June 28, 1997: Budleigh Salterton to Sidmouth
The mouth of the River Otter
I used to begin every summer walk in this era with a sore back – the result of bending over in the course of my book inventory work at the American School in London – where this activity was just one of my duties as department head. I was a little stiff in the morning every day of the present journey, often lathering myself in Deep Heat as part of my ablutions. These were completed by 9:00, when I met the others in the dining room. A beautiful, landscaped garden stood behind the house, complete with burbling fountain, and this served as our view through the stewed fruit, the cereal, and the full English breakfast. It took a long time for our landlady to appear with the latter and I think it was 9:40 before we tasted the first sausages of the trip. Our hostess was a widow, still mourning the loss of an elderly second husband. He had been an organ fancier and on his own abandoned instrument a book of music was still open to the song, “Softly, As I Leave You.”
It was just as well that we had only a short seven miles day today because we weren’t out of the house much before 10:10. Our hostess had put an organ-inflected version of Bolero on the hi-fi and it was to this hypnotic rhythm that we took our leave, circumnavigating the dead woodpecker one last time, and descending the high street again. There was a long delay while I bought some deodorant (having my choice between two opposite side of the street chemists), Marge some postage stamps for her endless stream of cards, and Tosh a newspaper. Harold and I ended up on a bench opposite the Rover dealership, waiting for the ladies to catch up – but finally he had to go fetch them. Then there was great indecision among the Lees over how many layers to wear today and finally, at 10:45, we were off.
We followed the esplanade as far as a parking lot at the mouth of the River Otter. I saw two Schnauzers with fuzzy curly tales here. There was no bridge over the river so we had to use a path inland for some two thirds of a mile, utilizing the occasional observation blind to view the riverine scene to our right. A road bridge put us on the other side, but the return to the coast was further away from the river, full of minor ups and downs, and crowded with other walkers and the occasional cyclist. At last we rounded a corner and began to climb along tracks and paths as we headed mostly north. There was occasional sun and it was a very pleasant walking day, with good views behind and ahead and only one black arrow to slow us down. We passed another pig condominium on the skyline (Tosh worrying about the pollution caused by the run-off from this farmstead). Poppies grew next to wheat fields on our left.
Looking back at Budleigh Salterton
Eventually we could see the red sandstone stacks of Ladram Bay, another large caravan colony, and at 1:10 we descended to this settlement – finding another cavern of a modernized pub built to serve the summer crowds. This one was open for business, however, so we settled down to drinks and lunch at the Three Rocks Inn. The place was mostly empty, though the insistent pulse of the fruit machines in an anteroom kept things from being really peaceful. The nice barman and efficient food dispenser chap (surely not the advertised Flossie) saw to our needs with efficiency and good humor. The former, hearing my accent, wanted to know where I was from. “Los Angeles.” “Is that on the east coast? “No, on the west.” “Isn’t that where Florida is? ” He had actually spent the previous summer working in a camp in upstate Michigan. I had a bacon cheeseburger and chips while the Lees had hot dogs – which they denounced as sausages in disguise. In the empty vastness of the balcony over the dance floor we each settled down at our own table. I drank a pint and half of lager while the Lees disappeared to watch some Wimbledon in the bar. A small cat accompanied us up the greensward when we at last climbed out of Ladram Bay at 2:00.
Ladram Bay
There was a good deal of uphill still left, beginning with a steep climb up the flanks of High Peak – although we circled to the left of the summit on delightful forest paths. We had some water and a brief rest before attempting Peak Hill, not encouraged by a descending jogger who complained about the flies: “I should be wearing windscreen wipers.” At the top we had a debate over whether we were watching swallows, swifts or house martins circle the dark grey skies. A lovely Collie came by to get a cuddle. Then it was downhill on the last stretch of the day.
A lone brave swimmer was attracting a crowd at the fort that topped one end of the lovely Connaught Gardens on the outskirts of Sidmouth – which we reached about 3:20. I sat down on a bench here and stroked a lazing cat, then followed the horticulturalists slowly through the floral displays. Harold had the brochure for our hotel and we were able to leave the path before entering the town proper. It was only a few blocks from the seafront, I was happy to observe, and at 3:50 we were being shown to our rooms by an unctuous concierge whom Tosh and I denounced as creepy.
When we met a few minutes later for drinks in the hotel bar this same chap informed me that he stocked no diet drinks, so I had a German lager instead. Harold wanted to dine here, for some strange reason, so after a cleanup and a nap, we returned to the dining room at 7:00. The other guests were so old I expected oxygen masks to be wheeled about between courses. The food was mostly stodge. Harold ordered the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding while I had the whiting and Marge ordered cold chicken salad.
After dinner we had a walk through the town, stopping off at the loos in a little park where Sidmouth’s disaffected youth hung out, and then strolling back up the pedestrian precincts of a quite sizable town. I was looking for some place where we might buy snacks. “There must be an off-license open,” I argued and eventually, indeed we came across a Threshers where I bought some peanuts and, for fun, a packet of pork rinds. A nightclub scene throbbed on some street corners and every form of tat and clutter crowded the windows of the shops. Still it was fun to stroll and deplore and, with the light at last failing, we made our way back up past the little theater, where guests were having a fag and a choc ice at intermission time for the Victorian melodrama, and thus recovered our hotel. I called Dorothy from my room and by 10:00 it was lights out.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: