June 25, 1996: Brixham to Torquay
Approaching Broadsands
The divers had been fed at 6:30 (I know, I heard them getting up), and there weren’t many people about at breakfast. On the way back to the harbor at 9:45 we poked into several shops, Tosh hunting for the right broadsheet and I for more Schnauzer kitsch. Harold had already started walking up Overgang Street before I could locate a harborside path – so there was nothing to do but follow him, with Tosh trailing a distant third. At the bottom of the hill we reached the car park mentioned in the guidebooks and walked past the Zeneca lab. A short climb put us into Battery Gardens, a pleasant parkland. Route finding was surprisingly complex today as the coast path made use of many existing walkways and we were now directed to follow a wall up to the main garden’s exit – where a road passes between two holiday camps. A lady was walking five dogs in this lane, which gave way soon to a woodland path.
We chose a trail to descend to the beach at Churston Cove. A very steep path ascended the cliffs at the northern end of this cove and Harold objected to the use of the word “meandering” in our guidebook to describe such an ascent. Views of the great curve of Torbay came briefly into focus before we entered a delightful woodland stretch – almost a mile in length and fairly level. The guidebooks complain that this track is a “scenic disappointment” – indeed they seemed to complain anytime the coast path wasn’t perched on a cliff top with sea spume blowing into your face – but, for walkers with heavy packs, finding respite from the sun on a hot day, with a golf course hidden on the left and glimpes of blue water beneath us on the right, was a blessing.
Eventually we descended to Elbury Cove and found a burnt log to sit on. I searched the shingle for a few more rock specimens. Someone from the Torbay parks department was combing the back of the beach in her yellow shirt, looking for litter. A speedboat pulled up dragging an inflated sausage which was meant to be mounted by screaming passengers and towed through the waves. A lady warned Harold that there was a set of 312 steps waiting for us somewhere ahead, but the climb out of the cove was humane enough. The environment took on a more civilized aspect as we rounded Churston Point and descended to the first of the great sandy stretches along this coast, Broadsands. Here we were tempted by loos and a kiosk and we had a good rest in the grass between the two while I sipped a cold Diet Coke and the Lees had a coffee. Nearby a large group of English school children on a hostel outing were sitting docilely at the feet of their teachers, having a snack. Fortunately the boys had vacated the loo before Harold and I had the use of it.
The steam railway from Broadsands
After our rest we continued round the back of the beach, admiring two railway viaducts that carried the chugging trains of the Paington & Dartmouth Steam Railway over two deep cuttings. Opposite the northernmost of the viaducts we were directed inland, crossing beneath the bridge and facing a long flight of steps up to track level (only about a third of 312, however). The Lees remained behind to admire someone’s garden and I chugged up the steps in little stages of ten. When I could see Tosh and Harold following me I continued forward on a fairly level path that eventually dropped down to a caravan camp and up a second set of steps. It was quite warm now and there wasn’t much shade and my feet were about to boil over the way my radiators used to. Harold was now in the lead again, and Tosh a distant third. She had become obsessed with signs of litter among the wildflowers and was pausing to gather up the junk. When we turned right at the end of our path, dodged under the railway line and entered the promenade of Goodrington Sands, we lost sight of her completely. She had turned left instead of right at the end of her litter pick-up duties and it took her about ten minutes to catch up with us.
We were seated on a planter surrounded by water slides, hot dog stands, kids coated in sand, a wheelchair brigade out for a day at the sea, bouncing balls, and the Inn on The Quay – a Berni Inn instant do-it-yourself ye olde smugglers inn type pub. Here, somewhat earlier than I had expected (and slightly less than half way through the day’s march) we decided to have lunch. I got the drinks in and Tosh took food orders (always getting scolded for giving the order before the table number). I had scampi and chips and tried to cool off. I even took my boots off under the table. The Lees ordered a gooey ice cream sundae.
Torbay from Shell Cove
When it was time to leave I headed out first in order to complete a needed walker’s pit stop. A toenail had been giving me difficulty and I clipped off an offending corner. Next I decided to replace my thick blue green socks with a more lightweight white pair for the stroll along the zigzag path round Roundham Head and Gardens – which was our first task after lunch.
On the northern side of this small headland we found ourselves in suburban streets, dodging the binmen of Paignton Harbor. Tosh bought some more postage stamps in a shop at the head of the next promenade and we continued forward on a walkway past Paignton Pier and along the back of a long stretch of sand. Curiously, many of the holidaymakers had disdained a life on the sand and had decided to sprawl on the promenade itself. This meant that we had to walk among and around many of them – a most unusual hazard for a long distance walker.
