Devon can be many things. A terrible processed meat in the deli counter at Coles. A fast bowler from the nineties. A hotbed of interbreeding rivalry between two cities. An hour of everybody’s time wasted in Escape to the Country. An elongated farmyard on the way to Cornwall. But, always, a sprawling canvas in which are sewn indelible gems, both sparkling and subtle.
The subtle, hidden ones are of course the best. These are the unassuming pockets that do their best impression of Tolkien’s Shire, before all that weird dark wizardry and multiple three hour orcfests came knocking at the door. Think thatched homes and fluffy rabbits and green hills and apple orchards and beady-eyed locals with distorted feet, living under an angle of sun that always casts a golden hue.
In a county that does a commendable impression of The Shire, it is perhaps apt that I should find myself on a special quest. Allied with a peculiar looking fellowship seeking out a special ring…of luxuriant clotted cream smeared atop treacly strawberry jam coating a fluffy, crunchy, warm cloud of a scone. It has been some mission.
Where to find this precious, last sighted many years ago lost in the valley of Badgeres Holte? Perhaps nestled among the shapely hills and sinewy estuaries of the South Hams? Possibly, but it is far too easy to get distracted by hog roast baps on the way to Thurlestone. And on glorious days beside the sea, ice cream is usually the natural order of events.
The quilted green squares of the South Hams do their best to go on forever (especially if you are driving the A379 in August), but from vantage points you can see the uplands of Dartmoor. Here it can often feel a bit more Mordor, particularly wedged between cold walls of granite as mists swirl, gusts of wind making diagonal raindrops feel like a thousand steel barbs. You’d quite fancy a dip in Mount Doom frankly.
Protection though comes in the valleys and the inns, one of which offers up one of the stingiest serves of cream tea in the whole of Devon. You can have silver platters and waistcoats all you like, but a dainty teaspoon of cream for three people is never going to fulfil a quest. Or sustain enough until a Toby Carvery.
Perhaps the pickings are too thin upon this high wilderness or perhaps this is just some benefit of Brexit or whatever (yes I went there, too soon?). There is an untrammelled and capacious beauty in the high moor, but it is somehow at its very best, at its most precious, where the outreaches of civilisation and cultivation lap at the rocky tors and sheep-strewn bracken. This could be a state of mind as much an aesthetic, reassurance that down in the fields there is life, possibly even grazing cows, and maybe a café with a nice scone.
The area around Sheepstor is such an area and one I am happy to take footsteps within time and again. Late afternoon and into evening it was pleasing to share it with fellow adventurers, though our end destination on this occasion was wholesome food and ale in the Walkhampton Inn. Another welcome staging post to add to the list of options when travelling through this way.
And so the end of the journey draws closer. It would have been difficult to eventually fulfil this quest without the insight and companionship of others. Like those who did their research among indistinguishable five star reviews proclaiming every cream tea anywhere “the best one I’ve ever had” only for reality to reveal a dry, crumbly, measly mess. And for those who – during the course of quite a few years – accompanied me to pokey cafes in seaside towns or faced National Trust disappointment or journeyed with hope through the Shire to encounter a dry, crumbly, measly mess.
And then there are also those who drove me to a small village in the borderlands between the countryside and the moor.
A small village out of Hobbiton central casting, centred around a church green, fringed by a babbling brook glistening in the golden sun. Birds and butterflies flit from stone walls to thatched roofs while walkers pass through on their way to higher places. Quiet, unassuming, charming and with a small, unpretentious, homely café in the heart. Or should I say – even better – tea room. Screw your gold disappeary ring, bring me one of those cream teas right now.
Among the excitement, among the relief there is deep sadness that there are people who cannot join us as we complete the mission. They certainly were wholesome advocates of such adventure and had their fair share of memorable bites and dollops through the years. Lovers of Devon, the Shire and the very simple amalgam of people and nature together, the simple amalgam too of jam and cream. We eat – and we eat a lot with joy and with heart and possibly with some clogged up heart as well – in their honour. Together, it is very, very precious.
In unprecedented developments I went to Looe and didn’t buy a pasty. Instead my bag was packed with a leftover barbecue sausage sandwich and bag of crisps. It was one of those cost-of-living crisis kind of days, what with the £2 bus fare as well. As if a £2 bus fare balances out a decade of incompetence and self-sabotage and party time plunging living standards.
Anyway, walking is free, as they say. And the bus dropped me off at West Looe, a tidally fulsome river away from cellars of lard and pasty caverns. If only I were a seagull. About to hop along on two webbed feet all the way to Polperro. After a snack.
This was a walk I had started once before, in my youth on a hot, sunny day. Quite probably commencing at Looe Guildhall, where antique plates or boxes with flowers stuck on were being flogged. I felt flogged climbing one hill too many and turned back to make sure I could get my body-sized slot in the back of a red Citroen van. To think I was younger and allegedly fitter then.
Let’s say some thirty-something years later, the weather wasn’t so hot but it was sunny and the shelter of the coast path, straddled between perpendicular hills and scrubby cliffs, made it feel nice. In some ways this was a reacquaintance with and continuation of my three day walk along the southern Cornish coastline last year. Only in the other direction and missing a chunk (Polperro to Mevagissey 2024 anyone?). Amazingly, it was like I’d never been away, I muttered as I hauled myself up the first skyward incline.
The steepest part of this stretch is likely to be when leaving Talland Bay, a gorgeous enclave and half way point populated by a small beach, a church on a hill and a café. The café is the kind of thing that makes the South West Coast Path such a civilised affair, despite the occasional wild meandering through shrubbery. Walk a bit, have a cream tea, walk a bit, regret cream tea as you sweat your way up the world’s steepest footpath.
I spent a bit of money on the cream tea, so after some more gentle walking surrounded by exquisite beauty I was overjoyed to enter Polperro for free. This is an unprecedented state of affairs. Normally I require a bank loan at eye-watering interest rates to visit Polperro. Today, not a penny…although I later found out to spend a penny I would need fifty pennies. The fleecing is still alive and well, including the tacky plastic King Charles Coronation flags that – a week or so after the event – were at least discounted to a pound.
Anyway, this is a far better way to arrive into Polperro than the car park of extortion. Turning a corner that you wouldn’t know was there until it is in your face, the sea surges into the embrace of a snug harbour fringed by whitewash and kaleidoscopic bunting. Lobster pots pile up along the sea wall and old bits of rope look as though they would barely tame a seagull, let alone a trawler.
A poky old pub tempts with Tribute, a bakery window is piled with scones, Roly’s fudge is being freshly made. And all I can pay for today are crumbs… admittedly delicious fudge crumbs that will be adorning ice cream for many months to come. I’ve still got to fork out for the bus ride home.
The £2 bus fares continued to tempt during May but I wasn’t convinced about taking a two and a half hour ride to Bude or Padstow. Not only because of the duration but also because you would get 15 minutes in either place before having to board the return journey. Either that or you could take a connecting bus to Launceston and then wait another two hours for a tractor to Liskeard via a maize maze and then hitch a lift to Carkeel roundabout before rolling down a hill.
So I took a train to Truro instead, got incorrect bus times online and then eventually made it to St. Agnes, a total journey time of, erm, about two and a half hours. Still, I got there around lunchtime which made it prime time for giant sausage rolls. And an iced bun for takeaway. I had utopian visions of savouring the iced bun with a cup of tea at Chapel Porth, several miles away. But following the plunge down to Trevaunance Cove and the goat track up again, icing was in a perilous state of affairs and needed rescuing.
Unlike the Looe to Polperro adventure, this was reasonably familiar ground. I had first discovered St. Agnes’ penchant for novelty sausage rolls several years back and ended up doing the same walk as today. This is not a bad thing, not a bad thing at all. For not only do you receive an abundance of the essence of Cornwall (azure seas, rolling surf, plunging cliffs, tin mines, seagulls, thrift, heather and gorse and Poldork), but it ends with a hedgehog.
This is Chapel Porth‘s signature dish, an almost impossible to control combo of ice cream, clotted cream and roasted hazelnuts. Shame that iced bun never made it here, though I still would have been quite satisfied with it alongside a cup of tea. As it was, I took the ice cream down to a rapidly shrinking beach, the tide high and a keen wind mustering the first sensation of being a bit cold today. Perfect ice cream weather, right?
All this eating might make one plump but you can pretty much guarantee you will burn it off again on the next climb. For me, this involved veering away from the coast and cutting back to St. Agnes via the beacon. It was a walk I may have enjoyed more, were it not for the fact I seemed to be in an increasing hurry to meet the bus.
With five minutes to spare, I settled under a shady tree near the bus stop, pleased to have a sit down and gather myself for the journey home. Five minutes became ten and twenty and an hour and there it finally was, grinding up a hill in a puff of diesel. Delivering me back to Truro where trains were delayed because a boat had hit a bridge. This is almost as Cornish as the old cows on the line excuse. Suddenly the two pound buses don’t sound so bad.
Not that it really mattered. What else was I to do? Other than sit at the platform and take salvation in an emergency bag of M&S crisps for dinner, thankful once again for the sunshine and the South West Coast Path. A strenuous brute of a thing that yet is so comforting, so uplifting, so more beautiful than pretty much anywhere else there is.
The first glimpse of the sun came cascading through a spring green canopy in Central Park. Its emergence immediately lifted a weight, a heavy cloak of gloom and despair. A reminder of hope and joy and wonder simply being on this Earth. In Central Park, Plymouth of all places.
Central Park, where I roamed as a kid, played on the swings, rode my bike, swung a golf club, gorged on hot doughnuts at Sunday morning car boot sales, took my rite of passage to the theatre of greens and generally didn’t think much of it. It was just a park after all.
Sure, it is a big park, bigger still with the little legs of childhood that make every memory lane seem longer and more tiresome. As a consequence, the farthest reaches from home were rarely visited: a thin green valley leading to Ford Park Cemetery. Always shady and damp and slightly foreboding. Always requiring a walk up through thickets and brambles and the mulch of autumns past to return to sunlit uplands and open vistas.
How perspectives can change with age and leg growth and many years in a parallel hemisphere. Today it is a tranquil sanctuary, bounteous and welcoming, the plunge downward providing a sense of anticipation and relief. Peace is here, though not through silence; the gentle melody of spring birdsong a balm to the outside world. I know a couple of people who would have liked it here, on this bench. And I cannot help but think in some way they are present today.
