite chair or dozing on a bus, they can simultaneously relish making love to their partner, eating a ripe pear and winning a game of chess.

The quest for ever more recondite and intense combinations has an addictive momentum. Far from the lapping lagoon, in darkened back rooms, dwell the inhabitants of Extopia who have perfected the art of multiplying the pleasure sensations, piling inputs from all five senses into rapturous sensory climaxes. If the traveler should peer inside these hostelries, he will see gaunt, staring figures, redolent of the denizens of opium dens, who have conflated a lifetime’s delights into an evanescent orgy, and have aged accordingly.

The Coleridge Way

‘So where shall we go next year?’

Ever since Jill and John finished the South West Coast Path, this question was asked at the end of each walking group holiday.

‘Somewhere closer to home.’

‘Oh yes, now that David’s finally moved to Devon.’

That meant I could forget about the Peddar’s Way, a route in Norfolk I had long fancied.

‘And a short one, which we could polish off in a week.’

Hence the Coleridge Way, practically commuting distance from Exeter and at 51 miles short enough to complete in a few days, even given the car shuffling necessary for a linear walk. Another advantage of its proximity to Exeter was that an introductory walk, conveniently snipping off one end of the trail, could be undertaken en route to our temporary accommodation. Although we planned for eight miles, it was reduced to five on account of persistent rain and heavy mist shrouding the much-vaunted sea view approaching Lynmouth. Spirits were raised when we reached the spacious house featuring a hot tub which became a regular haunt of the ladies and was thus christened the witches’ cauldron.

The house was commodious – four bedrooms and four bathrooms, our minimum requirement - but we were baffled by the dishwasher. Although there was an instruction booklet, it related to an entirely different model and after pressing all available buttons in every possible sequence we abandoned it until the owner arrived the next morning. He pressed one button, closed the door and it started, puzzled that we had been defeated by such a simple operation.

The week proceeded much as usual with one exception. Sandwich preparation time was previously characterised by the demarcation of fish and non-fish zones in the kitchen so that those of us partial to tuna sandwiches were segregated from Jill, who claimed a lethal allergy to fish and fish products.  But recently she had submitted to allergy tests which proved negative, using cod which she was required to bring to the clinic and which had been supplied and cooked by me. So the holiday became a piscine riot with fish twice in the week and much exchanging of fishy recipes.

Jill’s other sensitivity, an aversion to cattle, was more intransigent, partly because it was secretly shared by many of us who were quietly grateful that she admitted to it, leaving the rest of us able to profess airy indifference while benefitting from her wariness. A detour to avoid cattle with calves, a particularly hazardous combination, led us on to a track and a meeting with farmer who was amused by our caution. He recounted a story of a recent country walk where he was confronted by an unknown bull blocking a stile.

‘I climbed over and gave him a kick up the arse,’ he said, then looking faintly embarrassed by his own words, continued, ‘yes, he had a point of view, but I gave him a kick up the arse,’ repeating the phrase robustly as if to assert its validity.

Even at our leisurely pace, with stops for morning coffee and afternoon tea, covering 51 miles does not necessitate walking every day for a week, so there was time to explore other attractions. Paul is a steam aficionado and, with the intention of later impressing Gerry, I agreed to accompany him and Eileen on a steam train outing from Washford to Watchet and back to Dunster, where we would meet the others for a tour of Dunster Castle. Trains were scheduled two hourly yet even with this relaxed timetable ours was twenty minutes late, and, worse, it was a diesel, the steam locomotive having broken down. But as Eileen observed, once you were on the train you couldn’t see the engine so it didn’t really matter, an opinion I have previously expressed to Gerry and with which he profoundly disagrees. The boat museum at Watchet was the other reason for our excursion. Despite boasting the largest collection of Flatner boats in the world, Paul, a yachting enthusiast, declared it a disappointment, our only consolation being that admittance was free.

The week culminated in a visit to Coleridge’s cottage in Nether Stowey, a dingy place, comprising in his time only two rooms on each floor which accommodated the poet, his long-suffering wife, their baby, a maid and a lodger. National Trust cream teas were served at an agonisingly slow pace by volunteers under training and when they were out of earshot, someone said, ‘What they need is…’ and we chorused, ‘a kick up the arse.’