Budleigh

Budleigh

I needed a change of scene today so decided to take the car to Budleigh Salterton. It felt vaguely transgressive but in reality there is no more risk in walking there than my usual riverside meanderings and I wanted the sea views. I dressed warmly. Although the rain has stopped, there is a brisk north-westerly.

The roads were as busy as usual, if not busier. Maybe everyone is already beginning to suffer from cabin fever. 

I found a space between two SUVs in the free car park at Budleigh. Two women with dogs were chatting at a respectful distance. The sea front at Budleigh has a special serenity and the prominent stand of trees at the far end is irresistible to local artists. I passed the apartment block, blemished with the rust-coloured streaks characteristic of sea-sprayed buildings, where Hilary Mantel lives. Last time I was here, she was enduring publicity photos on the pebbly beach, shivering in a shawl in a passable impersonation of the French lieutenant’s woman.

It’s only half an hour’s walk to the end of the beach so I then turned inland. The River Otter is home to beavers reintroduced by Devon Wildlife Trust in a trial arranged in conjunction with Exeter University. One day last summer, Marion and I spent dusk crouching in silence on the river-bank, watching for them. At one point, there was a commotion in the water and I clutched Marion’s arm excitedly but it was only a dog cooling off in the shallows.

My destination was Otterton Mill where they mill locally grown wheat using a water wheel. I had coffee and carrot cake. Irredeemable transgressive and a treat which will become a fond memory. Elderly couples sat at outside tables, dutifully well-spaced. Some looked as though they would have benefited from megaphones. There was only one topic of conversation.

Otterton Mill claims that it is the eighteenth oldest business in the world, although exactly what that means, let alone how they know, baffled me. But their flour is tasty and I bought a bag to blend with stone-ground Canadian for bread. Last year I relented and bought a bread maker, which is ironic as I now have more time to bake by hand, but I enjoy trying different recipes in the machine’s booklet.

A viewing platform has been built next to the path. Carvings in the wood illustrate the resident and seasonal waders for those who, unlike me, have remembered to bring binoculars. Instead of the bold statement of an estuary, the river broadens into an untidy straggle of ponds and marshes before slipping through a gap to reach the sea. From the distance of the platform, the ragged shingle embankment forms a straight horizon between the distinctive coppice on the left and the blossoming blackthorn lining the path on the right. Pairs of walkers silhouetted at either end of the embankment hold it in quotation marks.

On the high street, sunshine had brought out more folk. Most had dogs, a few trailed grandchildren. The good burghers of Budleigh, deprecatingly called God’s waiting room by the rest of Devon, are a stout bunch.

At the western end, the cliffs lead to Exmouth, past the holiday park where Emma‘s mother has her caravan. I walked part of the way, paused at a bench and closed my eyes to listen to the sea. The constant hissing is interrupted by dissonant surges, cymbal-like claps and occasional thumping booms. It is a symphony that has been playing since time immemorial and will outlast us all.

© David Thompson 2020