From that point, the glories of spring transformed the month of May to one of warm morning cuppas on the deck, barbecues and even the occasional pair of shorts. A Saturday morning on Plymouth Hoe abuzz with happy, generous people sipping inconsistent coffee, gazing out to sea or even finding themselves within it. It is warm, but surely not to that degree.
There is a pleasure to be had anonymous among the throngs of humanity. To observe those moments of togetherness, to grab snatches of a random conversation, to catch a glance and exchange a smile and even – in Britain – murmur a good morning. A good morning so often appended with a “beautiful weather today innit” and – if you hit the jackpot – a “me lovverrrr” to boot. How can you not treasure Plymouth on days like these?
And should humanity become tiring and overwhelming, just pop down to the woods again. Ham Woods, rediscovered briefly in Covid isolation last year after many long years of separation. A thin but surprisingly abundant ribbon of green between council estates and parkways and incinerators. A place for childhood bike rides, rope swings and dog walks, repeated ad infinitum through the years.
Bluebells have their moment in the sun. Flowering wild garlic gathers as if some snow-speckled glade. Sparkling blue Forget-me-nots pepper the hedgerows and remnants of wall long reclaimed by nature. And always look up, into that endless, incredible green. Marching forth like it always does in May. Cocooning and encompassing you in joyous embrace. The wonder of the woodlands.
Drilling into brick ain’t easy. But at least it’s – via a series of chunky payments over 360 weeks – my brick. The small hole above the bathroom window where I eventually gave up proving to be an imprint. My signature. The final flourish being the calls to the tradies that follow.
I did fix a wonky cupboard door, rip up a small piece of carpet, revitalise a cooktop and cleanse a stained sink. And I did manage to find a good plumber to repair a leaky tap and got some people around to do measures and quotes and hopefully install new flooring. The flooring has taken on an almost mythical quality, the promised sunlit uplands of when I finally feel I can properly unpack and organise rooms. At the moment, it’s somewhere on a ship trying to get into Sydney.
I think the delineation between non-homeownership and homeownership must be how many times I have been to Bunnings in the last month. It may be double figures though not once have I succumbed to a slimy morsel of cooked entrails with onions loosely encased in a slice of bread. I’ve been to Ikea three times and Kmart at least the same, plus some carpet showrooms and the expensive kitchenware section of David Jones, to browse. It is like I have entered a parallel universe I never knew existed, where a few hundred dollars here and there is offloaded with hardly the bat of an eyelid.
In the meantime, the regular universe has been doing its thing. In my neighbourhood there are some tall dark conifers under which sit a carpet of needles and the occasional crazy person. But there are also some wonderful deciduous trees putting on a rainbow spectacle as the Canberra autumn seeps in. The red and green king parrots blend into the canopy, only startling with delight when whizzing overhead. The cockatoos are voracious, wanton in their pursuit of abundant, nutty delicacies. Leafy detritus scatters the ground.
A week or two of still days in the low twenties has offered much. It’s great for a bushwalk and I took the opportunity of a somewhat back to normal Saturday to head up into the hills. It had been quite some time since I had last walked from Corin Forest out to Square Rock, fresh and pepperminty in the morning sun. At the rock, expansive views west and a flask of tea to go with a Creme Egg. Before popping into Bunnings in Tuggers on the way home.
A couple of four day weekends have propelled April into even more genial heights. While the first over Easter was a bit of a homestay, the second turned into a tale of two weekends, with Monday and Tuesday enjoyed on the South Coast. Narooma was my last minute overnighter, hastily arranged when I decided I was too tired and achy and old to camp. This at least meant plenty of room in the back for the bike, to burn off some of the cakes / ice cream / fish and chips via beautiful boardwalks.
Cognisant of Tuesday being a public holiday I was especially keen to feast on staples on the Monday lest everything be closed the next day. Setting out early meant perfect timing for coffee and a muffin in Mossy Point, enjoyed down on the public jetty. For the most part this was a picture-perfect setting for sipping and munching and soaking up the salty air, prior to the appearance of a wet dog keen to get in on some of the muffin action. I’m not sure if the remainder of my coffee comprised half dog seawater blend.
Next on the agenda after a morning coffee stop was lunch so really I needed to create at least a little time and exercise between the two. A diversion to Moruya Heads offered up a fine way to fill in the gap, taking in golden bays, tranquil lagoons and a blend of dilapidated shacks and multimillion dollar homes. This a scene practically replicated up and down the coast, including in the next town down, Tuross Head.
The Boatshed in Tuross Head caters for prince and pauper alike. While most people drive and park up for a spot of lunch, the more fabulous way would be to pull up in your boat while a member of staff hands out your seafood platter from the deck. If more people were doing this there may actually be somewhere to sit, but I contentedly took mine away anyway, around the corner and beside the lake. The one disappointment being the depletion of salt and pepper calamari from the menu. As I waited for mine to cook, piles of chips topped with calamari taunted me as they were delivered to happy people sitting on sunny tables.
I resolved to make amends with ice cream, filling the next gap between eats with a small but sometimes steep bike ride beside the Tuross beachfront. The ice cream came further down the road in Bodalla. An obligatory stop when anywhere slightly within the vicinity. It never fails to disappoint and I made the point of checking if they were open Anzac Day as well. Store that one in your back pocket.
With a heavier car I eventually make it to Narooma as the afternoon was heading into that moment of low light and lengthening shadows. Enough time to wander beside Wagonga Inlet as it twists its way towards Bar Beach and the small, hazardous outlet into the ocean. In the calmer waters, resident seals await patiently for leftovers from the fishing boats returning from the sea, or maybe to munch on dark chocolate digestives instead. Whatever floats your boat. And I think about the necessity of a light, leafy dinner.
While I missed the dawn services of Anzac Day, I arose early enough to sample the warming glow of a rising sun reflecting off the sea. With barely a breath it would’ve been inexcusable not to ride my bike along the waterways and Oceanside beaches up towards Dalmeny. And back again to Narooma where what I think is a fairly new cafe fulfilled my hopes for simple, waterfront coffee sips.
All that was left was to paddle in the ocean, lie on a beach, eat another ice cream and meet up with friends in Malua Bay before the journey home. Waiting for me there an unexpected delivery of flat pack furniture. Still flat and still packed, ready for that tremendous day when they can be assembled on a fake oak floor. Hoping to make it into the world without any more careless signatures – unless I need to anchor them to the wall.
There’s a folksy Australian song that rattles off numerous place names in rapid succession. You know the one, something like Tumbarumba Cootamundra Gooloogong Corryong Arawang Wee Waa etc etc. Macca will play it on his weird Sunday morning radio show, Australia All Over, in which Tony from Mungallala will tell us about the weather in western Queensland before an out-of-tune ukulele solo and some tips from Brenda of Bendigo on making a mint courtesy of franking credits while decimating the countryside in a f*ck off caravan. I sometimes tune in to keep my finger on the pulse.
I bring this to mind only because I feel like I have been living through that song during the first quarter of 2023. A less catchy but almost as infinite Phillip, Wallaroo, Grenfell, Crestwood, Queanbeyan, Nirimba, Lyons, Duffy. Like all good journeys it seems the final destination will also take me back to the beginning, a grande boucle finishing in Phillip. A few hundred metres from my old apartment. Just a matter of selling my soul to a hopefully solvent bank and one or two handshakes away.
Ah, handshakes eh. Remember how they were the norm? And then how a raccoon dog got sick and people thought we would never shake hands again, bewildering the Australian Liberal Party leader. And then we pretended the raccoon dog thing had gone and we went back to shaking hands again as well as not talking to our neighbours and not pickling vegetables and not walking an hour every single day? I tell you, I could live without those pesky handshakes.
For the sake of a good story I like to think it was a soul-selling handshake with a mortgage broker that not only meant my Australia All Over tour was destined to end but gave me the added bonus of COVID-19 on top of hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt. Most people get a little cashback or a year of insurance with their mortgage. I got an illness that shattered my delusion at being one of the invincibles.
Frankly, this sucked given I was somewhere between Queanbeyan and Nirimba at the time and continued to see the Cs and Ts in Lyons and Duffy. And what of it? I can’t say it was ever too serious for me but it drags on like an episode of Vera and is just as sure to make me feel sleepy. It also has impeccable timing at emerging just at the time when I thought I might have a break away from everything.
Nirimba is also known as a part of Caloundra which is also known as a part of the Sunshine Coast which is also known as a part of Queensland. Needing a few weeks of fill-in accommodation why not spend a little of it on the Sunny Coast instead of, say, Queanbeyan? With the offer put out there, why not seek some payback for those domestique duties back in the rail trail days? Why not celebrate Canberra Day with that time worn custom of fleeing Canberra? I mean, it’s not like anything could go wrong.
Indeed, apart from the terrible option of a Red Rooster dinner off the G’day Bruce Highway, things started off fairly well. A dawn start down by the beach with coffee and a brekkie wrap. Yes, it was a bit dull – the Sunshine Coast doing its usual thing of lacking sunshine – and, yes, it was a bit too early given the backwardness of the time zone, but there were good, healthy, fresh air vibes. In the water, surfers lay as bait for sharks while landlubbers strode with purpose along the boardwalk before settling down to read about rugby players in the Courier Mail. Happy Valley life.
Later in the morning the activewear extravaganza continued as I took a mountain bike along the smooth bike paths of new suburbia and found an island of remnant forest. As islands go it was more of the Drake variety than, say, Greenland, a small reminder of how abundant this ecosystem once was before bulldozers and progress. Just a koala-less snippet enough to take a sexy bike photo and at least pretend this was deep in the heart of the wilderness. Before popping to the IGA.
Perhaps this was the turning point. On the way back, laden with sweet potatoes and a cauliflower, the gloom that had threatened all morning decided to unleash its saturating dampness. It wasn’t especially cold nor especially refreshing but a chore that made the short ride back bitter and infuriating. The only solace coming in brief moments imagining I was some Wouter Van Aert whizzing through the lanes of Flanders. And remembering that there was also an apple turnover being transported in my backpack.
What made me sick? Mortgage brokers, rain, apple turnovers, red roosters, plane flights or, perhaps in keeping with such things, a work planning day? I will never know but on Saturday things started to emerge. Unfortunately this came after a good two hours hard labour on a building site, sweeping up all sorts of dust while musing on the ostentatiousness of so much floor space. A smoko Beefy’s pie and slice of carrot cake wasn’t the only thing irritating my throat.
Do you know how many times I have shoved a swab up my nose and sometimes down my throat and watched as a bit of fluid rises up a small strip of paper on a cheap white plastic thing ironically made in China? You know that moment where the march upward reaches the T and you start to vision a line forming, convinced this time is the time, yet it proceeds up to C without a second thought? Well, the answer is I don’t know how many times that has happened to me, but at least plenty. In some ways it was a relief to finally see that T line glow bright and true, for at least there is a clear reason for how I am feeling. In other ways, my dreams of superhero status were dashed and I was stuck homeless and hopeless in Queensland.
I will not bore you with descriptions of too much sickness as surely we’ve all had enough of that to last a lifetime. In the end it was a blessing to be in Queensland yet also I longed for my own retreat, my own place of solace, my own bed, my own home. The blessing was that I had friends care for me and look out for me and even vacate their own home. I had a bedroom and a bathroom and a dose of warm, humid air when I wanted relief from air conditioning. I had Netflix and a domestique making me coffee, and two generous doggies to pat. I had taste and smell and, mostly, an appetite. Even if gathering treats from the IGA by bike was out of the question for a few days.
If only the home was closer to the beach. I would have gone on soothing strolls away from people, feeling the salty warmth of the ocean on my feet and shutting my eyes to absorb the rhythms of the surf. As it was I had the Dinosaur park and display homes to scrutinise, a sporting oval with distant views to the Glasshouse Mountains and, occasionally, the company of the dogs who will go absolutely bananas at the sense of any other dog in the neighbourhood. By day five, a trip to McDonalds was starting to sound like the most exciting thing to do, if I could make it.
But fast forward several days and it is back to the early morning beachside vibes of Happy Valley. This time, the morning sun is rising, shimmering off the mirror-like sinews of Pumicestone Passage. Surfers stroll down the steps with vigour into a golden glow. The water is gentle and soothing and delightfully warm. The air is still and the day is already on its way to becoming hot. I breathe it in as best I can, this bounteousness of ocean air. Just with a little regret at what could have been.
Now I enter the post-COVID era, superpowers extinguished. Really, how on earth did I last this long? It caps off what has been quite a rubbish start to 2023. All those place names might sound jaunty and adventuresome in a folk song but everyone could do with a place to hang their hat. A place to call their own. A place to mull over kitchen benchtop resurfacing and vinyl tiles and a new vanity. A place to put pictures on the wall, my pictures on a wall! Let the homeowner era finally begin*.
There is probably so much I have skipped. Top of mind: tranquility at Talland Bay, Dartmoor and chips, Bedruthan jackets and English wines, clubhouse iso, that really hip cafe on Mutley Plain, Mount Edgecumbe, Whitsand and the rest. More pasties in Looe (naturally), Tavistock ambles with coffee and walnut cake, blood tests, Tamerton Foliot creekside discoveries with Ernesettle reminisces, and just those sunny morning cuppas in the garden.
But time moves far more quickly than I can write and there comes a point (sat in a campground in Kangaroo Valley, NSW, for instance) where you simply have to draw a line under it all. Not to consign it to history but as something to live on in your mind and to seep into your heart, as opposed to a memorial of mere letters on a screen. Oh, also: London, crowded Northern Line wearing no mask, train delays to frigid Preston station, Ansdell walks with surprise sunshine and delicious Fairhaven ice cream. But I digress.
I stayed a long time in the United Kingdom, but not as long as it takes to appoint an even more diabolical Prime Minister. And that includes extra time, which was not so much a gift but a sad consequence of the turning of the world, the passage of life. Thank you for all the happy memories, memories that don’t need to be written here but live on at random moments, in places and patterns, in smells and sounds, or simply when a certain light shines through the trees.
Back in Kangaroo Valley, I could’ve had a beer this evening at the Friendly Inn (and with this stream of consciousness you may think this the case). But I didn’t. I had a takeaway pizza and thought I could wile away that black period before it was acceptable to go to bed by catching up with this blog. Occasionally I hear cheers in the distance from the pub, the eels are playing the dingoes or something in a semi-preliminary final or some such. I’ve been away too long.
The pub looked enticing, and far more enticing than where Dad and I ended up in Swanage. However, the first pub we went to was always going to be tough to beat. The Bridge Inn on the River Avon a little out of Amesbury, sparkling in Sunday afternoon sunshine. How good a cider tastes in such surroundings. Swiftly polished off to get away from that guy.
Having started here in June it was interesting to witness how two months had progressed. Upon the Pewsey Downs a landscape of golden grass, sweeping along ridges and hummocks and down into the Vale. A combine below creating a cloud of dust as it sets about its work under a searing sun. On the horizon, more dust, or is it a fire? And just around the corner, maybe Gundagai.
I guess these could be those much vaunted sunlit uplands but to extend the metaphor let me tell you they took a great deal of bashing through prickly, unruly, needless crap to reach. The Ordnance Survey is something great and British but even they cannot always steer us upon the right path (probably, I imagine, because they had their funding cut). The wrong kind of hedge fund.
I always like to have intimate encounters with the English countryside but this was taking it a little too far. A touch more sedentary (and bramble-free) were walks within the Wiltshire villages and towns. Salisbury, with its markets and bunting and majestic cathedral, admired the world over. And Bradford-on-Avon, melding that gracious, Brunel-era industrial heritage with wooded riverside walks and resident kingfishers.
The kingfishers have a following and you catch people lingering for a glance; some simply pausing with the kids on their way to the Co-op, others equipped with shiny lenses and tripods on their way to the Countryfile calendar competition. While the kingfishers remained hidden in town, teasing their audience, Dad and I made our way to Avoncliff, bought a cider each to cool down by the river, and enjoyed the accompaniment of several blurs of vivid blue darting from bank to bank. This is the way to bird.
They were hot days – another plume of continental airmass – and there was appeal in sedentary nature-watching. Like sitting on the sofa and being alerted to the presence of a Hummingbird Hawk-Moth. And another. And another. And, what, how many is that today? And eventually, even though you know it will be a pale imitation of the master’s work, sitting there waiting with your camera to capture this amazing little creature.
The heat didn’t quite last; in fact it inevitably disappeared when we went away to the Dorset coast for a few days. Standing ankle-deep in the water in Devon, I had a feeling I would see the sea again. And, of course, encounter the South West Coast Path.
We were practically straight out onto it, reaching Durlston Country Park on the southern side of Swanage. From here a jaunt along the south coast on a placid nothing kind of day – occasional haze interrupting a bluey-grey sky as small boats on the horizon inch westward toward Portland Bill. With its crumbling chalky cliffs and thicketed combes, the coast path here is a different beast from the western edge of Cornwall. But always, there is ocean.
We ended up walking a fair distance in the end, overlooking the rock formations at Dancing Ledge. These were heavily peopled by those having a ball: bathing, picnicking and, for the most part, engaging in adventure pursuits that require a wetsuit and fluorescent vest. Perhaps the vests aid discovery when they get lost in the brambles and gorse as they make their way up to the ridge away from the coast. Another foray through the rubbish to reach those uplands which, today, were not even sunlit.
We worked up appetite for an ice cream in Swanage and possibly the fish and chips that followed a little later. They were enjoyable enough beside the water, shared with hundreds of other people doing likewise. Yet despite this abundance there are not enough fish and chip eaters to go around to satisfy the voracious seagulls espying any remote opportunity to ruin a moment. Effectively, for protection, we were eating fish and chips from a bag and that somewhat diluted the ambience.
The ambience went further downhill in the only pub in town with seating. And then again the next morning thanks to some persistent rain. I mean I shouldn’t complain, we need the rain, but I will complain anyway. Why don’t you wait one more week when I am far, far away persistent rain? Still, um good weather for golf. If you can call it that.
Victorious on the first play-off ‘hole’ I went to celebrate with coffee and cake, and Dad was all too happy to tag along. Mine was some tiramisu concoction which I feel was born from baking an odd number of chocolate and coffee sponges and deciding the best way to use them up is to slather them with cream and dust with cocoa to entice passing Anglo-Australians on two month holidays who cherish the Britishness of escaping woes with a slice of cake. It was perfect.
Like the gigantic crumbs falling upon on my plate, the dazzling formations of Old Harry Rocks are deserving of attention. Proving almost as busy as the cake shop, a procession of visitors walk the fairly tame path to witness iconic chalk piles crumbling into the sea. On a cloudy, drizzly day, there is a welcome brightness to the rocks and a jollity in communal gathering, with some rather unique TikTok takes and selfie set ups.
Over the ridge from Swanage Bay, we were now in Studland, which is a rather alarming or invigorating prospect depending on whatever floats your boat. I had visions of Dad and I leaning wearily on the ‘Welcome to Studland’ sign in our sexy waterproofs, each sporting a large package. On our back. Unfortunately ladies it never materialised and you may be better off making the trek to Penistone instead.
Thankfully though, finally, some brightness materialised at the end of our walk, which was conveniently next to a pub. I can’t say it was the best ale but the setting was exemplary and ambience was back on the way up. So much so that the sun came out, Dad went into the water, and I watched on at these Englanders embracing chilly water and a green algae fringe.
It felt more like summer holidays again. An alfresco pizza as the sun sets over Swanage and a morning breakfast bap as it heads up into the sky again. There was, of course, a tinge of Australia in this beachside kind of morning. Something I was all too quick to use as an excuse as to why I wouldn’t take a loyalty card for more awful machine-generated coffee in an otherwise lovely spot. Sorry mate, I’ll be in Australia next week.
Indeed time, extra time, was drawing to a close. Swanage was in the rear view mirror, as was Corfe Castle, as was Dorset and Devon and Cornwall. A Prime Minister was still not appointed but they were now down to two. The sun shone again and there were a few days remaining to walk among golden hay-bales, eat another tub of clotted cream, be bombarded by Hummingbird hawk-moths and say farewells. It was time to move on but with farewells that are never really final. For you take with you all the people, places, pasties and they add up to constitute your very being and shape every step forward you take. Whether that is to a cake shop, a mountain top or sat in a glade in the forest, soaking in sun-dappled light.
Devon. It feels far from ambrosial when hunting for chicken wings among the half-empty shelves of Lidl on Union Street. Outside, cars circle a small concrete plot as people embark on their quest to endure the least amount of walking possible. Further along the street, once grand facades appear sullen and decrepit, run down by time and indifference. Only pigeons call them home, foraging on the pickings of kebab spilling out like the desperation and menace exiting shady clubs in those dark, seedy hours.
