July 2, 1995: Plymouth to Noss Mayo

Sunday, July 2, was a grey and overcast day – quite a contrast to the first two days of our trip. We met at 8:30 for breakfast in the crowded hotel dining room, and had to wait some time to be served – as the waitresses and the kitchen staff quarreled over who had ordered what and the guests, many of them Spanish, were handed dishes they had not ordered at all.

At 9:30 we were ready to continue eastward along Citadel Road, again heading toward a ferry point – this time at Sutton Harbor. We wound up quiet city streets until we were abreast the famous Barbican, then dropped down to the waterside, only a few feet away from the American flag that flew over the equally famous Mayflower Steps. The Lees had time to read the inscription here while I marched out to the end of a pontoon and pressed a button that was supposed to summon a boatman – who would take us across the Cattewater to Turnchapel. A few drops had fallen as we completed our first half mile and they continued to fall as I waited with some anxiety to see if the first part of my complex plan for today’s walk would come to fruition.

Sometime after we had completed our bookings for this trip I had decided that, at all costs, I wanted to avoid an inland route of some seven miles on pavements from our hotel to Turnchapel – a route distinguished by its wonderful views of decayed shipyards, gasometers, railway sidings and a mile’s march over the Lara Bridge. The official path resumes at Turnchapel, so avoiding all this road walking was not skipping a bit of the coast path, but skipping the road walking would enable us to have a “rest day” of only ten and a half miles, give us a pub to aim for at lunch, and, if a second ferry crossing were successful, enable us to complete some of the very long next stage of the trip this afternoon. It was with some relief, therefore, that I spotted the ferry chugging through the yacht-infested waters and nosing up to our slipway.

The trip across the estuary was quite exciting and the views splendid. Our elderly captain set us ashore at the Turnchapel Marina and we spent a few minutes trying to figure out which floating docks to use as we came ever closer to the foot of Bovingdon Street. It was 10:15.

We began a steep ascent of St. John’s Road in a light drizzle but after the road had twisted left (opposite a monument to T.E. Lawrence) we had to take cover in a bus shelter in order to don full raingear. The force of the rain was never great and there were still some views, but the moisture was steady for the next hour and it considerably dampened our spirits.

At the top of St. John’s Road we turned right to pass the entrance to Fort Stamford, now a country club, continuing forward for a few more yards to the parkland at Jennycliff – where it was possible to escape the cars by making our way forward over the bench-bedecked greensward. We descended to a clubhouse and climbed the hill in front of us. In spite of the inclement weather there were still plenty of people about, most of them walking dogs. Soon it was necessary for us to return to the road for a bit, but we were at last able to escape all traffic when a coast path sign beckoned us into some woodland and we returned to high cliff territory – with views of the breakwater emerging on our right. We passed over the top of Fort Bovisand, now a diving school, and dropped down to some cottages and some more tarmac at Bovisand Harbor.

Some kids were playing a version of cricket and the only problem was that a well-delivered blow would send the tennis ball over the cliff edge. After walking behind the beach here we continued uphill on grass and tarmac through the holiday village, turning right to accompany a street of new chalets as far as some loos, where we took brief refuge. Low cliffs and a largely level path took us forward around Andurn Point and in another mile we had rounded this small headland and were heading into Heybrook Bay. I had told Tosh that there would be a pub here and she had already fixed its location by chatting with a man emerging from a tennis court. We turned up a steep village street and within a hundred yards we were staring at the even steeper back steps of the Eddystone Inn above us.

We entered this welcoming establishment from the rear and soon found a table where we could take off our packs and stow wet gear on the neighboring chairs. I had only a Diet Coke but the Lees ordered beer as we studied the menu. Then, while our food was being prepared, we each made a number of adjustments to our outfits. I took off my wet UCLA NCAA Basketball Champs t-shirt and replaced it with my black ASL rugby sweatshirt. I completed this task in the men’s room, returning to complain about the lack of tradition in condom sales hereabouts – “The only kind you can get are either flavored, luminous, or come with wolf’s heads on the tips!” I was also experiencing some pain from a toenail and so I took off both of my boots and went outside to have a look, adding more tape to the bloody tip of the fourth toe on my left foot.

The Lees had order baguettes made from two of the day’s three featured roasts (pork, beef, and lamb) but as they had disdained the garlic butter they now complained that these were dry. I had cod, chips, and mushy peas and the latter were surprisingly delicious. We had a second drink and the Lees ordered coffee. It was close to 1:30 and the place had filled up with a noisy, bustling crowd of Sunday lunchers when we at last said goodbye to the large troop of young helpful waitpersons and emerged onto the balcony again. It had stopped raining.

At the bottom of our hill there was a cheery sign, a green disc that indicated that there would be no firing at the gunnery school, HMS Cambridge, which dominated the coast path for the next mile or so, and thus no need to undertake a steep detour over the top of this establishment. The route was low and level, though we marched right beneath a deadly set of naval guns, and we were able to make good time as we rounded another headland amid the stench of the nearby sewage works – with views of Wembury Beach enticing us forward. As we neared this National Trust coastal hamlet I halted our group on the bridge over the little stream and asked Harold if he would take my picture. I had reached the 2500th mile of my walking career in the British Isles!

I sat on a parapet beneath the church while Tosh visited a local shop in search of postcards and snacks. Then we climbed a steep path to regain a higher position on the cliff top. From here good paths brought us out to the end of the Warren Point ridge overlooking the River Yealm and at the Rocket House we began a descent on tracks to the riverside itself.

Here we could see the village of Newton Ferrers on our left, though our own destination village, Noss Mayo, was hidden by trees around a corner on Newton Creek. It was 3:00 and this was the advertised starting time for an afternoon ferry service to the Noss Mayo side of the Yealm. (I had confirmed times for both of the services we would be using today by phone only a week earlier). Now we were somewhat nonplussed to see no ferry, no slipway, nothing but slimy rocks before us, no notice-board, no sign of activity whatsoever. There was a vacationing family (accompanied by a swimming dog) at play among the rocks, hunting for shrimps and other edible sea creatures. The dad assured us that there was indeed a ferryman over on the Newton Ferrers side of this triangle and he pre-empted our calls for help by putting his fingers to his lips and letting off a superb whistle. Sure enough there was a sign of activity on the dock at Newton Ferrers and a man in a black sweater was soon rowing himself in our direction. Yes, the famous River Yealm ferry was young man in a rowboat.

He arrived in a few minutes and helped us over the last of the slimy rocks and aboard his vessel. It began to rain again as we were pulled over the river, passing a Captain Birdseye at the helm of a much larger boat as we neared the eastern shore. Here we paid a pound each for an invaluable service, and it was with some relief that I climbed the slipway up to the Noss Mayo road; I wasn’t particularly perturbed by the return of the rain for I knew that my plans could now be completed in plenty of time.

The inland road to Noss Mayo, only a half a mile or so away, was on our left, but the coast path heads off to the right. I proposed to take this for two miles or so now and, at an appropriate moment, turn inland to approach the village from above. We met a few Sunday strollers heading to the village and they were most puzzled that we were too – by heading in the opposite direction! Much of the way forward was in woodland, which was just as well considering the gradual increase in moisture from above – and we paused once in a protected position to put on our raingear again. There were a number of interesting cottages and gardens that had to be passed before we reached the trackway above Cellars Beach. Here a lone horse stood expectantly with his head over the fence, hoping for some attention from walkers.

