Traditions

In the south west of England it doesn’t take too much to make me happy. Ideally, all I ask from such a visit is a wander around the seafront of Plymouth, a trip to cliffs and coves of North Cornwall, and a jaunt across the rocky and barren expanses of Dartmoor. With each comes another gut-busting treat involving dairy, sugar, pastry and / or all of the above. A bit of good weather helps (in the 2012 rendition this surpassed expectations), and, of course, some time with the family, usually involving more eating.

I ticked off many of the above on my first morning with a very traditional tour de Plymouth. From a grungy, slightly grimy town centre, the air purifies itself all the way up to The Hoe and that marvellous vista. Always enjoyed with an ice cream (+ raspberries, + clotted cream) in hand. From here, onward down to the Barbican and its warm sunny reflective rays glittering off the water, enjoyed all the more with a pasty. And then on into the city centre for a nosey and occasional spot of retail.

Dartmoor beckoned the following day, though disappointed a little in its typical gloomy drizzle. The bright spot again came via food and the cream tea / treacle tart / clotted cream combo at Buckland Abbey, where the gardens were also quintessential English loveliness. This continued with a drive, where I was not lost, merely exploring, through single track lanes with ten foot high hedgerows for company. Rather miraculously we ended up by the luscious River Plym, where I had intended to go all along!

 

After the drizzle came – well, I suppose it was, yes – summer. Embracing life and deciding a temperature nudging 20 degrees was good enough for shorts, I did what most people do in the Westcountry in summer, and headed for Trago. Not for useless bits of living room decor or cut price rugs, but an opportunity to be a big kid with my nieces on the steam train and other such rides. This couldn’t last all day though, and a refreshing ice cream spurred me on to cross back to Plymouth via the moors and climb up to Haytor for wonderful Devon loveliness.

 

 

From here, more ten foot hedges and breathe-in-to-squeeze-through stone bridges beckon, with super views up and down. Down they lead to Dartmeet, where the car decided to stop by the river and make us walk up to a place where each year gratuitous shots of clotted cream unfold. I was good, semi-good, only taking on one scone (less bread; more cream), and resisting up-close cream porn photos. Instead I took a nice picture of refreshing cider by the river, a prelude to tea and scones.

-----------------------------------------------------

So with a ramble around Plymouth, and a dreamy creamy Devonian Dartmoor day, the gluttonous triumvirate was capped by a magical, heart-warming, simply unbeatable day on the North Cornwall coast between Boscastle and Padstow. On days like these, Boscastle is without doubt my favourite place in the whole wide world.

A half decent coffee by the sinuous harbour, all stone clad with window boxes and buzzing bees, a fine starter on the way to the tiny quay. And then you hit that point. That point when you walk up along the coast path, turning towards the almost impossibly sculpted heads of the harbour entrance and out to sea. That point where you remember a similarly good day a few years back, and you once more question why the hell you don’t just stay here and never go anywhere else ever again.

 

But you do go elsewhere, and there is motivation enough in the fine form and shape of Pengenna Pasties, just down the road in King Arthur’s Tintagel. Not only do you have the mountainous mound of pastry and filling to contend with, but there’s also the stop at Granny Wobbly’s fudge pantry, just to ensure that you do have a heart attack before crossing back over the border to Devon...

At Rick Stein’s Padstow there are no doubt some very fishy treats that could also be had, but Mum and I didn’t make it across there. Instead, to finish the day we gazed from afar, on the wide, flat sands across the Camel estuary at Trebetherick, which is as Cornish as it sounds. Mum managed to sunbathe, Neil managed a short walk, and neither of us managed to get an ice cream, despite this being on both of our minds.

 

Criminally, but on behest of our bodies, we had salad for tea back in Plymouth that day. The next day was my final, for now, and brought about BBQ number 3 at its end. Before that I had a reasonably gentle morning, cruising on up to Tavistock and then the rocky church of Brentor, which was all suitably mystical and atmospheric and stuff.

 

More views were had at Kit Hill and then back to Plymouth over the Tamar to Ernesettle, for a lunch in the heat trap that is Aunty Pat’s back yard. Three different types of cake seemed to become a part of the lunchtime session. Many more different types of meat seemed to feature on the BBQ, so expertly cooked once again my Mr Charcoal Stafford, oh yes.  

Devon, and Cornwall, had treated me good and proper. It didn’t want me to leave, as Friday morning fog delayed the onward journey to the North. I will no doubt go back again in October and do very similar things, and then do very similar things a similar time next time, again and again. Some traditions are worth keeping.