River Erne to Newton Ferrers 18th September 2019
After some hurried research last night we have finally sorted out a way of walking from the River Erme, where we finished yesterday, to Newton Ferrers. In fact, it works out it will be better to start our walk from Noss Mayo (adjacent to Newton Ferrers) and then follow the coast to the River Erme. We have decided to catch the first bus from Plymouth to Noss Mayo, which also happens to be the only bus from Holbeton to Noss Mayo too. Holbeton is only 3 miles from the mouth of the River Erme, where today’s walk is scheduled to end.
Any hope of parking on the road in Holbeton is dashed by the narrowness of the streets, but the village hall offers a free car park. Alas at 8.45am most of the spaces have been taken by parents delivering their kids to the local primary school, but we have the good fortune to find one tucked away in a corner.
Holbeton Parish Church
Feeling quite smug that we have sorted parking out a good 45 minutes before the bus is due, we decide to locate the bus stop, which turns out to be right next to the imposing parish church. Whilst Betty tucks into her breakfast alfresco, I decide to look around the church. It is fortunate that I return early as the bus expected for 9.27am arrives at 9.15am.
Although fitted with a card reader, the driver insists that only cash is accepted. I suspect they get so few passengers that electronic payments are not viable. The banks would have us get rid of cash completely, with little thought for the viability of rural services such as this. Digging out one of those new-fangled plastic £10 note, I pay our fare and settle down to the sort of ride you might expect at a fun fair (but which would doubtless cost a lot more), as we career around blind bends and squeeze up impossibly tight lanes.
By some miracle we stagger off the bus in Noss Mayo by 10 a.m. Disorientated by the bus ride and the complex geography of the area, we stand staring at our map for perhaps 20 seconds, before one of the locals goes into ‘boy scout’ mode and asks us if we are lost. He is of course correct, although “only temporarily” – I am at pains to point out. Nonetheless he kindly gives us directions down to the waterfront, whereupon we can pick up the coast path.
The Village Hall
(Above) Noss Mayo Creek – looking towards Newton Ferrers
Local Veg for sale by the road side
Before pressing on, Betty takes advantage of the local toilet facilities, which get her vote as the best in Devon. A short walk alongside Newton Creek, which separates us from Newton Ferrers,we come to Toll Cottage. In days gone-by this was an important equivalent of the bus stop, where the local ferry delivered people, ponies, asses, corn and even potatoes across to Newton Ferrers.
A beautifully restored sign advises us what the fares were (in shillings and pence). I note that the cost on Sundays was double that of a weekday and could well have been regarded as a tax on those wishing to attend the church across the water at Newton Ferrers. Perhaps that is why a new church was built by local landowner Lord Revelstoke on the Noss Mayo side of the creek in 1880? More likely it was the crusty old ferryman demanding double time on his day of rest.
Newton Ferrers Creek and River Yealm ferry tolls
The current owners of Toll Cottage generously offer the passing traveller free apples from their trees, which is a welcome and gratefully accepted offering. The path beyond climbs up through oak woodland, which was probably only planted 100 or so years earlier. In case you are wondering how I could possibly know this, Sherlock Holmes would point out that all the trees are of similar girth and are evenly spaced in their planting. A natural woodland would contain more randomly spaced trees and of varying ages.
The floor of the wood is dominated by our native woodrush and that most pernicious of invasive foreigners – rhododendron. There is evidence that the National Trust, owners of the woodland, have been busy doing battle against the rhododendron here, but such is its resilience it will not be a battle easily won. Above the canopy, casting its welcome shade as the oven temperature moves up through the gas marks, a buzzard calls. It’s alright for him, up there he’s fan assisted by the sea breeze as it rises over the cliffs.
The names of the cottages we pass provide a history lesson of the area, including Ferryman’s Cottage, Battery Cottage and Coastguard Cottage, not to mention Toll Cottage passed earlier. Evidently marine transportation and coastal defence were a key occupation in times gone by. The name Warren Point also reminds us that local landowners would have kept rabbits as a source of meat, to see them over the otherwise meatless winter months.
Revelstoke Drive – a carriageway constructed by the first Lord Revelstoke
By 11 a.m. we are following a wide pathway along the cliff top known as Revelstoke’s Drive, where we encounter surprising numbers of walkers – most of whom are day hikers and their dogs, apparently following a short circuit from a nearby car park.
Having started our day early, we decide to take an early lunch on a well placed and isolated bench. Within 5 minutes a couple in their 60s approaching from ahead of us, stop and exchange greetings. He is a little man sporting a jaunty looking straw trilby, whilst she is quite large and red-faced beneath her wide-brimmed straw hat (this is becoming a common combination amongst the couples visiting this area!). She is obviously not a seasoned walker.
“Is it far in that direction?” Asks the puffing plump lady.
I resist the temptation to say “Only if you’re on your way to America,” and answer cheerily, “it’s about 3 miles to Nos Mayo – but it’s all downhill.”
“You see we haven’t got a map.” She adds apologetically.
This is pretty similar to the way I go about cooking, usually without a recipe book – in both cases you are almost certain to get lost, as anyone who has tasted my cooking can verify.
She then launches into a story she read about in a local guide book, “There was an old lady who owned much of the land hear-abouts, who built a carriageway around this headland, so that she could admire the views. She had 4 stones put up,” now pointing off into the distance, “ where her butler used to serve her tea in it, in the middle of her tour.”
Her husband, who has probably heard her relate this story several times to other guests at their caravan park, probably sees our eyes glazing over and quickly interjects “look there’s someone fishing off the rocks down there”, pointing to a nearby rocky point.
“Don’t interupt Jimmy, I haven’t finished yet” She admonishes, and continues with a few more choice details, whilst the crest-fallen Jimmy stands smiling sheepishly next to her.
Mercifully, even she eventually dries up and bids us “must be going I suppose” and toddles off, with the obedient Jimmy in tow.
Call me antisocial, but I’m so glad we are holidaying in our touring caravan, in an empty field, on our own and spend our day’s with virtually no other human contact. Just the sea, the birds and the weather for company.
Revelstoke – Caravan park nestled in this sheltered valley
Beyond the next gate we pass into a sweet chestnut woodland, with views down to a caravan park and ruined church below. Suddenly I receive a sharp blow to the head as two spikes of sweet chestnut fruit fall from a tree above. With no damage done, I take this as a rebuke from on-high, for my uncharitable attitude towards our story-telling lady. Then again it could be a sign of good luck and certainly is much pleasanter than getting a seagull splat on my shiny bonce.
It seems we are in the parish of Revelstoke, a remote village with an even remoter parish church, which now stands as a ruin on the cliffs below us. The church goes by the fascinating name of St Peter the Poor Fisherman. The caravan park we saw earlier is located towards the bottom of these steep cliffs, perched on rocks looking out to sea. There must be several hundred people on the site, all closely packed together in the middle of nowhere. It strikes me as odd that people should choose to holiday in a secluded place, but end up packed together like sardines. I suppose it makes a change from sharing your days with the pilchards in the city.
Lord Revelstoke’s tea house – where supposedly Lady Revelstoke entertained her guests during carriage tours
Continuing our walk we eventually stumble upon the four stoned ruin that our plump straw-hatted lady told us about. The four stones are actually the corner pillars of a small building built upon Beacon Hill, an exposed windswept promontory. It transpires that her story is quite correct, with the carriageway built by her husband Lord Revelstoke. The founder of Barings Bank, he had the money to invest in this little ‘tea-house’ and even ensured that substantial walls were built upon the bends of the carriageway in case the horses were tempted to stray over the cliff edge, dashing the carriages occupants on the rocks below.
We pause briefly to watch a pair of kestrels demonstrate their prodigious hovering talents, dropping silently onto some unsuspecting vole in the long grass below, before the coast path follows a much more up and down route, presenting much more challenging walking as it does.
Scarlet Pimpernel – rare blue colour variety
In the Field were some poppies too
A few miles on we pass through an isolated and steep-sided field of young wheat shoots, which is largely dominated by weeds, including heartsease and scarlet pimpernel. Hidden amongst them I find a rare colour morph of the latter. I have never come across a blue scarlet pimpernel before, so in this age of instant access to knowledge I whip out my mobile phone and discover to my surprise that it is actually very common – in Spain. It seems that its colour changes with the local climate. In the cooler, less sunny UK the blue variant is rarely seen, whilst the reverse is true for the warm, sunny climes of the Iberian Peninsular. Discovering it here illustrates what a warm sunny place the South Devon coast must be. Could this be a useful indicator plant I wonder, to measure climate change in the UK?
As we are grubbing around in our field, we are overtaken by another one of those strange solitary walkers who traverse the UK, relentless and undistracted in their walking. I wonder if his kind are the model for Tolkeins ‘Strider’ in Lord of the Rings – a sect of ‘Rangers’ constantly walking the countryside, on the look-out for any signs of evil.
Bugle Hole – perhaps the most tranquil little cove in the South Hams
Around the next corner all thoughts of impending evil are dispelled as we stumble upon the most beautiful place we have encountered all holiday – Bugle Hole. As we descend the tricky, precipitous slope down to sea level, we discover a small beach and a hidden cave. The bright sunshine and the seclusion offer-up a magical quality which entraps us in its spell. The fact that we also feel the need to finish our lunch (interrupted earlier by our chatty lady), doubtless plays a small part in our decision.
As we we climb down the exposed slate of the cliffs I note how jagged the surface is and sandwich-like the rock strata are – it looks like a massive lump of Cadbury’s Flake. A small stream trickles over the rocks, cascading to the beach 20 or so metres below. The stream shimmers in the afternoon sun, carrying away the smaller grains of sand and leaving just the larger rounded pebbles of pink, grey and white in its path.
Down at beach level the burning sun reflects off the dark grey rocks of the cove, turning it into a natural suntrap. What breeze there is, is blocked by a wall of slate between us and the sea. The tide is low, with the only access to the sea being a narrow, steep-sided gash in the slate wall. A small pebble beach covers the floor of the cove, with sea water quietly lapping at the mouth of the opening beyond. The lower walls of the cove are encrusted by limpets and barnacles, biding their time as they await the return of the tide, which will soon be inching its way up the beach and rocks.
The cascading stream sings it’s way over the rocks, whilst the occasional thrust of wave water below occasionally interrupts it with a gentle swash. All around us is an audience of pebbles and stones awaiting the next marine interval. The brown remains of kelps litter the beach, evidence of rougher seas which ripped them from their submarine beds, leaving them high-and-dry, at least until the next high tide. Butterflies, flies and spiders and numerous terrestrial creepy-crawlies lay claim to the cove at low tide, until the rising moon returns it once again for saltwater creatures to graze and hunt in.
After half an hour of eating our lunch, explorating and basking, we decide it is time to move on. The short climb up presents no difficulty – that is until Betty puts her foot into a deep muddy hole, which shoots rich brown water up her leg and into her boot.
All souveniers are gratefully recieved, although some more than others!
The mouth of the River Erme – A beautiful stretch of water and perfect for washing dirty feet
Fortunately she only has to walk half a mile in discomfort, until we reach the mouth of the River Erme where it meets the sea at Meadowsfoot Beach. Whilst Betty gets to work on cleaning herself up, I take off my boots and paddle across the stream, just to prove that it can be done. As I wander back through the knee deep water, small fish erupt out of the sediment in front of me, disappearing back into the sand just as quickly a few metres further ahead. Betty joins me paddling in the water to clean off the mud from Bugle Hole, before we climbed the hill up the road to the nearby car park at Mothecombe.
To our delight the village school has been converted into a licenced cafe, where we are able to sit outside in the late afternoon sun with a much appreciated pint of Devon cider each. The cafe has retained much of its original school ambiance, displaying a number of features and artefacts from the school’s bygone days. Having been cooped up in a Victorian primary school as a small child, I confess that I think the buildings current function is much more to my liking.
The Barings Bank connection discovered at Noss Mayo and Revelstoke earlier in our walk, continues here at Mothecombe, where Mothecombe House was acquired in 1897 by Henry Bingham Mildmay, a partner in the bank. Mildmay and Lord Revelstoke nearly lost their estates in 1890 when Barings Bank faced near ruin. Ironically just over a hundred years later in 1995, the Barings employee Nick Leeson famously caused the collapse of the bank after his fraudulent investments caused losses of £827 million.
Our ciders finished, the two mile walk to Holberton feels like one of the longest we have done all holidays. There is no doubt about it, alcohol should only be consumed once a walk is finished. and not before.