Eventually we ran out of walkway and had to divert around some houses on the main coast road before rejoining the promenade at Preston Sands. There was a kiosk here and we stopped for a rest on some steps. I had a Magnum bar to celebrate having reached my mile 2600. Tosh was becoming fascinated by the local beach huts, which were lined up solidly for the next half mile and now made inquiries of a local gentleman about their ownership. “I can see your next holiday shaping up,” I told Harold, “You’ll be stationed in the beach hut brewing tea while Tosh is out picking up litter.”
Just as we were about to leave this scene behind us a woman leaned out of her kiosk and said to me, “What a great hat. We can’t get them like that down here.” She was referring to my UCLA cap, with handkerchief attached, and I showed her what I had done – glad to be appreciated at last – in case she wanted to copy the idea. I had endured a good deal of ribbing about this naff arrangement up to this point. One Berry Head one local had said, “I didn’t expect to see Lawrence of Arabia,” and Harold had suggested that I looked like a member of the UCLA Camel Corps. “Why not,” I retorted defensively, “we were national champions in 1933.”
We climbed a path up to Hollicombe Head and crossed the rail line again. The area, site of an abandoned gas works, had been attractively landscaped – with a duck pond built into the base of a demolished gasholder. Unfortunately there now followed some road walking, with pavement provided, on the main A379. Torquay harbor was soon ahead of us and we chugged forward as far as Corbyn’s Head, where we had a rest in the grass outside some loos and I got to meet a huge Bouvier de Flandres female. Tosh had spotted a kiosk at the top of a ghat-like set of steps in the next cove and we paused for a cool drink. The attendants took the Lees for New Zealanders but we soon out them straight. (Always the question, what part of the States are you from? – and the disappointment when the English discover that we are not tourists because we live here.) I ordered a small orange drink. “I thought you Yanks always wanted only the biggest.”
It was becoming more overcast as we turned a corner, amid mobs of trippers and headed for the inner harbor of Torquay (which Tosh had been calling Tor-kay). I spotted a taxi company and wanted to order one to meet us at the end of our walk – when we would need one to get to our night’s accommodation – but the Lees assured me they could phone for one then. Indeed we passed a second cab rank as we headed along Victoria Parade and steeply uphill to the Imperial Hotel. It was 4:30 and after nine miles I could call a halt to the day’s walk.
Tosh now insisted on having tea here so we entered the posh interior and found a table at an outside patio where Japanese businessmen were being wined and dined. I asked for a lemonade – feeling rather out of place in my shorts and blue-green t-shirt – but no one seemed to care. When we were finished, however, Tosh began to feel intimidated about ordering a taxi from the desk and the upshot was that the Lees now wanted to walk back to the inner harbor and wait at the rank. And a wait there was, since there were no cabs available at rush hour and there was a bit of queue ahead of us. After about twenty minutes, however, a cab pulled up and I asked to be taken to Maidencombe, where our hotel was located.
There had been a brochure showing exactly where the Parkfield Hotel was located but Harold hadn’t brought it along – and the driver had no clue. Fortunately Harold did have a letter from Kitty Jones, our proprietress, and we had to stop once while he got out of his pack in the boot. It referred to Claddon Lane, which we did locate off the main road, and shortly before 6:00 we had arrived. Our rooms were quite nice, with en suite facilities again, but Harold had forgotten to book dinner and now we would have quite a long walk to a local pub, on the opposite side of the road and steeply downhill just above Maidencombe beach. Kitty had promised to pick us up at the end of our meal and with each steep step down the back roads of Maidencombe I grew more convinced that this was what I most desired.
The Thatched Inn was a lovely place, however, and we had two rounds of drinks (I was drinking double vodkas and tomato juice). At the bar we noticed a familiar figure, Enis, who had just come in to inquire about camping in a nearby field – after having added another seven miles to her day’s walk. Later she joined us at our table (I had pate and plaice) and we had an enjoyable chat about walking the coast path. We would not see her again. After the apricot crumble and custard, however, Kitty’s phone remained busy for half an hour and we decided to walk steeply uphill for twenty minutes before total darkness set in, our groaning stomachs too full, glad to arrive back at our hotel – where Kitty greeted us with the phone still in her hand.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: