June 24, 1996: Dartmouth to Brixham
Leaving Outer Froward Point
There was quite a crowd in the dining room of the Victoria Hotel when we went down for breakfast at 8:30, and it took us a while to be served by a staff that included a waitress who wore too much scent and a waiter who needed some. I had the full breakfast, including the fried tomatoes, each morning on this trip, and Tosh joined me once or twice – denouncing the fried bread every time. After breakfast it was errands time. Harold went next door for some more sun blocker; Tosh had insisted that factor 15 was at the upper end of the scale but since I carried 25 I disagreed. Harold soon discovered he could even go as high as 30! While he was concluding his purchases here Tosh went up the street to the post office and I returned to the bakery hidden beneath a quite ancient series of arches to order my crab and cucumber sandwich. Tosh soon followed; they had some fillings ready for baps and others for sandwiches, but Tosh’s request for tuna in a bap sent the serving girl into the kitchen to see if it could actually be done. It could – thereby obviating a replay of the diner scene in Five Easy Pieces. Harold settled our bill at the hotel and we walked down to the dock where a ferry was just loading for Kingswear. This was a much larger affair than the ones we had been using recently and it took us no time to make the crossing. It was 9:55 when we were able to make our start on a strenuous twelve-mile journey to Brixham (Tosh told another ferry passenger that we were going to walk to Brixton).
In many ways today’s walk resembled that of the first day; there was, for instance, a level stretch of suburbia along a tarmac road above the estuary as we returned to the sea, this time passing above Kingswear Castle. There was even another Mill Bay at almost the same spot in the walk, and here our route left the road to begin a steep descent as the route, dedicated to the memory of Falklands hero Colonel H. Jones, made a steep plunge into the bottom of the cove. I took a picture of the Lees as they approached the equally steep ascent out of the valley bottom – with the castellated mill house as background.
As we reached even ground we entered a most delightful woodland, dominated by tall Monterey pines. I disdained a lower, more seaward path – always fearing that any route that descended would require an unnecessary ascent in compensation. Our goal was the Inner Froward Point Coast Defense Battery and, indeed, a series of abandoned military structures soon appeared ahead. The point was bathed in sunlight and we decided to search for some shade before having our rest. Behind us was a tall day mark that had dominated yesterday’s skyline and one of the many routes from the point led up to it. I could see a finger post pointing to the higher of the two coast path alternatives off this road and so I chugged a bit of the way up it and sprawled into the grass beneath some trees when I reached our turnoff. While we sipped our drinks and cooled our feet we could see Enis, who had come up behind us, investigating the Battery structures.
We continued north along a track and again I chose the higher of the two alternatives over Outer Froward Point, but the promised link up with the lower path was not at all clear and we soon found ourselves floundering around in bracken – not knowing at which point to take the rise between Old Mill Bay and Kelly’s Cove. Eventually I spotted the main path and inched down to it amid the foliage – without benefit of any path. When the others caught up with me we continued toward Pudcombe Cove and the Coleton Fishacre estate, where the National Trust maintained the elegant grounds. I had always envisioned a steep climb out of the cove, but I was unpleasantly surprised to discover that there was a steep rise on our side to overcome first. Much of this was in the unprotected sun and it was already possible to tell that heat would be a problem today. At last the route began its dip toward the bottom of the combe; fortunately it leveled off well before hitting sea level and I paused for another rest next to what appeared to be a large set of wooden wind chimes – these turned out to be fire fighting shovels suspended from a tree limb.
The ascent on the opposite side of the little valley was not at all protracted. I called a brief halt once to pose Harold with his back to Pudcombe Cove; he had just completed his mile 1300. A few minutes later, at a hilltop that promised a little breeze, if no shade, we paused for lunch. Several other walkers, including a pair who had been on our ferry this morning but who had taken the bus to Brixham and who were now walking back, passed us while we dined. A dry inland valley, stripped of its hedgerows, provided the only view.
The Lees approaching Scabbacombe Sands
After lunch we climbed above Ivy Cove, with views to the north now providing the full horror of two major ascents still waiting for us. Shortly before arriving at Scabbacombe Sands we searched out a suitable spot for a rest. I nestled into a bracken bank but I did not take my shoes off this time as they were resting on one of the many piles of droppings deposited by some of the wild ponies we had just passed. We had plenty of time to contemplate the steep climb to the cliff top above Long Sands, where Enis was making her slow solo progress ahead of us. Eventually we too had to begin the long, steady pull to the top. A rest here was followed by a short level stretch before the steep descent to Man Sands followed. Then it was an even steeper path above Southdown Cliff, a slog made more difficult by the competition of a rugby team that was running up the route behind us. Tosh had found a shady spot near the top and here we sprawled in a panting heap. I had managed to get my right arm into the nettles.
At Sharkham Point
Things began to improve as we began our descent to Sharkham Point, where the locals were walking their dogs on the flat grassy top. We rounded the point and began a progress around the back of St. Mary’s Bay. Some path workers had actually been working on a section that lead us up to a path behind the houses of the locals – and they warned us not to trip in the raw earth in which they had been setting stones. “Don’t worry,” I replied, “we’re too tired to jump on any of these.”
Our next objective was the flat top of Berry Head, which protected one approach to Brixham itself. There were lots of locals out here too; one said, “The Dutch girl is ten minutes ahead of you,” as though we were in some kind of race. There were some interesting buildings at the top, and we slipped to the grass for a final rest next to a kind of moat. I took my boots and socks off one last time.
We followed roads out of the park, passing a huge field of valerian in red, pink and white shades. After passing a few corners the Brixham breakwater came into view and finally the harbor town, a bit more downmarket than Dartmouth, was entered on a coast road. A lady with a baby carriage (which started to roll away as she was chatting to us) advised us about the location of our hotel. At the inner harbor Harold made additional inquiries while I took a picture of the replica of the Golden Hind. We had to head away from the harbor past a municipal parking structure and into a rather unattractive corner of town to find the Smuggler’s Haunt, which was being haunted by two teenage floozies. It was 6:10. We were shown our rooms by a proprietress who exhibited both surprise and delight that we wanted to eat in her establishment (not a good sign). She informed us that the bar wasn’t open due to staff shortages, so after we threw off our packs we walked two blocks to the Bolton Hotel where there was a lively bar scene, including seven equally disappointed divers from our hotel. I drank a pint of John Smith and we relaxed while listening to a loud soundtrack featuring 100 Greatest Hick Hits.
Back at the Smuggler’s Haunt the Lees inspected the bathroom (we had no en suite facilities in this place). There didn’t seem to be a plug (Harold found one later) and only a short shower hose so I decided to give myself a sponge bath and wash my hair at the sink in my little room, and this proved to be quite refreshing. There was a TV but you had to put a pound coin in for three hours of viewing. We did have a drink in the opened bar, but we decided not to have dinner here but to try our luck in town.
Harold had spotted a place called Saxty’s Restaurant and we sat down shortly after 8:00. I had a prawn cocktail, a chicken curry and a Diet Coke, while the Lees ate fish again. The place had already closed its doors before we had finished our meal. We disdained dessert here and went in search of ice cream at the harbor, where a local band had just finished serenading the tourists. The ice cream (I had rum and raisin) wasn’t as good as that in Salcombe and the cone, which was coated in a layer of waxy chocolate, was nasty. We wandered around the back streets of Brixham and peeked into darkened shop windows before returning to our hotel and heading for our beds.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: