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.’

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.