Pan out from Union Street, across the shanty town of cash-in-hand workshops and inevitable vape shops and things will begin to change. Urban renewal they may call it or – worse – gentrification, as if in some way what had gone before was base and unworthy. Waterside apartments in Millbay, loft conversions in Stonehouse, renovated terraces in West Hoe. Far from the wages of a labourer or carer or teacher. But at least they can still afford a bag of chips and a round of crazy golf at West Hoe Park.
And Plymouth Hoe itself acts as a great leveller, a place where anyone can stroll, picnic, kick a ball, or gather in a cluster with several other yoof and create tiktoks. Old ladies may wild swim and Vodka Dave may dance and most people can get a coffee of bitter tears that may mercifully be saved with cake. The sun may shine and, sat beside the glistening water of Plymouth Sound, one may wonder if anything could really be that much finer. Especially when visible in the distance pockets of ambrosia await.
Immediately out of the city limits a web of narrow lanes burrow through trees and hedgerows to places like Heybrook Bay, Bovisand, Down Thomas and Wembury. Wembury is by far the largest of the lot, a virtual suburb of Plymouth renowned for its untamed beach and extortionate parking. Many Plymothians make the trip here but only tight arses like me park up in the village, content to embrace a longer, circular walk promising a different perspective.
I was heading past garden allotments and lone cottages once more towards the River Yealm. This is a river whose waters I have so many times witnessed from the other side. The side with lofty views atop the summit of Revelstoke Drive. The side with densely packed woodland cascading down to sea level. The side with a narrow lane leading to the charms of Noss Mayo and its creekside inns.
Hello from the other side. A similar world of bobbing boats and shingle shores, of dense thickets and a scattering of homes, sitting as neatly into the landscape as they do in my mind when it turns to an idyllic life of fantasy. You could summon a ferry out of nowhere to cross to the pub, but I’ll leave that for another time. And taste the caustic coffee beside Wembury Beach instead.
Not that the Ship Inn was to be bypassed altogether, an addendum for a sunny afternoon in a summer of sunny afternoons. A Friday beer o’clock escape, when you can briefly picture this as your local. Tribute and a pack of pork scratchings among the minions and the millionaires. All the time, the tide imperceptibly creeping in to imperil the cars of those from out of town.
When it comes to millionaires, you’d be hard pressed to encounter a denser population than on the streets of Salcombe. Well, not the streets per se but the grand designs surrounded by moats of lush exotics overlooking sparkling bays. And if not found on wooden deckchairs in the garden absorbed in the Daily Mail, the likelihood is of frequent sightings upon those opal waters below, sweater and chinos all aboard the MV Smug.
With some world-beating inflation in the UK, I could just about afford a millionaires shortbread from M&S. However I opted instead for a bag of Monster Munch left over from some far off Tesco meal deal. Still, with those pickled onion morsels come million dollar views, situated around the corner and down towards Soar Mill Cove. The coastline here is about as dramatic as it gets in South Devon, all ups and downs and ups again. The cove – in its sheltered enclave with raggedy rocky outcrops and see-through waters – a kind of mini Kynance. Only without the million dollar parking fees.
There are, of course, other priceless coves down this way. Conjuring the prospect of Friday night dinner down by the sea, I persuaded someone else to drive down the A379 for a change (thanks Steve). This came with the omnipresent soundtrack of my niece, Brooke, but at least afforded me the chance to be drawn into views of beautiful countryside, stone bridges, tunnels of trees and the wilds of upland Dartmoor in the distance.
We all disembarked at Hope Cove which seems caught somewhere between a rustic fishing village of lobster pots and an upmarket resort of eco-pods. For a while you can play at millionaire here too, taking a perch for some refreshment overlooking the bay. And the coast path is always free. Dinner, however, seems another prospect, with the few places around busy and focusing on menus of the hand-caught goujon of Start Bay Sea Bass served with a melange of Rosemary-flecked Kipfler potatoes and wild lemon-infused baby samphire variety. A pizza on the beach or something would’ve been nice.
So, feeling increasingly hangry, we shifted a few miles up the road to the biggest town around – Kingsbridge. To emphasise its size, Kingsbridge boasts a Tesco and a Morrisons, plus several pubs, restaurants and takeaways. We practically did a tour of them all, before ending back at the first place we saw next to the car park. Of course. But this was pretty close to the town square and quay, and we sat outside alongside summer holiday vibes and terrific weather. The only downer was the early closure of the Salcombe Dairy Ice Cream booth. Off home to count their millions.
I did eventually manage to ingest some Salcombe Dairy at a predictably inflationary price. It came as icing on top of a final Devon cake of a day. A concoction that is so wonderful and blessed but tinged with a background air of melancholy that comes with imminent farewell. For once, the goal wasn’t really to gorge on cake, just the icing on top.
There were cakey temptations at Heron Valley Cider Farm, where it was too early for a cider but perfectly suitable for a coffee. Signs that I had been here for two months were starting to show in the agreeableness of the coffee, an agreeableness that was only usurped by the luscious setting. What is it again? Green, green grass, blue, blue sky? Thank you Heart, as continually always two months on.
Now, normally finding myself with Mum in such a location around eleven o’clock in the morning I would feel obliged to support local business by purchasing one of the many slices and treats arranged on the counter. Mum would murmur things like “oh I probably shouldn’t” and then we’d look at each other with a knowing glance that I would quickly succumb. “Oh sod it, I’m on holiday” I would say, mildly aware that it’s not the best idea when it’s a two month holiday.
Yet today, of all days, I was steadfast. A coffee was enough. But before I pat myself on the back too much, it’s only because lunch was a mere matter of miles down the road.
Farm shops can be funny affairs. In the golden days before Google you would turn up never quite sure whether you’d encounter a smorgasbord of local delights or a few cartons of mismatched eggs next to a pile of withered green beans. Nowadays, the more savvy enterprises promote their wares with funky Instagram stories and filtered Facebook posts.
So I knew beforehand that as well as eggs and green beans and no doubt meat, Aune Valley Meat, just outside of Loddiswell, advertised a hog roast bap in their Valley View Café. I would usually bemoan the strict ordering times and a lengthy wait but this just served to amplify pangs of hunger to the point of drool. And when the food eventually arrives upon its wooden board (oh dear), salivation soon becomes salvation.
Like Beaufort in Beaufort and Pizza in a Piazza, that additional ten percent elevating the taste all comes from the terroir. Those lush, bounteous hills of the South Hams that – thankfully – are not dotted with potential future hams. At least not from our vantage. The Devon flag flutters, the tractors make hay, the tourist caravans tentatively inch past towards their constricted destiny.
Moving south, the terroir of the sea tends to induce thoughts of fish and chips and ice cream. Given the scale of lunch, the fish and chips are quickly ruled out, but perhaps there can be an ice cream in the offing. First, some recovery on the beach at Thurlestone, where crystal waters once again tempt with Caribbean vibes. Caribbean in colour only.
Unwilling to freeze in the ocean for long, I hotfoot it along the coast path. That enduring friend who I shall miss as much as anything. It takes me past Thurlestone Golf Course, adding the hazard of wayward balls to the potential to stumble off a hundred foot cliffs. Looking west, I see the distinctive mount of Burgh Island and, further still, the entrance into Plymouth Sound. Rame Head, Cornwall sticks out beyond. But let us not speak of Cornwall here.
In the other Devon direction lies Hope Cove, Bolt Tail and then Salcombe. I discover their dairy ice cream has made it this way, just along from Thurlestone at South Milton Sands. But its arrival is only in tubs and only in the most preposterous National Trust café I have ever come across. For here, not scones and jam nor crisps and sandwiches. But alcoholic drinks and a DJ. This is what happens when Boris Johnson becomes PM, I tell you. Not that he was actually doing much at the time, but nobody seemed to notice.
Boris and Carrie might have been there as the tunes began to bang and the bouncers evicted non-patrons from the wooden tables outside. It seemed that kind of place. Locals need not apply, except between the months of September and May. Just stick to the farms, thank you very much.
The hog roast roll at Valley View Farm felt a long way from a chicken wing hunt in the heart of Union Street. But wondrously they really aren’t so far apart. And that is probably why the people of Plymouth – unbeknownst to many of them – find themselves in one of the most fortunate locations in the UK.
I thought I was done with Devon with that final day out, but an uplifting Saturday morning and a spare hour encouraged me to see the sea here one more time. I whizzed through Plymstock and around Staddon Heights to Bovisand. Here, warm sunshine beamed down upon a grassy bank as I lingered over another agreeable coffee. A couple of small, sheltered coves welcomed a handful of bathers and boarders who were welcoming the weekend. Life was as sweet as Ambrosia Devon Custard.
It felt like we were here in a forever summer and none of us wanted it to end. Could not every morning be as agreeable as this? Can we not just press pause and dwell in this unreal reality? But time and tide move on, seasons shift, people come and people go. And I had to get back to Plymouth one last time to barbecue those bloody chicken wings.
What do you do when you visit an epicentre of ice cream? Um, order a massive burger cooked in a wood-fired oven which – circa 2012 – is topped with pulled pork? We were sat at Roskilly’s farm shop on the eastern side of The Lizard. Purveyors of decent ice cream across Cornwall. But, for once, I wasn’t in the mood for that. And there would be plenty of other times.
It may have been that creamy coffee in the morning that satisfied my dairy quota. Sips of goodness in Coverack, overlooking one of those archetypal harbours bedecked with jaunty fishing boats tipping slightly askew on low tide mud. A stone’s throw across from the dream home cottage that had just been sold.
I began to have fantasies of a life here, doing a spot of work in that cottage before popping across the road for a mid-morning drink. Perhaps then a bit more work, a nap and, at day’s end, a trip to a beach. In this utopia, I’d likely head to the wonderful beaches on the western side of The Lizard. But there would be plenty of other options of things to do, places to see, things to eat, closer to home.
One of them would be around Kennack Sands, over which our temporary home for a week was perched. This was far from a dream Coverack cottage, just two six-berth caravans that were a squeeze for ten. But like all good caravans, every little nook was optimised, every fold-up bed assembly a triumph of geometry, every passing of one another in the kitchen an elegant pirouette.
Down the hill, Kennack Sands themselves were less golden than elsewhere but still fine and generous and largely remaining at the mercy of nature. This meant the occasional jellyfish sighting among clear, sometimes warm waters, as well as frequent dog walkers at the start and end of each day. Among the more memorable human sightings was a mass gathering of booty shaking one day and an irksome guitar dude with a three song repertoire on another.
Needless to say, escape via the coast path was always on hand. One afternoon found me on a solo walk up and down towards – but not all the way to – Coverack. After days of family time, the peace was eerie and it felt a lonesome endeavour along a hardy, unkempt landscape. Fellow walkers were few and far between and I found myself yearning for times of mass booty shaking and beach boules.
