West of Bridgewater

by David Gourley

There can be wisdom in popular sayings. But they can be annoying too. For example ‘life is what you make it’ is at best a half-truth. Another hoary old chestnut is ‘why go abroad when there is so much to see in your own country?’ The two are not mutually exclusive. My wife, Cathy, and I have been fortunate enough to travel to many countries and I have shared some of these experiences with the readers of VISA. But we have also had many enjoyable breaks within the UK and I have shared some of these too. 

One place we have returned to several times is Dunster in Somerset, always staying at the fourteenth century Luttrell Arms hotel, which has various nooks and crannies, including a secret garden. We have always enjoyed our stays there. It was formerly part of the Trusthouse Forte chain (RIP) but is now independently owned. Ironically, when we stayed there in 2002 the manager told us that being part of a chain had helped the hotel pull through 2001, a disastrous year for the tourist industry when much of the countryside, including in Somerset, was ‘closed down’ due to the foot and mouth outbreak. Whether this was really necessary is a subject for debate. 

The village of Dunster is picture postcard pretty. Its main street, dominated by the distinctive Yarm Market, one time centre for the wool trade, is sandwiched between two hills. Atop one is a folly, Conygar Tower, and atop the other is Dunster Castle, a National Trust (NT) property. We had finally got to visit this during our last visit, our previous ones having been off season when it is closed. It is well worth a visit, not just because of its own beauty and interest, but for the splendid views across the Bristol Channel and into South Wales. It was for many centuries owned by the Luttrell family, hence the name of our hotel. The name is derived from an earlier word for ‘otter’. Dunster is about a mile inland but there is a beach with some huts; to get there one passes the station, which is on a preserved steam railway.

All around is the splendid scenery of Exmoor National Park. Ideally one should have good weather in order to enjoy this. On one occasion thick mist meant we saw hardly any of it. On another there was a day of more or less continual rain but visibility was OK so we went for a drive. We decided, the rain notwithstanding, to climb up to the top of Dunkery Beacon, Somerset’s highest hill. The walk to the top is supposed to take only twenty-five minutes or so. 

We duly parked the car in the adjacent National Trust car park and commenced our climb. Setting off at the same time was a chap in a distinctive light blue anorak who had set himself the task of climbing the highest hill in every county (Cumbria, one imagines, is somewhat more of a challenge in this regard than Norfolk). A bit of rain was not going to deter him in Somerset. Soon he was way ahead of us. We got to the top and then managed to get hopelessly lost, having taken the wrong path down. Had I been told of someone else doing this I’d have thought them idiots. At first there was still the sight of the light blue anorak but its wearer had clearly decided to walk further rather than return to the bottom, so it would have been pointless to follow him, even had we been able to match his pace.

We started to worry. It was still pouring with rain and, this being February, there were only a couple of hours of daylight left. Even the sheep looked surprised to see human beings. Finally we caught sight of a country lane, and, scrambling over rough ground and getting muddy as well as wet in the process, we reached it. Then two seemingly unlikely Good Samaritans presented themselves. We stopped a car to ask for directions. The couple in it, who were sort of middle aged and a bit hippyish, insisted we got in, brushing aside our concerns that we were wet and muddy and would muck up their car seats. They were adamant that we were going to be returned to the NT Car Park and so we were, even though, since they were not locals, they didn’t know where it was. Like, I imagine, every other reader, I get depressed sometimes by the news and how dreadful human beings can be. But it is important to remember that there is also a lot of good out there.

For our last visit, we set out with the intention of diverting on the way down to visit Montacute House, an NT property near Yeovil. At first, as we hit heavy traffic on the M25 and then the M3, we wondered if we’d get there but, once past the first junction, all was fine. When going to the West Country we generally take the M3 and then the A303, rather than the popular M4/M5 route, as it takes one through attractive countryside, even giving a glimpse of Stonehenge. On one journey, we stopped and spent some time there. English Heritage’s stewardship of this site seems for ever to be mired in controversy. The catering may not be great but nothing detracts from the beauty of this awe-inspiring monument. It was the British candidate for inclusion in the New Seven Wonders of the World. These were chosen by popular vote and I duly included it mine, but an insufficient number of other people did. 

So we made it to Montacute House and it was time well spent, a lovely building set in beautiful grounds. On one’s tour of the house, when one thinks it’s about to end, there is a pleasant surprise, the Long Gallery on the second floor, the longest of its type in England, which houses paintings on permanent loan from the National Portrait Gallery, including of a set of portraits of monarchs from William the Conqueror through to Henry VIII. We then pressed on to the Luttrell Arms. Again we were to have a good stay but there was one letdown. Customarily I have had a pint of cider in their atmospheric bar and was looking forward to doing so this time. But the pump had broken. A bar in Somerset with no cider is rather like the infamous Pub with No Beer in Australia.

We had two full days in Dunster. First we visited for the first time the nearby beauty spot of Selworthy. There was a problem: the car park was full. This was because of a service at the church. We decided that, since we couldn’t beat the congregation, we had better join them. We parked in the road as close as we could. It is a beautiful church, both inside and out, and through the open door, viewed from our seat, was a view that is, well, heavenly. The church was all the more beautiful because it was decorated with a number of floral arrangements, all celebrating women in the Bible, which was also the theme of the sermon. One can only admire those who made them for their commitment and devotion.

I was rather hoping that the hymns would include All Things Bright and Beautiful since it was written by Dunster resident Cecil Alexander, who, despite the name, was a lady. She was apparently inspired by the view from Grabbist Hill, which overlooks Dunster and which we ourselves had enjoyed on a previous occasion. She also gave us There is a Green Hill Far Away and Once in Royal David’s City. All Things Bright and Beautiful, which was not in the event sung during the service, is sometimes criticized because it includes the words, nowadays often omitted, ‘the Rich Man in his Castle, the Poor Man at his Gate’. This is seen by some as part of the Victorian obsession with class and knowing one’s rightful station in life. But I think the message is the exact opposite: that, whatever our status or worldly goods, we are all equal in the eyes of God.

