Bigbury-on-Sea 17th September 2019
We had a rest day yesterday. Having walked from Soar Mill Cove to Bantham along the South West Coast Path and then back across country, we decided a break from the coast was required. So we only walked about 7 miles yesterday – visiting Totness, Dartmeet and Wistman’s Wood. The last of these was inspirational and made an excellent contrast with coast walking. However, today we return to the day job.
We are walking from Bigbury on Sea to the mouth of the River Erme, before returning to Bigbury by inland footpaths. In the interests of thrift, we drive to Bigbury and immediately look for the cheapest car parking option we can find. We decide to check out the cost of parking closest to the seafront first and are amazed to find a parking space in a small layby at the side of the road. Amazingly there is no charge! That’s a saving of £5. Looks like we’ll be able to afford a beer later.
By 10:30am we start walking. It is very quiet as it is still relatively early, with very few people on the beach, just two dog walkers and a metal detector man. The RNLI lifeguards are already on the beach, setting up their rescue equipment in anticipation of a busy day ahead. I just love watching the beach come to life as the tide turns and starts to reveal the sand that will draw the tourists in, in their hundreds. Betty is however much more interested in the geology of the cliffs, which are heavily folded. What stories could they tell about what they have seen over the hundreds of millions of years that they have been here?
Metal-detecting at Bigbury-on-Sea, but Betty is much more interested in the geology.
As the tide drops we decide to make the short walk to Burgh Island, just a couple of hundred metres offshore. It is joined to the mainland by a sand spit, which is uncover as the tide recedes. It may technically qualify as a feature called a tombolo, an island joined to the mainland by sea deposited sediment – the Isle of Portland, joined to the mainland of Dorset by Chesil Beach, is the classic UK example of one.
We walk across to the island, over the newly exposed sand. It is still quite soft, but will harden up as it dries out. Guests at the island’s hotel would not appreciate splodging through this lot in their sling-backs, or for that matter wading across at high tide. The hotel has come up with an interesting solution we last saw at Salcombe – a beach tractor. As we arrive it is busy loading hotel guests, who climb the steps to its elevated platform prior to being ferried shoreward. Today is a bit of a token effort, but it must really earn its keep in foul weather, when it may have to make its traverse through breaking wave crests and up to perhaps 8 or 9 feet of water.
Burgh Island – falling tide exposes the sand spit.
Beach tractor loads up departing hotel guests
We opt for a cup of coffee in the pub the Pilchard Inn, dated 1336. The cafe underneath is small and offers nothing special just paper-cup coffee. We decide to walk instead and head back to the sandy beach which is slowly growing in size as the tide falls.
Checking on-line I find that Burgh Island Hotel is a Grade II listed building and is one of the foremost examples of Art Deco style in Europe. Unfortunately it is not open for coffee, so not much chance of checking it out. Agatha Christie made Burgh Island Hotel her second home, writing two books on the Island, whilst Noel Coward stayed originally for three days, but this turned into three weeks. It seems that even the Beatles stayed over whilst performing in Plymouth.
The holiday camp at Challaborough gives residents good views of the sea
Further along the coast we come to Challaborough, a small settlement that is largely a holiday camp. After seeing the opulence of Burgh Castle Hotel, it offers contrasting accommodation at the other end of the social scale. We pass a cheery-looking, elderly couple – him wearing trilby, she overweight and smoking. I suspect they are holidaying in one of the caravans. It is easy to be judgmental about people whose lifestyle is at odds with your own. Nonetheless, they exchange a civil “hello” with us as we pass and that is the most important thing – civility towards one’s fellow human-beings. The holiday park is not really my cup of tea, being largely comprised of static caravans, which are packed in like sardines on the side of the hill. I used to own one similar to these, on a site in Bordeaux many years ago. It was fine out-of-season, but pretty hideous in August when it was full.
Beyond Challaborough the path moves away from any settlements and into the tranquility of the countryside. We return to climbing up cliffs before the inevitable descent down to the next beach at Ayrmer Cove. Here we come across a couple of jolly, if eccentric, old ladies busy painting with watercolours. Nothing odd about that you might think, except they have a large piece of white paper laid out on a pasting table, to which they are applying great swathes of colour with 2-inch wide brushes.
“I thought you’d come to the beach to do a spot of wallpapering” I say, which elicits a laugh, but fails to interrupt their steady progress as they paint the coastal scene before them. I consider taking a picture of their work, but it seems a little rude to do so before they have finished. So I sneak a snap of them from a distance, as I don’t want to incur the wrath of two 80-somethings.
Macro-watercolouring at Ayrmer Cove
The next bay is Westcombe Beach, dominated by the shiny slate cliffs we spotted from a distance yesterday, when we were at Thurlestone. Rock samphire does its impossible trick of apparently growing on the bare rock of the cliffs. A small stream, choked with wild watercress, comes down the valley before disappearing under the sand of the beach.
Housemartins flit about catching the last insects of this Indian summer, before leaving for Africa in a few weeks’ time. Cliffs are their natural home, but they have moved in with us humans in more recent times, where they find similarly vertically-walled sites to build their nests. A small lizard scuttles across the path into the undergrowth and a small-copper butterfly is busy flitting around in search of a mate. We decide to look around and I wash my boots in the freshwater of the stream. It is an idyllic location and we are in danger of being sucked into stopping far too long. But we have a walk to finish, so reluctantly tear ourselves away from paradise.
As we climb back up the cliffs, I can see two naval vessels off in the distance as they approach Plymouth, maneuvering erratically as part of some military exercise. Plymouth is our final destination for this particular section of the England and Wales coast path.
Our route mostly continues along the cliff tops, with a few relatively easy ups and downs. At Hoist Point we stop for lunch on a well-placed granite bench. It is noteworthy that the bracken here appears to have been burned-off by the summer heat, but the milder temperatures of September now appear to have stimulated fresh green shoots.
Lunch finished, we head down towards our destination – the mouth of the River Erme. Unexpectedly, we are over-taken by one of those keen young walkers intent upon bagging bigger challenges than those we have set ourselves. With the briefest of nods in our direction, he is past us, marching down to the river. There is no ferry crossing of the River Erme, so I assume he will shortly be whisking off his boots and socks and wading across its cool waters. He is lucky, or has planned well, since it is approaching low tide – hopefully the water will be shallow enough not to have to swim!
Ivy flowers – providing the last feed for visiting bees and other insects
As we descend we have to run the gauntlet of a corridor of ivy clad shrubs, all in full flower. The air is alive with the wing-beats of hundreds, if not thousands, of bees and other insects. Ivy is one of the last flowering plants, providing a vital last cache of nectar and pollen to see these vital insects through the winter. Many a well-meaning tree surgeon has left evidence of their dislike of ivy, by cutting its stems as it snakes up tree trunks. The assumption is that ivy found on a tree with a poor crown, is in the process of killing it. A sort of smoking gun. In fact ivy is not parasitic, perhaps confused with its Christmas colleague mistletoe. It is however, often found associated with weakly crowned trees because the reduced canopy allows more light in. This increased light encourages the ivy to grow into the crown, whereas the shade from a densely crowned tree is more likely to suppress its growth.
The mouth of the River Erme – crossing at low tide and during dry weather only
The mouth of the River Erme is a quiet, tranquil place – in stark contrast to the mouth of the River Avon which we encountered on the previous stretch and at the start of our walk this morning. This is the kind of location I would have loved to have brought my children to, with its acres of flat clean sand, the shallow and safe waters of the river and the absence of any bullies who might kick sand in my eyes!
As we watch people wading across the river to the beach on the far side, we contemplate making the crossing ourselves, just for fun. I reason that it might be easier upstream where the river course is braided, but discover it to be stony underfoot. Not at all conducive to wading barefoot.
We turn our attention to the return journey to Bigbury-on-Sea and open up the map to discuss our options. As ever, as soon as you start looking at a map, locals think you are lost. It is not disimilar to, and much more likely than the apocryphal story of boy scouts helping old ladies across the road – whether they want to cross or not!
In this instance it is an elderly gentleman who sees me taking out my map and who doubtless assumes me to be lost. This well-meaning attitude on the part of the helper can be a little exasperating and often makes me bridle. I’m afraid I am guilty of assuming that they are suggesting I am no good at map reading.
We do however, have a pleasant chat about the route back to Bigbury-on-Sea and our desire to avoid returning along the same piece of coast.
“You want to take the footpath up through the woods to Kingston”, he advises, “The Dolphin’s a really nice pub.
“That sounds good,” chips in Betty, “will it be open though?”
“Oh yes – doesn’t close till 4pm” he confirms.
As the conversation progresses I put to him, “I don’t imagine you get many buses here?”
“Just the one, on a Friday morning – to Plymouth, which gives you just enough time for a coffee before returning at 1 p.m.”
Despite my initial reservations, you have to admit that engaging in conversation with the locals is one of the best ways to find out what it is really like to live somewhere like this. The isolation may not be to everyone’s taste, but as long as there is a nearby pub I’m always going to be happy.
Betty decides that she will have a go at reading the map on the way back and photographs it, so that she can use her phone to enlarge the image. Alas, she discovers she has no contact lenses in, so it is back to me to return us to base.
Initially we climb up through woods to a height of 120 m, which brings us out at Kingston, whereupon we find the welcome sight of The Dolphin. Even more welcome, it is indeed open. Inside the pub is very attractive, but not as much as a table outside in the sunshine, admiring their beautiful floral pot displays. A pint of thirst-quenching cider restores our spirits and I return our glasses to the bar. The bar-maid kindly tops-up my bottle with cool, fresh tap-water and as I am thanking her for all she has done, I smacked my head on the door frame. That’s one of the joys of patronising English pubs that were built several hundred years ago, they invariably accommodated clients somewhat shorter than my 6-ft 1 inch.
From Kingston we can see the edge of Dartmoor, north of Plymouth. It appears to have snow or frost all across the top. This is of course impossible, considering the soaring temperatures. I realise it is actually the spoil heaps of the china clay pits, where the white china clay is extracted from the decomposed granite of Dartmoor.
The path back takes us guiltily through someone’s garden, followed by a fairly tough climb up through woodland. As I’m puffing up the hill a lady coming down observes my struggle and quips “Oh this is just practice for the next hill.”
She is not wrong. As we emerge from the woodland we encounter one of those ridiculously steep, grass-covered slopes that are a hallmark of the South Hams. Someone must have been very keen to win such a field from the woodland all those years ago.
The footpath shortly comes out at Ringmore, where the local pub this time is mercifully shut. The road leads down towards the holiday camp at Challaborough, where we opt to pass through the caravan site. It is indeed a very pleasant location, but I am not surprised when I pass one caravan where the occupant is outside cooking a barbecue with his radio playing at a volume that would have driven me nuts if I were next door.
Between Challaborough and Bigbury-on-Sea we pass a fish and chip shop and prepare to make one last climb to our waiting car. The chippy is not too busy and the proprietor is outside watching the world go by.
“Not far now” he calls out to me, a big smile on his face.
He is right. The prospect of just one more hill is fine by me.