I am off on the last leg of my coastal trip around England and Wales. My aim is to use two centres to visit all the coastal settlements of any size in Cornwall, which, you may be surprised to discover, I have never really explore before. But first I have to continue from where I finished in South Devon last time.
Travelling down on the A303, a magnificent road scenically, brought back happy memories of youthful nautical adventures and years of cricket tours to Dorset. Breaking the journey at Buckfast Abbey Hotel seemed a good idea with the peace of the lavendar garden contrasting with the roar of traffic. Maybe be slightly too much, especially when dinner was taken in a rather basic monks’ refectory with me almost the youngest amongst the other grey-haired guests.
I hit the coast at Hope Cove – a lovely, rather ordinary place, surrounded by glorious landscapes. It felt like a tight, local community lived here throughout the year. There is evidence of some history in the rock walls that create an ancient harbour and also of facilities and activities that litter the beach.
It is a short drive to Bigbury-on-Sea. Here, the small resort protect a real nugget. Burgh Island is connected to the mainland by a beach causeway that is gradually exposed as the tide recedes and completely covered either side of high tide. Guests to the art deco hotel, a luxury, unique establishment where rooms start at£450 a night, are transported at the latter time on the sea tractor. I’m not sure if famous guests like Noel Coward and Churchill took the same route. There is a pub next door that serves the rest of us pints and shorts before being herded into the cave on wheels to be returned to the mainland.
And then to Plymouth. The Hoe, Drake, Hen nights, the castle, shopping, partying. Much of the seafront has been moulded into permanent features that will last into the next millenium. The beach has become concrete layers & strips of a beach cake – hard surfaces facing the westerly weather. Even the lido laughs at any attempt to soften its 20’s lines.
The sky greys roll in and drip precipitation onto the party wharfs of the Barbican. Sensible people would wear a coat ……but not a party girl, in Plymouth (or anywhere else for that matter). As the beer tents drip, the skirts get shorter and the dresses get to queeze onto Barbies of assorted sizes from new XXL to XS.