After the service we were able to re-park our car and stroll down to the NT estate which comprises several thatched cottages in an idyllic setting. One of these houses a small cafe. NT catering can disappoint but here it was good, an unusual ham and stilton toasted sandwich served by a pleasant young lady in local costume. Next we climbed Selworthy Beacon. The weather was otherwise good during this break but, just as we were nearing the top, the heavens opened. A well-intentioned lady came across to us and advised us that the weather was so bad we had better hurry back down. But the top was tantalizingly within view so we decided to stick it out and after what seemed ages, but could only have been a few minutes, the rain did desist and we did get to the top. Worried that the rain would return, though in fact it didn’t, we made our descent; we might otherwise have walked further, enjoying the fine view.

We finished the afternoon with a drive, which took us up the formidable Porlock Hill, with its gradients of up to 1 in 4 and hairpin bends, to Lynmouth. We had once stayed in this attractive small Devon resort. It was the scene of the horrendous flood in 1952 which, unlike the more recent, and also devastating, flood further along the coast in Boscastle, claimed lives. We then turned inland, passing through nicely named Simonsbath (actually pronounced as if it were a double ‘m’) before returning to Dunster. 

The next day was a combination of the new and old. First came two old favourites, Tarr Steps and, yes, Dunkery Beacon. The Steps, which date back 1000 years, form a bridge over the River Barle in the heart of Exmoor; if local legend is to be believed, the Devil put them there in order to win a bet. This was our second return to the Beacon and on each occasion there has been no rain, enabling us to enjoy the view across the Bristol Channel. Nor on this occasion or the last one did we get lost!

The new venture was planned as a walk along the Southwest Coastal Path. For this purpose we parked the car at County Gate, so named because it is on the borders of Devon and Somerset. It was a pity in a way that I was fixated about going on the Path for it doesn’t always offer the best of views. I had had opposite experiences on two previous walks. There was the beautiful stretch in South Devon between Start Point and Slapton Sands (where preparations for the D-Day landings took place). And the not so beautiful stretch between Lyme Regis and Seaton where there are hardly any sea views. Where were those views, I wondered, which Meryl Streep had admired in French Lieutenant’s Daughter. Dorset has a number of charming small towns – one might mention Wimborne, Shaftesbury, or Sherborne – but in my opinion Lyme Regis isn’t one of them. 

The section at County Gate also doesn’t offer much by way of views though other paths in the area do. We gave it up as a bad job and descended to Glenthorne Beach. This walk was in fact largely within a forest and there were only occasional glimpses of the sea. There was also at one point the rather unexpected sight of some llamas in a field. It was still a pleasant walk and we saw just two other couples on our way down. On August Bank Holiday in the southwest we had the beach to ourselves. But since it is isolated and very rocky, so hardly a place for sunbathers, that wasn’t really surprising. 

For the two previous evenings, dinner in our hotel had been included but we were benefiting from a ‘third night free, b&b only’ offer so, although the meals had been good, we decided to try somewhere else. We walked the short distance down the main street to Reeves restaurant, so called because it is owned by Mr and Mrs Reeves. It ticked all the right boxes: an atmospheric olde worlde dining room, friendly service from Claire Reeves and a charming young waitress, delicious and reasonably priced food.

As always we were sad when time came to leave. There was still the lovely drive along the West Somerset Coast to be enjoyed, passing near the ruined Cleeve Abbey which we had visited on a previous occasion and is worth the detour. Then we hit the outskirts of Bridgwater. In a way we felt we had travelled back in time during our stay in Dunster. Now the second decade of the twenty-first century was back with a vengeance! I have nothing against Bridgwater, which has a pleasant town centre, but like most towns it has its sprawl and such sprawls are seldom lovely.

We had ummed and aahed about whether, on our way home, to stop off in Cheddar Gorge. We had been there many years previously and whilst we rather hankered after a return visit, we feared that it might have become horribly commercialized in the intervening years and also that it might, the day after a Bank Holiday, still be very crowded. We decided to take our chances. There is no denying that Cheddar Gorge is commercialized. But this doesn’t detract from the beauty of the caves and of the Gorge itself. Evidently it had been very crowded the day before but things today were back to normal. So we were glad we came.

We got an explorer ticket that entitled us to a number of attractions. We started with the larger of the Caves where there is an excellent audio guide. The cave is named from Richard Gough who, after years of dogged excavation, discovered it and opened it to the public in the 1890s. He was the nephew of George Cox, from whom the smaller of the two publicly open caves is named. Richard Gough was a religious man and the nice story is told that when he opened up one of the caverns, his entire family was summoned down there for some hymn singing. 

After visiting Cox’s Cave, and hurrying through the adjacent Crystal Quest , a manmade cave which presents to the visitor ‘a dark-walk fantasy world of elven magic and bold adventure, of Mordon the Lord of Darkness and his evil dragon Thynngar’ - this didn’t interest us in the slightest - we ascended Jacob ’s ladder, and the tower at the top, for fine views across the surrounding countryside. We would like to have done the three mile Cliff-Top Gorge Walk but were mindful that we needed to start thinking about resuming our homeward journey. There was time before we did to go on the interesting open-top bus tour of the Gorge. Our drive through the Somerset countryside back to the A303 gave us glimpses of Wells Cathedral and, more distantly, Glastonbury Tor, both visited on previous occasions.

First published in VISA 95 (Feb 2011)