We were now walking on Lord Revelstoke’s Marine Drive, a wide trackway that this gentleman had built as work-relief for unemployed fishermen in the 1880’s. Gradients were comfortable as we reached Mouthstone Point at the head of the river  – where the line of march switched from a surprising west to a more conventional east. Unfortunately visibility was now poor and, though it was mostly mist rather than rain that we had to contend with, certainly there were no further opportunities for photography. We passed Warren Cottage and saw several farm workers at their chores in neighboring fields; there were whole sections of the track covered in sheep shit. I began to worry that we would miss the access point to a National Trust car park in the fog but Tosh asked a man with a dog for directions just at the spot I had expected to turn off, and he confirmed this escape route. There was a brief climb uphill to the parking area in question, where the man with the dog even asked us if we wanted a ride.

We were not really in need of one now for after walking only a few feet to the west we were at the head of a track directly down the valley to Noss Mayo village. I also suspected that we would not even have to get very close to the village itself because Rookery Nook, our b&b, would be located quite high up this track and would be encountered on our descent. This had been my surmise from directions supplied by our host family, the Steers, to drivers heading into the village from Newton Ferrers and from the OS coordinates in the guidebooks – but I was immensely relieved to discover, after seven minutes or so, that the Lees had stopped to introduce themselves to Mr. Steer, who was standing out in front of his establishment smoking a small cigar. It was only 5:20.

We were shown to the lounge, the residents’ kitchen, and to our rooms on the first floor. We were the only guests and so it didn’t matter too much that there were no en suite facilities. We went downstairs for a quiet cup of coffee, which Tosh brewed, and some digestive biscuits that Harold had with him. Then I took the first bath. My room, which had three beds in it, was very comfortable. It overlooked the back yard and I could see the last of the day’s raindrops gradually come to an end as I dried various portions of my guidebooks and clothes over an electric heater. The day had gone extremely well in spite of the weather, though I do believe that this had been our first day on the coast path without a single ray of sunshine.

Mr. Steer, a chatty man with a love of boats, disappeared to move one of these into the sea at high water, and then at 7:00 he gave us and some oars a lift down to the village for supper. Mrs. Steer, whom Harold remembered seeing walking her dogs on the cliffs as we had climbed up to the parking lot, was a friendly woman in her fifties who collected Port Meirion china and wanted to sell Rookery Nook (her birthplace) in order to buy another place closer to the water.

We plunged down the track speedily in Mr. Steer’s car, with me beginning to dread the walk we would have to take back up after supper. I took my raingear, which was not needed any longer, and my camera, finishing a roll as the sun tried to break through in the car park of the Old Ship – which overlooked the tiny Noss Mayo harbor. Here we ordered some drinks and took them upstairs where it was a bit quieter and where we could study the restaurant menu. The meal was quite nice, though there were smokers nearby, and we even ordered a warming bottle of Cote du Rhone. I had a fillet with pepper sauce, but the delicious piece of meat was huge and I could only eat about half. The Lees had fish. During dinner Tosh revived a department meeting argument over whether it was possible to ask members of the English department to file copies of their assignments for the benefit of their colleagues. I thought it was, but she insisted it couldn’t be done and I resented having to go through the whole argument a second time.

There was still a little light when we left the Old Ship, but high tide had covered much of the parking lot and we had to leave by another entrance. Our colleague Don Jesse later told us an interesting tale about this village. Its fishermen had captured a huge barrel labeled “Mombasa” in their fishing nets. Out of curiosity they had bored a hole and discovered alcohol inside. There was then a scene out of Whiskey Galore in which villagers filled their bellies and their pails. Then someone detected that there was something else inside the barrel so it was smashed open. Inside was a pickled gorilla, its fur dyed white during the journey from Africa. The next scene was at the local hospital – where villagers checked themselves in to have their stomachs pumped.

We climbed the hill slowly and after ten minutes or so regained Rookery Nook. Tosh and I sat on the front porch and watched the young cows in the opposite field play a game that consisted in charging up and down hill and smashing into whoever was “it.” Ben, the Labrador, was also fascinated by this and sat down next to the “for sale” sign to stare across the valley at these bovine antics. When it truly became dark we went to bed.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 42: Noss Mayo to Bigbury-On-Sea