Companionship was aplenty in the other direction, five of us walking along the coast path from our caravan park to the small village of Cadgwith. Along the way some diverting remnants of serpentine mining at Poltesco – a rare rock type that is abundant on The Lizard. More abundance flowed alongside generous meadows and stony bays kissed by a sparkling sea.
Cadgwith itself makes Coverack seem a metropolis, the village focused around a small shingle inlet on which sit a cluster of working boats. At one point there is that distinctive odour of salt and seaweed and fish guts, pungent and evocative at the same time. Fortunately it is fleeting and doesn’t dissuade ice cream refreshment. I was aghast to find out that my niece, Joy, wasn’t a massive ice cream fan and opted for a fishing net instead. But the rest of us made up for it, multiple times.
Give a girl an ice cream and she may eat for a day, but give her a fishing net and she can eat for a lifetime. Maybe. Probably easier to head to Lizard village though and pick up fish and chips. Tender, juicy cod, crisp golden batter and amazing chips made from Cornish new potatoes, soaking up lashings of malt vinegar.
Other than a fish and chip shop I didn’t get a chance to explore Lizard further. My impression was of a place where you could source ample food along with a fair share of useless tat. And be in a situation where you can march off in any direction and discover wonder.
A little south of the village, Lizard Point itself represents the most southerly position on mainland UK. There exists an appropriate edge of world vibe – beaming white lighthouse, cottages hunkered into rocks, rampant rabbits upon tightly shorn grass and a couple of businesses proclaiming themselves as the most southerly spot you can get a cup of tea. As the land plunges into sea and the sun sinks west, spectacle.
We were blessed to witness a couple of sundowns around Lizard Point. A time when the warmth of the day started to fade, and the summer grasses began to breathe. I remember distinctly here for the first time an Australian odour, an almost impossible to describe earthy freshness that comes after a hard day baking under the sun. As if the land is singing in relief.
The very last sunset accompanied our final night. A night to try and use up all those naughty food bits we had accumulated in the week, including two tubs of ice cream from the local farm shop. A night to not be lactose intolerant. A night to count blessings. A night to lament the prospect of leaving tomorrow. And, like the sun coming up again in the morning, to contemplate doing it all over again.
The it’s too hot brigade have been out in force lately. The worrying thing is they are probably right. More worryingly, I have caught myself occasionally joining them. This, along with an increasing tolerance of British coffee and quietly muttered acceptance of noisy people in the quiet carriage, suggests I am getting more comfortable on these shores. Apart from when it is too hot of course.
The heat would be more agreeable if Britain boasted fine sandy bays and crystal clear coves, a setting for languid summer holidays and Mediterranean vibes. Perhaps with some tapas, gelato and meze thrown in. Let me introduce you, then, to The Lizard.
Down in far west Cornwall, TheLizard is an area where the southernmost chunk of mainland Britain tapers into the ocean. With water on both sides there is a veritable array of beaches and bays, harbours and headlands to choose from. And it is on its western shore, facing the Atlantic as it feeds into Mounts Bay, where some of the finest sights and sands can be found.
The very first morning of a week-long family holiday provides some pinch yourself moments at PoldhuCove. I must confess, like so many other annoying tourists, it was Instagram that thrust Poldhu into my consciousness. What entranced me were the golden sands, blue waters and white swirls of cream decorated with all sorts of gooeyness atop a hot chocolate. The excellent Poldhu Beach Café has a slight Aussie vibe perched upon the sand, delivering decent coffee, brownies and down to earth chit-chat. It felt very much peak dream home.
Either side of the cove the outlook becomes even more idyllic as the transparency of the water shines, magnifying the outline of rocky reefs and diffusing the shadows of colourful paddle boards upon the seabed. On shore, the cliffs rise, coated in a swathe of still-green grass and wildflowers flourishing under the sun. The coastline tracks toward the horizon on either side, encasing a welcoming expanse of Cornish perfection. It felt very much peak dream home.
Beyond the northern headland to Poldhu, the next bay along – ChurchCove – has a more old school air. Grittier sands, seaweed, emboldened National Trust parking attendants. The presence of the old church wedged between rock and sea oozes tradition and heritage. Lichen-infused gravestones suggest at whole generations of fisherfolk and farmers of centuries past, whose ancestors probably still plough their fields and rent their shepherd’s huts today. The surrounding greens of Mullion Golf Club nestle perfectly, as if they have sat in this landscape forever.
Also fitting in, The National Trust run a small kiosk at Church Cove. Naturally. A pleasant enough mini-menu of Bakewell slices, cheese and onion crisps and ham salad sandwiches. But when you know what is just around the next corner, a short up and down across coast path heaven, then why linger. Especially when you have a partner in crime.
I found myself eating alone overlooking Praa Sands but still wasn’t complaining. While some rosy-hued patrons were already on the booze Magaloof style, I contented myself with coffee and a rocky road. Not Poldhu quality but you could have anything here on a day like today and still feel you had won the lottery. Eat in the view, drink up the ambience.
Praa Sands is a long golden bay, increasingly marvellous as the tide rolls out. Forget the Med, think Australia. Near the car parks, caravan parks, shops and cafes it could be a bit of a Bondi on Boxing Day. But the farther you move away, the closer you come to a NSW south coast style stretch of empty beach.
It’s quite a trek from west to east, but with sand between toes and tepid clear waters lapping at them, the footsteps pass with ease. Eventually Praa Sands can go no further, coming against RinseyHead, over which the South West Coast Path once more meanders. The scenery becomes a more classic Cornwall, capped off by the archetypal abandoned tin mine. WhealProsper. We certainly will.
And confirming that, despite best efforts, this is not really the Med or Australia, how about a pasty back on the beach? Proving this is 100% pure Kernow.
Like pasties, I doubt you would find a bag of pork scratchings on a tapas menu, salty fatty fodder to accompany a pint of St. Austell Tribute. Still, I can easily envisage pints and pork products down on the Costa del Sol. Gammons eating bacon with tea and Estrella.
We were snacking in a pub garden in Mullion, a prelude to ending the day down in MullionCove. The small cobbled harbour here almost seems an impossibility. Wedged into the towering coastline, it feels like a tiny fissure in an almighty, unyielding wall. Sanctuary from violent winter storms might only be cursory, sparing. Yet here the harbour still stands, and to stand here is to feel on the very precipice.
Somehow there is a way up from the nook of the harbour, via another goat track section of the coast path. It’s open country, ideal for rabbits and birds of prey eating rabbits and walkers just casually wandering and falling down an unseen ravine. Compared to those fine sandy beaches elsewhere the ocean in front is a less inviting prospect, though arguably more beguiling. A swirling canvas captivating and luring smugglers and pirates and hardy fisherman’s friends of yesteryear.
Illuminating it all, the reddening sun drifts towards a watery horizon, setting closer to ten o’clock in this incredible summer. Glazing the sea and the land and the sky. And kissing our faces a shade of gammon.
And so, the final Lizard bite (part I) culminates in the perfect encapsulation of everything that has gone before: Kynance Cove, with bonus half a pasty.
In recent years, Kynance has become prey to a combination of Poldark Disease and Instagramitis, developing mythical, bucket-list status. All too frequently I am presented with short video clips set to jaunty music showing half-naked people frolicking in crystal waters, often with the caption “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS ENGLAND!!!!!!”. As tedious as these become after constant repetition, they have a point. Kynance is an undoubted jewel in a very lavish crown.
The good news is that despite a warm sunny day in July propelling many vehicles to the National Trust car park, the scale of Kynance Cove is sufficient to maintain a sense of space and serenity. This is especially the case with the tide on its way out, revealing wider stretches of sand, secret nooks and unexpected crannies. In spite of everything anyone can find their own little wonderful spot of paradise.
Still, the kids built a fortress of sandcastles on the beach to keep wandering Scousers at bay, encircling our clan from marauding invaders and video influencers. Not that I sat within it for long spells, keen to just potter up and down and in and out and via the NT café for a mediocre coffee and slice of carrot cake.
Views from up high once again highlight the drama and spectacle of nature, as huge lumps of rock appear as they have been thrown haphazardly into translucent waters and edged with golden sand. The people who once seemed many and varied at sea level morph into colourful speckles, dots on a more expansive landscape. But, with a bit of zoom, that family fortress is still visible.
As I descended to sea level to join them, still a bit peckish, I was delighted to find I had been gifted half a pasty. Originating from the locally ubiquitous Ann’s Pasties, it must have been a product of Kynance proportions for there remained a substantial lunch in front of me. Gorgeous, and at least it wasn’t too hot.
Pretty much at the beginning of this UK22 odyssey I heard one of the blandest songs possible, warbled out by George Ezra on The One Show, spouting insipid lyrics about green grass and blue skies. A summertime money-spinner predictably pounced on by Heart and played every half hour. What young George didn’t take into account was the abundance of blue, blue skies which would naturally turn the green, green grass a tinge of yellow, yellow straw.
The UK is still a green place but I have found myself of late detecting a slight Australian essence: an earthy smell at the end of a hot, hot day, of golden grasses secreting some relief as the sun, sun sets. Waking with an expectation of wearing shorts. Drawing the curtains in the day. Frequent use of sunscreen. Wildfires on the TV news.
One area that might just retain the green, green grass of home longer than others is northwest Wales. And while warm sunshine continued as Caroline and I entered the principality on the second phase of our up over olde at heart road trip, this unseasonal weather was set to wane. Soak it up I say, pausing beside the waters at Tal-y-llyn on our way into the hills…
Woodlands, green views and the Co-op
By handy coincidence, we were staying in Green View Chalet, perched loftily within the Woodlands Holiday Park. It was a neat, quiet little place with a distracting view. Pure Wales rolling down the hill and climbing up the other side, stone walls, sheep and all. With altitude comes a transition from temperate, lush valleys to unkempt, windy moors, topped with all sorts running wild.
Early on I took a short walk, encountering sheep galore and a minefield of droppings. Much the same happened on a longer circular walk that satisfied all the greater for taking place from the front door. The walk was a bit of a gamble in blustery conditions, cloudbursts evident both out to sea and further up towards the high mountain crags of CaderIdris. But I mostly stayed dry, treated instead to changing light and shadows, distant rainbows and soaring birds.
