Boston Tea Party

The smoke of chatter drifts over their heads, a blanket of white noise guaranteeing privacy for those desiring intimacy, offering comfort to the lonely.  The level, curated to perfection, never peaks into the red, nor fades to abrupt silence.  

This is not the haunt of businessmen, they have no compunction about patronising the chains. Nor are there any amorous couples, they are still at work, plotting strategies for encounters in pubs after hasty dinners. Young mothers are deterred by stairs; the immobile, at either end of the age spectrum, are missing.

It is the territory of friends. Young women sit on opposite sides of wooden desks, as they might have done five years ago at school. They lean towards one another, sharing photos on their phones. Men prefer an oblique configuration, it feels less exposed.

Four women are discussing a play. Their four open laptops imprison four coffee cups. In a corner, a tousled student glares at a screen. He has not moved for an hour. His main accomplishment after three years of higher education is making a single cup of coffee last the morning.

An older couple hesitates at the top of the stairs. It’s not what they were expecting, the sea of battered furniture. Untenanted, it would resemble the auction room previews they patronise on Tuesday mornings. Emboldened by the lack of music and indifference of the occupants, they enter, pause, scan for a vacant table and place their shopping gingerly on mismatched chairs.

Viewed from above, the scatter of people around tables is like a chess board in mid-play. Bags and coats are littered freely; their happy owners have gone to fetch tea and cakes suffused with latent guilt, and trust the aura of community for protection. Tall windows suck in setting sunlight and frost the edges of black T-shirts: Vermeer was here.  

High ceilings and Corinthian columns attest to an august past. In 1850, the Bankruptcy Court held its first session. Reporters wrote that the room was too large and it was difficult to hear the proceedings due to the echo. 

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.