Devon Jams

By Helen Matthews

Overbeck's

Our luck ran out about half-way up. We were on our way up the single-track, winding, road, and another car was coming down.  Both cars stopped.  The driver of the other car refused to move.  We couldn’t back down as there was a line of cars behind us.  It seemed that the impasse might last for some time, until the driver of the car two behind us got out.

“You’ll have to back up” he told the driver of the downward-facing vehicle.

“But I can’t” she replied.  “My engine isn’t powerful enough to reverse up this hill.”

“Well, I’m not reversing all the way down again.  I only live round that corner.” He pointed to a nearby driveway. “Why don’t you go in there until we’ve got past?”

She didn’t look happy, but there was nothing else for it.  We all reversed a few feet, she manoeuvred into the driveway, and we inched our way on up the hill, hoping that there would be somewhere a) to park or b) to turn round when we reached the top.  Fortunately, our luck had returned, and we took possession of the last space in the tiny Overbeck’s car park.

“This had better be worth it” muttered my white-faced husband, as we showed our National Trust membership cards at the kiosk and looked for the Tea Room.  If ever there was a time for an emergency cream tea, this was it.

I had received some strange looks when I told my friends and colleagues that we were going to Devon for our summer holiday this year. “Isn’t that a bit, well, mainstream, for you?” was the usual response.  Maybe, but we had something more exotic planned for December, and a complete set of membership cards (National Trust, English Heritage, Art Pass, Historic Houses Association) burning a hole in our pockets, so we thought we would go and make use of them in a county neither of us had really visited properly before.

In our innocence, we thought that Torquay would make a good base. It is a well-known resort, so there would be a good choice of hotels and it seemed to be more or less central to the various places we wanted to go. What we failed to realise was that it is impossible to drive more than about three miles out of Torquay in any direction without encountering a traffic jam.  This meant that our ambitious plan of historic house visiting had to be curtailed somewhat, as driving times were much longer than we had expected.

Powderham Castle

Our first excursion, the morning after we arrived, was a simple potter up the coast road to Powderham Castle, and from there to Cadhay, near Ottery St Mary.   It took us half an hour to get through Teignmouth, but we managed to reach Powderham just in time for the 11.00 a.m. guided tour.  The seat of the Courtenay Earls of Devon, Powderham is a genuine medieval castle. But although the current building was started in 1391, the parts that look the most medieval are in fact Victorian. The various additions and improvements over the years have led to some interesting architectural challenges including a fireplace with a window immediately above it.  As curtains are not possible, there is a retractable mirror that can be rolled across at night, though a good set of muscles are needed to work the mechanism.

Cadhay

Cadhay is a much smaller place: a Tudor gentleman’s residence, with Georgian additions.  Its opening days are less frequent than Powderham as its main business is as a holiday let and wedding venue; we had to visit that day or not at all. The house and gardens were both charming, and the tea room served an excellent coffee and walnut cake and sold pots of home-made jam. A particularly unusual feature was the ‘Court of the Sovereigns’ at the heart of the house: each wall is adorned with a statue of a monarch: Henry VIII, Edward VI, Mary and Elizabeth I. If they all seem similar, it is not just the family resemblance – the same body was used for each of them and only the heads are different. I’m glad we made the effort to visit, though the return journey, through the Friday evening rush hour in Exeter was not pleasant.

Torquay Museum

The following day we opted to leave the car behind and explored Torquay on foot.  I already knew that Agatha Christie had been brought up in Torquay, and was keen to visit the Torquay Museum to see the gallery devoted to her life.  To my joy, not only did our National Art Passes entitle us to free admission, there also was a special exhibition about science-fiction, and a Dalek in the entrance, providing instant husband –appeal.  I was also impressed by the Time Ark – a child-friendly permanent exhibit about the geological history of the planet, told from the perspective of a (time) travel company. Our pedestrian-only day in Torquay also gave us time for a visit to Torre Abbey and a game on its pitch and putt course. No English seaside holiday is complete without a round or two of a putting green. This one had the added attraction of the possibility of actually hitting the proverbial barn door with a wayward shot. The course is right by the Spanish Barn, where the crew of The Nuestra Señora del Rosario, a ship of the Spanish Armada that was captured by Sir Francis Drake were temporarily incarcerated. (More on that story later.)  Torre Abbey is a former monastery which became a private house after the Dissolution and is now owned by the local Council and run as an art gallery and museum. 

The Spanish Barn at Torre Abbey

  

I had read that Greenway, the holiday home Agatha Christie purchased in later life, had very limited parking. Other means of transport were preferred. So the next day we drove only as far as Paignton, in order to catch a steam train for a short ride to connect with a shuttle bus. Once I saw the narrow approach roads, I was glad that we had left the car behind.  

From 1944 to 1945 Greenway was used by the US Coastguard as part of the D-Day preparations. When the property was finally returned to her, Agatha found they had left a mural in the library (which she kept) and 14 extra lavatories, which she insisted were removed, despite the authorities arguing that they were an ‘improvement’.  Greenway is owned by the National Trust, and presented to look as it did in the 1950s – as if the family have just popped out.  As all the family members were avid collectors, there is a great deal of stuff, from china to hats in evidence.