The closest town of note from here, sitting upon Cardigan Bay, is Tywyn. While devoid of vowels, it was handy for supplies, hosting a remarkably large Co-op and at least three Indian Restaurants where cash is king. Meanwhile, down on the seafront there was an old school feel to the air, conjuring a town tucked away in the nostalgia of childhood bucket and spade holidays. A town that is lost in time. A town where steam from the railways still rises into a disappointing monotone sky…
Tally ho Talyllyn
One of the very interesting things about North Wales is the multitude of heritage railway lines. You can imagine Portillo on constant loop here, stoking coals in blue dungarees or shoving a homemade Welsh Cake into his plummy mouth. While naturally providing tourist tucker, the network of vintage railways probably provides a more reliable service than the modern, expensive, strike-riven mainlines of Tory Britain, 2022.
The Talyllyn Railway departs from Tywyn, heading up the valley to Abergynolwyn. The railway was constructed in 1863 and – like many others in this region – was used to transport slate from the hills to the sea. Today, the slate lingers on in trackside fence lines and in the specials boards of train station cafés.
It was a grey, patchy rain kind of day, a suitably slate-like sky greeting us at Tywyn Station. More alarmingly, a parade of schoolchildren appeared to be heading in the same direction, seemingly set to infest numerous wooden carriages on the 10:00 to Nant Gwernol. But a stroke of luck – either they were off to the museum or a tour of the Co-op, which would keep them occupied for some time.
Full steam ahead then to the first stop of the day at Dolgoch, via chalet-spotting views over to Woodlands. Disembarkation here was a controversial affair – just us and two others while everyone else on board wonders what the heck. The attraction are some falls, silky slivers of white enveloped among a peaceful forested gorge. And hopefully a tea shop.
A tea shop that looks like a council house and looks very closed. It’s drizzling and sometimes more than drizzling and the next train is an hour away. What to do with an hour in Dolgoch? Check out the historic slate fence and wait for a train coming the other way and be entertained by the nesting sparrow chicks in the waiting area and the returning couple living life in imperfect harmony.
And then full steam ahead again, the arrival of the train a moment of great fanfare when a quiet forest glade transforms into a hissing, steaming pocket of noise and fury. The sparrows hide, the wayward tourists board, the drivers stoke coals and in one final giant puff of steam toot-toot we’re away.
The journey seems more attractive as we progress up the valley, partly because the sun briefly comes out, trees parting to reveal a patchwork of fields inching upwards into the exposed bracken and gorse of steeply rising hills. Here and there the odd farmhouse, the odd car, the odd siding decorated with purple foxglove. Briefly summer again before more rain sets in.
Turning around in a downpour, the train heads back with a layover of thirty minutes at Abergynolwyn. A period of time insufficient to do little else than converge en masse upon the station café. As if it was designed that way.
At first, there is panic as everyone wonders whether they can get served, eat, and do the toilet in time. But the café operates smoothly and efficiently. As if they do it every day. I get my bacon sandwich, Caroline gets her jacket potato and the two old-timers sharing our table get their crisps, partly funded by a 60p increase in their pension, so I am informed.
It is unlikely they have money left over for that delicious looking cake. But perhaps some shortbread. A tasty treat that is balm to my coffee and lingers long in the memory, longer than it felt to head back to the future in Tywyn. Or 1980 at least.
Aberdyfi-dovey
Though hardly light years ahead, I think it’s fair to say the town of Aberdyfi is a notch above Tywyn in the seaside locations of upper mid-Wales stakes. Slightly more genteel, slightly more attractive, slightly more touristy, even the jellyfish seem to prefer it here.
We stopped at Aberdyfi a couple of times. The first a grey affair that still warranted ice cream, the second of sunnier disposition that still warranted ice cream. Any visit to Aberdyfi would warrant ice cream, simply because the Aberdyfi Ice Cream Company produces some top-notch stuff. The fruits of all that green, green grass.
The other highlight of Aberdyfi (and certainly up there in terms of the whole trip) was pizza on the beach. Sure, it was probably 14C and a tad blustery, but after a long day and the threat of frequent showers, we were rewarded with a touch of tranquility, golden light and golden sands bathing a stone-baked feast. Close your eyes, wrap yourself up and pretend you’re in Bondi. With an ice cream on top.
Shut your Barmouth
In the other direction from Tywyn the road becomes a rugged affair, hugging the coastline on one side and winding below calamitous slopes on the other. The sea eventually forces its way inland at Barmouth, the wide estuary of Afon Mawddach forcing its way around tidal flats into the heart of Snowdonia. It is all rather impressive and grand.
It is a landscape that proves difficult to tame, the road resigned to following the Mawwdach for many miles on either side before it can even attempt to cross. But fortunately for us and for Michael Portillo there is a long rail bridge spanning the estuary. A considerable engineering feat that sits perfectly within a breathtaking landscape of shifting sands and looming mountains.
While lacking steam and turn-of-the-century attire, the train ride would no doubt prove an interesting affair. Today the trains are on strike but thankfully the bridge includes a pedestrian and cycle-friendly thoroughfare. A suggested voluntary toll of two pounds to cross would be worth it if it didn’t convey the air of dodgy scam.
Still, Barmouth was far from a freebie with lunch and afternoon tea at the same place; seemingly the only place that had a small garden and didn’t offer an array of fast food and sticks of rock served up with seagull terror. While possessing an attractive harbour and ample sands, the approach to Barmouth proves more compelling than the town itself, where West Midland accents are as commonplace as vape shops and amusement arcades. I begin to tire of Barmouth, perked up by the prospect that the exit is the very best part. Majestic in fact.
Prisoners
And so we reach our last day in Wales and what a way to end. Heavy rain, gusty winds, cloaked in four layers and topped with the beanie I wasn’t sure about packing. Feels like something is in the air.
Driving north it certainly wasn’t a very Italian Riviera feeling day; more hot drink in a cosy cafe in a grey slate town like Dolgellau vibes. Still, we push on through a downpour, sit in traffic and park up to be greeted by only the slightest drizzle and possibly one of the most startling sights in Wales: Portmeirion.
How to describe Portmeirion? A vaguely Italianate village near the French border acting as a film set in the guise of a theme park pretending it is not in North Wales. A perverse colourful curiosity that is equally weird and enchanting at the same time. Possibly qualifying as a bit quirky. And naturally a beacon for all those COVID-confined celebrities yearning to make travel television somewhere, anywhere.
With all that publicity you would expect the place to be heaving, but the rain today actually has a benefit in keeping the crowds at bay. This means at times we seem to have a Mediterranean square to ourselves, a quiet Tuscan alcove to explore alone, pastel views unimpeded by fluoro kagools and monotone brollies. And thankfully most of the bad weather bypasses Portmeirion, the heaviest of showers conveniently coinciding with a car picnic.
I’m not sure how the plants feel about this weather. Some, I suspect, are struggling a bit like us. Nonetheless, the grounds at Portmeirion are a delight, boasting exotic species from around the globe, hidden pagodas and ornamental ponds. And from loftier heights there are snatched views of downtown and out across the estuary towards Porthmadog. Loftier heights that prove occasionally breathtaking as the rain marches forth.
Farewales…
The morning after dawned bright and fresh at Green View, features of the landscape cleansed like sparkling champagne flutes straight out of the dishwasher. The view, how you are drawn to that view. Those wild, undulating hills, plunging into a rich patchwork of fields. Lone cottages and barns and the perfectly imperfect lines of hedgerow and dry stone wall. Copses of broadleaf woodland sprout up while clusters of white dots decorate the grass. And a little after 10:00, slicing through it all is the toot and steam of a choo-choo train inching ever up the valley.
And there we are, yet another corner of this incredibly ample little country successfully navigated with much enjoyment, comfort and companionship over the past few days. Nothing could go wrong. Wales done us.
Do you ever linger long enough to wonder whether this is the last time you will ever see something again? We pass through, move on, find the next thing all too quickly, rarely pausing to contemplate a moment that will most likely never recur. To do so can be confronting and, deep down, we simply assume – or hope – that this will not be the end.
I can relate to these ponderings on a recent, spontaneous trip down to the the far south coast of New South Wales. Unexpectedly treading along the white sands of the Pambula River once more. A cool but sunny Monday morning when I could pretend at being retired and living my best franking-credit fuelled coast life. Replete with eastern sunrises, fish and chip quests, wooden boardwalks and sand in toes.
I first came across these shallow sapphire waters in December 2006, enamoured with the trill of bellbirds and the dazzling contours of tide and land. Discovering the depths of Australia for essentially the very first time, one of several south coast missions with Georgina who was doing the very same. I materialised in the same place many times since: with Jill in 2013, prior to our off-road slip-sliding drama in Ben Boyd National Park; with Dad and Michael on our way to the border in 2018; a day or two before bushfire calamity at the end of 2019; and, the last time, sheltering from a sea breeze as I munched on fish and chips from Wheelers.
Each one of those visits may have been the last. But here I am again in May 2022. Sharing the place with a couple of fishermen missing all the action in the middle of the river and an old codger and his dog, sporting an unkempt slept-in-car look but quite probably owning one of those houses commanding an outlook over Eden. He remarks on the frenzy of fish coming to the surface, a sight still so remarkable as to catch the attention of even visitors more regular than I.
Like the glittery dance of fish breaching water, there are other jewels to be had down this way. In fact, it’s an embarrassment of riches. After the morning at the river I head back into Merimbula. The night before had seen me navigate its boardwalk until dusk, filling in time before picking up some fish and chips (verdict: a bit underwhelming, sadly). As time-fillers go it wasn’t a bad option, with a few remnants of laser-like sun infiltrating the mangroves and reflecting off rows of oyster bed. There is something so soothing about stepping out on a boardwalk, even as some jog off in a breathless frenzy.
Today I am looking to reacquaint myself with another blast from the past: a coffee and bacon and egg roll nestling within the sparkling cove at Bar Beach. The coffee was everything a perfect coffee should be in such a setting; all too often, advantageous spots such as these yield disappointing fare. But not here. Chilled vibes, friendly baristas, a scattered mix of retirees, young Mums, ambos on a break, fishing type. Drinking it all in.
However, since this is 2022, not everything can be quite so exemplary. I note with alarm that the bacon and egg roll has been crossed out on the chalkboard menu. I set off for a walk to figure out how to recover from such news, passing a food delivery truck on the way up the hill which provides a glimmer of hope. It’s hope that stays with me as I glimpse the estuary through the trees, the beach through the scrub, the ocean through massive orb spider conglomerations. Ducking low under one final palatial web back to the kiosk. Where I now notice a sign on the counter proclaiming no food at all.
