Cremyll

Of the Exeter-based Met Office, the conventional obloquy is ‘all they’ve got to do is look out of the window’ when the forecast turns out to be annoyingly inaccurate.

The 50mph winds they confidently predicted on the day before had mysteriously vanished when Wednesday came, so although the prospect of rain was uninviting, the question, previously abandoned as impractical in view of forecast storms, of whether to venture to Plymouth for a boat trip to Cawsands and a coastal walk back to Cremyll, now became pertinent.

My preference was to delay for a day, but that would have entailed Gerry travelling by himself so when he rather endearingly remarked it would be ‘more fun’ in my company I conceded that the weather seemed worthy of a try.

The boat trips on offer for excursions or fishing required prior day booking but the one we were aiming for was a ferry and therefore more of a commuter service with tickets available on board.

I devoured an extra slice of toast in anticipation of a late lunch and we quick marched to St David’s. I always like to have a train in hand in case the target is missed and that was the case on this occasion. So although we arrived in Plymouth in good time to walk to the Mayflower Steps, there was sufficient drizzle to justify a taxi. It took most of the 15 minute ride for Gerry to recall the last time he had indulged in such luxury.

The rain had subsided to a demoralised drizzle by the time we reached the ticket kiosk. With little ceremony and less apology, we were informed that the Cawsands ferry was cancelled due to ‘bad weather’. Having just put on my sunglasses to cope with the glare from the flat calm of the sea, I challenged this. ‘It was windy this morning was the explanation.’ In vain I protested that while it was indeed windy earlier, such was not the case now.  An inner voice told me to save my breath and I fulminated instead to Gerry in an uncharacteristic reversal of our usual roles. Possibly induced by an hour’s train journey on the sacred Dawlish line, he was in a state of unassailable cherubic calm.

An anodyne lunch at the Flower Café, proudly flaunting its encomia in the local press on the walls, passed the time until embarkation. At the quay, while waiting for the ferry, we engaged in conversation a deck hand from the vessel preparing for the harbour cruise. Recently graduated from Plymouth Uni, she was passing a pleasant year in this fashion while deciding whether to return to her native France. Disarmingly, she spoke faultless English with a Plymouth twang.

Mount Edgcumbe is the chief attraction of Cremyll. Only the Tudor walls of the symmetrical house with towers at each corner survived wartime bombing and the family subsequently rebuilt the inside. Flaneuring around the grounds replaced the more ambitious walk we had intended but Gerry was mightily pleased by the absence of any charge for ambling through the grounds and perusing the craft workshops. We took tea in the converted stables where I tried the homemade carrot cake flapjack, a not entirely successful blend of two coffee shop staples

As usual, the connecting train to Exeter Central was just pulling out as we crossed the bridge, a fact which Gerry bemoaned but I privately celebrated as our tickets were not valid for the extension and GWR staff are assiduous in their application of penalties. In consolation, we took a short-cut ginnel on the way home from the station entailing a steep climb to the Picturehouse which avoids the Exe Bridges roundabout (or more accurately, gyratory) and much noisome traffic.

Dinner was the remainder of the cauliflower cheese we had made the night before, to her discomfiture, for Jilly.