Things cannot exactly always be the same as before. And divergence throws up different pleasures and opportunities for new delights. Certainly, eating a couple of – admittedly pricey – takeaway sushi rolls in my comfy fold up chair upon the sheltered sands in the sun was a pretty decent way to spend my remaining few hours on the coast. And the lighter lunch makes a forthcoming stop, another repeat, at Nimmitabel Bakery all the more necessary. Shame.
With cake in mind, I say adieu to these crystal waters once again. Crossing country through Cathcart and Bemboka and up the big hill to Nimmitabel. Struck by the verdurous landscape spilling over the horizon in every direction. Embraced by green with a sense of manure, it only takes a few gears to imagine myself driving in the midst of Devon. There again. By fate, magnetism, and sheer good luck, once more coming back to something I love.
There is a quaint tradition that takes place in Australia around every three years. Puffed up on bombast and / or desperation, the Prime Minister of the day boards a private jet to Canberra before being chauffeured through its leafy streets to tea with the Governor-General (almost ubiquitously a retired military general). He (almost ubiquitously a he) asks the Governor-General to dissolve parliament and allow for a general election. Outside, the nation celebrates in one almighty eye roll and stocks up on paracetamol to get through a six week headache.
In 2022 when we have all been Zooming and Teamsing and FaceTiming like forever, this ritual seems quite the preposterous exercise. Not to mention overly excessive in the use of fossil fuels. But the mining donors will love it and, of course, the media lap it up. Cue live coverage of the Prime Ministerial jet landing, the man himself ushered into a shiny white car, frenzied speculation about what weekend voting will fall on and the odd reference to a democracy sausage (like the sausage sizzle at Bunnings, tastes awful and often comes with a sick feeling several hours later).
Should the PM look up before pressing the flesh with the GG he might notice the beautiful tree-lined avenue of Dunrossil Drive. A road that – like the GG – gets its moment in the sun every three years. Spring elections will be accompanied by a tunnel of vibrant, lime green. Autumns, the golden shimmer of industrious nature gently on the wane. Cycles of nature and political fortune.
If the Prime Minister is anything like me (hopefully not), he will get out of his car and walk around taking surreptitious pictures of suburban streets with his phone. Every March, April and May they stack up, a photo reel transitioning from green and yellowing hues to fluorescent pinks and purples. Every now and then a picture of a cake interrupts the timeline.
Some of the photos manage in landscape but more often than not portrait mode is required, creeping ever backward and breathing in to fit the entire scene in frame. Should the Prime Minister find himself in such a situation he might want to beware of falling backwards into a hedge or car park or sports hall or absence of policy on women’s equality or word salad on climate change. But admiring the scene, how good is this climate change?
As the days, dress ups, press conferences and weeks pass, the Prime Minister may or may not make it back to see the Governor-General to get sworn in or (should this transpire) hopefully sworn at. By then, the colours of the capital would have faded some more, the trees along Dunrossil Drive depositing a crisp confetti to be scattered by the wake of a Comcar. And the Prime Minister and his cabinet and his members and his friends and his lobbyists and his mentors and his donors will be stuck in Canberra in the freezing fog. A beautiful thing.
Until recently, the last time I witnessed the ocean it was obediently marching towards the stoic cliff line of North Cornwall. A showery, blustery day unsurprising in early December, as fickle and mean-spirited as the lack of warming jacket potatoes and the distribution of parking tickets. Utterly glorious but only in fleeting spells between disenchantment.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to see the sea again. But fate and circumstance have been unpredictable allies, regularly conspiring to deliver huge volumes of rain along eastern Australia, more often than not over the course of a whole weekend. Floods, landslips, surges, maelstrom. The usual 2022 kind of stuff really.
Canberra, naturally, has been a little more protected from the onslaught, feasting its way through annual festivities towards the ambience of autumn. But there’s only so many gum trees and mountain vistas and cafes on bike rides and lake reflections one can digest before yearning for a saltier breeze. Waiting, watching, hoping for a porthole.
And finally there is a Sunday in April. A Sunday following several more days of heavy rain but a window nonetheless. A Sunday when I hotfooted it east with haste, bypassing the regulation coffee stop in Braidwood so that I could enjoy one instead on the sand. From Mossy Point down to Broulee. Regulation muffin making for a vision realised.
Broulee is always a good bet, boasting a selection of beaches and bays, aforementioned coffee (and muffin), and a diverting walk around its not quite island. Here it’s not all fine white sand and azure water, but slabs of rock, stunted scrub and seaweed lending a dose of unkempt nature to proceedings.
Indeed, with the generous gift of La Niña there is plenty of seaweed to mar those paradisiacal sands, the water a distinctly browner shade than normal from all the run off. But under blue skies today, who’s complaining?
With a spot of dawdling and reading and milling around to give the muffin at least some time to digest, I headed onto Moruya to source some fish and chips for lunch. Or fish cocktails and a potato scallop to be precise. The cocktails – all crunch outside and softness within – are to be commended, the scallop – all undercooked insipidness – to be fed to the gulls.
Still, the food was more than enough to propel me towards a post lunch lull and I had visions of fading in and out of consciousness on a sheltered bay somewhere nearby. On name alone, Lilli Pilli Beach tempted me towards it and I settled on the sand with hope, only to be distracted by a cool, funnelling breeze and pooey wafts from a stagnant creek. This motivated me to move and explore among the wonderful spotted gums above the bay.
Trying again for a final dose of utopia I pulled off the road at McKenzies Beach. This was more like it: no smells, no wind, and the rhythmic throb of surf as it meets the crescent of fine, south coast sand. And while there was no nap to be had, I sat contentedly, sun on back, reading about some lady cycling around France eating cake. There is no shame to have an escape within an escape, especially when it involves patisserie.
Back in the very present, I finished a chapter atop the Col de Joux Plane and cast imprints of my feet in the sand. Greeting the ocean and wading ankle deep. Thinking the next time they touch the sea, they may well be half a world away.
Is anyone else fed up of living in ‘interesting times’? If there wasn’t the death of a rock icon followed by the self-harm of isolationism followed by the election of a rabble-rousing orange manbaby preceding the onset of catastrophic bushfires coming just before the spread of a deadly virus leading into wild lockdown parties before another calamitous war broke out would things really have been that boring? It’s no wonder many people my age seem to hanker back to the 1990s, when the biggest deal was Jennifer Aniston’s hairdo.
If you are seeking uninteresting times, you could look no further than a long drive from Canberra to Coonamble and back, especially if this takes you through Dubbo. Admittedly that would make for some pretty uninspiring content, but there is comfort and reassurance to be had in the boring. I just don’t know how I will stay awake though, and it’s probably the same for you, dear reader, as well. So, in an effort to entertain all round, I contrived to make the journey into one big loop, extending the kilometres but exposing myself to some new tarmac – and dirt – along the way.
The first of the new ground was along blacktop through rugged Karst country, taking me from Abercrombie Caves down into the fertile plains around Bathurst. I could have detoured around Mount Panorama the right way while I was here, but time was pushing on and I was getting low on fuel. Stopping at a nearby servo offering the cheapest E10 for miles around, I became the proud owner of the most expensive tank of petrol I have ever bought. Until next week.
As the last glowing oranges and indigo hues of sky gave way to a starry night, I settled down for the evening in Sofala. By settling down I mean parking my car in a free camping area next to the Turon River, eating salad and cold pizza in the front seat, before clambering into the back and onto an air mattress. For a night of sweet cheesy dreams, eventually.
Sofala is one of those tiny places whose glory days have long passed. The glory days being – like many of the settlements in this region – the discovery of rich deposits of gold. Information boards display grainy black and white images and describe a bustling town featuring stage coaches and banks and theatres and, naturally, several raucous hostelries. Today, the high street is a sedate affair offering understated charm and just the one, currently lifeless pub.
It turns out there is gold remaining just out of town, or at least the same glow emanating alongside the river. Water has scoured a course deep into the earth, leaving precipitous cliffs towering high above the mirrorlike pools of the Turon. Known locally as Wallaby Rocks (as indicated by a small, hand painted sign), this came as a total surprise, an interesting feature of an interesting drive that you wouldn’t have known about without passing this way.
I was heading up towards Hill End, another settlement grown rich on the sunlight shimmer of minerals. Today it is preserved by NSW National Parks as a historic site, a village of the past functioning in the present. And so there is an old pub that still operates as a pub, a general store that still operates as a general store, and a scattering of private residences with owners doing the usual mowing and chook-feeding and sitting on creaky wooden verandas. I expected a more bustling affair here, but on a Friday morning it felt like I was the only visitor, a conspicuous sight wandering the streets and peering into people’s gardens.
If nothing else, the village is aptly named, clustering at the end of a long plateau above the deep valley of that Turon River. This results in the promise of three separate lookouts and though not quite of a scale of – say – the Blue Mountains or Kosciuszko, they offered fine views of the golden, rolling countryside. Vistas that were, I suppose, somewhat interesting.
From Hill End I took a lengthy, winding road down towards Mudgee. This would be one of the more interesting towns along the route but cognisant of making progress north and noting the fact that I had stayed there before, I eschewed the town centre and made for lunch in Gulgong instead. The lunch would not be as fancy or as overpriced, but it was satisfying enough on a shady bench in a town that appeared to be rooted in the 1950s. Or maybe 80s. Golden times, whenever they were.
With every kilometre the level of interest along the road peters out, the landscape flattening and becoming dominated by grain. A painted silo at Dunedoo testifies to its abundance alongside the effort of these towns to generate some form of tourism through silo art. Further along at Mendooran there isn’t even a silo to justify stopping, but I stop anyway, grabbing a country coffee and slice of carrot cake to appease the bitterness of the coffee.
It is perhaps the plainness of these plains, today frazzled hot and windy, that makes the volcanic pinnacles and rugged chasms of Warrumbungle National Park all the more interesting. More than interesting in fact. Spectacular. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I love this place and its very magnetism makes it impossible to drive on by. The view from Tooraweenah beseeches: come hither.
I should be making for dinner in Coonamble but cannot quite turn left. Sure it is thirty-five degrees, but the midday sun is well and truly a thing of the past and the return of trees to the landscape should offer some shade. Besides, I need to do something more interesting today, something other than largely sitting on my arse as Australia passes by. Climbing more than a thousands steps to Fans Horizon and marvelling in a conglomeration of sweat and awe at an incredible landscape is pretty interesting.
Prior experience of Warrumbungle National Park alerted me to the presence of showers in the campground, something I was thankful to use before completing the final leg to Coonamble. Last time I came here, the town had quite the aroma courtesy of the mouse plague. I didn’t want to be the one bringing that reminder to its townsfolk today. And be turned away for dinner.
And what a dinner, as always. The interest here is less Coonamble but more friendship and warmth and good food and loud voices and love. From twilight walks along the flat roads with my dear friend Norz, to tales of sand-blown motorbike adventures and potential pizza toppings with Howard. And then there is the joyous company of a two year old, one minute impelling me to drag race him in a plastic toy car, the next inventing the new sport of whisk tennis.
There are some mildly interesting things in Coonamble, including a painted silo, the nickname hall of fame, and the languid brown ribbon of the Castlereagh River. This time I discovered the weir, some new metal emus (competing with the Galahs of Gulargambone), an impromptu water park at the pub, and consumption of a different slice at the only café open on a Sunday. It’s not much, but it doesn’t matter.
There were some surprises remaining out of town, most notably the splendid Sculptures in the Scrub. Tucked away in The Pilliga, the setting was unexpected: a fine, forested gorge whose escarpment is punctuated by artistic installations of meaning and connection. I always thought of The Pilliga as one big flat sandy forest, a landscape of monotony that would imperil any who should veer off its dirt roads. Here, you can feel things which are rich and timeless.
Just a stone’s throw away is Pilliga Pottery, but only if you’re a crow or galah. The generous rains of this summer meant the fording of a creek was out of the question, with further unknowns awaiting beyond. So, an hour and a half later, on mostly sealed road via Baradine and Coonabarabran, we were finally feasting on pizza and drinking out of earthenware cups. Another little enclave hidden in the woods, perfect to bunker down from the world.
Interestingly enough, in many ways the world was also here. The terracotta and tiled roofs and earthen walls evoked a late lunch in Spain, pre-siesta. The scattering of outbuildings and cars and rusted trinkets could be backwoods America. And then, as well as pizza on the menu, there was Bratwurst and Sauerkraut to be enjoyed. The reason became clear hearing staff converse in German, a multigenerational family thriving in The Pilliga. A veritable United Nations, without the veto power of a deluded kleptocracy.
And so, we return to those interesting times. Via Warren and Trangie and Forbes and Cowra and Murrumbateman and Moscow. With more time, Warren warrants greater exploration, particularly among the fringes of the reinvigorated Macquarie Marshes. Back in big sky grain country, Trangie may warrant a return purely for cake. I paused in Forbes for a late lunch, one of the last remaining towns of the Central West that I had yet to visit. This too had charm, elegant municipal buildings rising up among a town centre boasting a fifties Cadillac drive-in vibe. Elvis does live just up the road after all.
From Cowra the road is more familiar and home is on the horizon. Interest fades and thoughts turn from the rear-view mirror to what lays ahead. Hopefully avoiding the Highway to Hell.
And so, that year that everyone was so looking forward to when it commenced draws to a close. If the sequels to 2020 continue to pan out like the Police Academy series then we are all in for a very unamusing time. Unless you’re really into these boorish characters, crass jokes and ridiculous plotlines.
Despite its ups and downs, I was surprised to be able to find myself for a couple of weeks at the latter part of 2021 in the United Kingdom. So thank you lax borders and frequent flyer points and negative lateral flow tests and annual leave build up and, most of all, thank you science. It was a bonus trip, taken with a wariness that things could so easily change again and again.
It was amazing and I would do it all over again. This, despite the shadow of coronavirus always lurking in the background, sometimes coming to the fore. At times – such as high upon a clifftop overlooking the Atlantic, roaring with laughter during an early Christmas gathering, scouring verdant countryside for lens hoods – the pandemic disappeared altogether. At others – shopping for cards in an almighty hurry, shoving swabs up my nose, double-masking when others breathe “freedom” – it was all that was going on.
The journey back to Australia is never really a good one and pandemic travel adds an extra layer of crap. Which is exactly what was lathered all over my hands from a Great Western Railway dispenser at Plymouth station. Awaiting a train to Exeter masks were – mostly – back in fashion but no-one was rocking the dual surgical-cloth combo quite like me.
Eschewing my reserved seat for a quieter clump further down the carriage, it was a peaceful journey twisting through the ambrosia of South Devon. Along the Teign the low winter sun inched into the sky and flickered golden upon the caps of gentle waves as we wound towards Dawlish. A silhouette upon the beach swiftly passed by and I felt a yearning to swap places.
At Exeter a breath of fresh air before trundling on through a litany of country villages and towns straight out of Wessex – Whimple, Sherborne, Templecombe, Tisbury, and then finally Salisbury. For a meeting with Dad, a bakery and – yes – a PCR test.
At £99 (AU$200) I was expecting a gold plated swab and free lollipop, not a tiny pharmacy offering a ten second poke up the nose. Oh well, hopefully it will get me on a plane to Australia within the mandatory 72 hours. Hopefully.
I stayed with Dad and Sonia for a couple of days, happily partaking in Tartiflette traditions and Saturday night quiz shows. The main activity was a delightful Wiltshire walk around the Vale of Pewsey, that ultimate pre-departure injection of countryside England, of green and pleasant, of great outdoors. Of surprising blue skies masking a chill winter wind.
Much of the route took us along the top of a characteristic chalk down, plunging curvaceously into rich, bounteous farming country. Beyond far-reaching vistas over loveliness, memorable features included a white horse, old burial mounds, brambles, crawling through gaps in a fence and slipping in cow-trodden mud. Oh and did I mention the Belgian Bun? Should’ve brought a flask though.
Despite blue skies, winter finally touched me with its bone-chilling menace. This occurred right about the time Dad lost a lens hood. Buffeted by the arctic, layered up with everything I had, unable to feel my nose. What the bloody hell am I doing? My mind switching to Australia.
It is quite feasible that some people in Pewsey felt that I should have stayed put in Australia. I dunno, spending my Dad’s money in their out-of-the-way town on instant hot chocolate. And while I can appreciate perspectives on non-existent pandemic control at the borders, I couldn’t help but feel this was borne from a place of zero foreigners whatsoever. Perhaps, Little Britain style, a deluge of vomit ensued after my revelation that I was over here from Australia.
Not that anyone appeared to be really minding a pandemic the next day at Honeystreet Mill. Full tables feasting on bacon and eggs and sausages and beans and mushrooms and toast, emanating vapours with every loud voice and legume fart. I had come here with cake in mind, but it was hard to look past English bacon and sausages and HP sauce one last time. And besides, they do take away.
And so, packing cake, the journey continues onto that great city of London, steeped in drenching drizzle. It was a scaled-back visit in keeping with the times: one night only in a Paddington hotel, enabling an early start to the airport the next day. The hotel was everything you would expect of a Paddington terrace: behind the elegant façade, a labyrinthine warren of creaking floors and random stairs and polite notices. Washing muddy shoes in the shower wasn’t one of them.
For the remains of the day I endeavoured to make two brief encounters. This necessitated an adventure ride on the Underground to get to North London. From Edgware Road I hopped on the Circle Line which in my experience has always been a voyage that never seems to go anywhere in a hurry. On the plus side – I reasoned – it’s a subterranean affair, with opportunities for fresh air to mingle as you wait for no good reason at Baker Street. Occupying time, mask-counting is the new Metro-reading, and I would say an average of six and a half out of ten managed to comply on the Circle Line.
From Kings Cross I hopped onto the deeper, murkier Northern Line once more. Here I positioned myself by the windows at the end of a carriage to allow that sooty centuries-old air to take on my twin mask protection. I guess there are probably traces of the Spanish flu down here, along with Churchill’s cigar smoke and aromas from a Wimpy burger.
Maybe I just got lucky, but it was quiet, with mask-wearing approaching nine out of ten heading to those affluent, sensible suburbs of the north. The emerging light after Highgate never fails to bring relief, despite having done this trip hundreds upon hundreds of times in the past. And soon, at East Finchley, I hopped off into the late afternoon air.
The skies had brightened a little, prior to their disappearance into night. Cognisant of being on an aeroplane for days, I was keen to walk and talk with Caroline, aided by the thoughtful and cherished gift of some M&S chocolate biscuits. Through Cherry Tree Wood I remarked how I vaguely remembered walking this way once to Muswell Hill and lo and behold after not having a clue where we were heading we ended up in Muswell Hill. From there it wouldn’t have been so far to the Ally Pally but the drizzle set in once again and the pub sounded a better prospect.
Despite all the ridiculous nonsense spouted about freedom days and the sanctity of pubs from our self-styled post-war yearning libertarian warriors I rather enjoyed my two pints in the pub with an old friend. It just felt, well, normal. Like old days, like old lives. Yes we had our masks at the ready and sat far from the smattering of patrons, but it was almost as if a pandemic didn’t exist. Despite talking for 80% of the time about the bloody pandemic. I guess the alcohol maybe went to my head, but I remember that hour with much fondness.
I also remember dinner with much fondness, again propped up by a glass or two of wine and the company of more old friends. It was all too brief with Melita and Geoff and Orla and how I yearned to just linger and crash on the sofa and get up the next morning to walk to Victoria Park or up to North Finchley Sainsbury’s for hummus, edamame and more wine. The hope is for this sometime in 2022…
The final day of 2021 finds me sat writing this under a shady tree beside a lakeside bay in Canberra, Australia. A few families are scattered upon what counts for a beach, while a fluoro-white cockatoo shrieks from somewhere within a tall eucalyptus. Nursing me along, I managed to find one of the few coffee shops open – an Omicron lover’s dream – to pick up a takeaway. Accompanying shortbread comes courtesy of M&S at Terminal 3 of Heathrow. I had a lot of time at Terminal 3.
But I made it. After a PCR test, a cancelled flight, an airport hotel with buffet food, early coach pick-ups with whinging people, a nonstop coughing, nose-blowing man, Darwin, Sydney, driving down the highway to Canberra, three days of home quarantine followed by another bonus four, two more PCR tests and about six lateral flows. Horrible jet lag and a tired achy feeling that just wants to linger. Delights at being back and some disappointments. It was worth it all.
For the duration of my flight I was sat next to a well-masked older lady who was off to Sydney to see her son, his partner, and their son. A boy born under the shadow of COVID-19. This was her third attempt and I shouldn’t have been surprised at the obscenities flowing from her mouth at the first aborted take off. She just wanted to see her grandson for the very first time.
For ourselves and for others. This is why we do it and would do it all again. All the time holding on to the hope in our hearts that some sequels are better than the original.
gbpilgrim 