Greenway was used as a setting for some of Agatha Christie’s novels. It appeared as Nasse House in Dead Man’s Folly (with a corpse in the Boathouse), and Alderbury in Five Little Pigs (with the murder taking place on the Battery). Both the Boathouse and Battery can be visited. 

Greenway

Aside from the murderous connections, the grounds are worth exploring in their own right. Agatha Christie’s son-in-law developed the gardens considerably, but the historical interest of the Greenway estate, overlooking the Dart estuary, pre-dates Dame Agatha by a considerable way.  There has been a house on the site for over 400 years. The crew of the The Nuestra Señora del Rosario were put to work in the gardens at Greenway when the owner, Sir John Gilbert, was given responsibility for them whilst their ransom was negotiated.  I hope that they found this work more congenial than incarceration in the ‘Spanish barn’ at Torre Abbey.

As we made our way out to catch the shuttle bus back to the station, we were told that there was a problem.  The shuttle bus had broken down.  Taxis were being arranged to take us back to Churston station. When ours turned up, we found that the driver was one of the talkative type. She was just explaining about her bad week (the events of which had, worryingly, included being rear-ended by another car), when, in a narrow lane with no room to pass we came nose to nose with another taxi from the same company.  No one moved.

“It’s Turbo Terry” our driver announced. “He’ll have to go back.”  

Churston Station

Terry meanwhile seemed to think that our taxi should reverse, so we sat there a bit longer.  Eventually, by sheer force of will, our driver managed to persuade Terry to reverse to the nearest passing place.  He didn’t seem best pleased, especially when our driver took the trouble to stop and point out that he had a faulty brake-light.   Fortunately, we still made it back to the station in time to catch our train.

The following day we set off for Coleton Fishacre, an Arts and Crafts house built by the D’Oyley Carte family of Savoy Opera (and hotel) fame.  We found the Art Deco interior strangely lacking in character – maybe because much of it is a re-creation. It was more like a show house than a home, despite its glamorous past as the venue for society house parties between the wars. This time we were driving and it turned out that the approach roads were just as narrow as those for Greenway.  But at least they were straight, unlike the approach to our next port of call.  Overbeck’s  is named after Otto Overbeck, an inventor whose creations included the ‘Rejuvenator.’ The house itself is of no particular architectural merit, but came as a package with the gardens, which are the main attraction: sub-tropical plantings with stunning views over the bay. The interior is a museum for exhibits which include Otto Overbeck’s natural history collections and other artefacts, including a couple of examples of the ‘Rejuvenator’.

After the hair-raising drive up to the house, we were in need of rejuvenation ourselves, but made do with the aforementioned cream tea. The scones were huge, light and fluffy, though the tiny pots of Tiptree jam were a bit of a disappointment. Still, it was just as well that we had fortified ourselves. On the way back we encountered yet another Devon (traffic) jam on our way through Totnes.

After that experience, we spent more time exploring the delights of Torquay, including Living Coasts, a combination of a zoo and aquarium dealing with sea life both above and below the water, Babbacombe Model Village and Kent’s Cavern, a prehistoric cave which also featured in one of Agatha Christie’s novels (of course) with a café which also serves a delicious cream tea.

The moral of this story is that if you are going to Torbay, there is plenty to do just on foot, ferry, steam train and local bus.  Leave the car behind, and spend more time in the tea shop.  Just remember that the cream goes on first, then the jam.

First published in VISA 124 (December 2015)

Westward Ho!

by David Gourley

Our stay in Cardiff was to mark our wedding anniversary. Hunting for ideas, we for the first time explored lastminute.com and really did hit on a bargain, a two-night stay at the St David's hotel in Cardiff. This is Wales' first five-star hotel and is owned by Rocco Forte, who has re-established himself in the hotel business, this time at the luxury end, following the hostile takeover of the old Trusthouse Forte chain (R.I.P) by Granada. Normally staying there would cost an arm and a leg but lastminute.com were virtually offering a half-price deal.

As well as being interested to stay in the much written-about St David's, I rather liked the idea of visiting Cardiff. I have something of a soft spot for this city for we nearly lived there. I was all set, in the late sixties, to transfer to Cardiff with my then employer but a better job opportunity presented itself and it was to be life in Surrey rather than life in Glamorgan. I sometimes wonder how things would have turned out had we moved to Cardiff.

The St David's is a striking modern building, located on Cardiff Bay. This is now a thriving area with fashionable shops and restaurants, as well as the new Welsh Assembly building. In days gone by, though, this was the rough-tough Tiger Bay district, where Shirley Bassey was born and bred. Our welcome to the hotel was a mixture of the warm and the cool (using the latter word in its original sense). We were very professionally met by the charming front-of-house manager. Having checked us in she took us along to the restaurant and found its manager. The temperature now dropped. He made no great effort to be friendly and responded to our request to reserve a window seat as if to reserve a table in a restaurant was unheard-of. Silly us, we should have known without being told that the restaurant has a 'no reservations' policy. This contrast between warm and cool persisted during our stay. But we did like our room, which commanded fine views of the bay. The hotel is so constructed that all rooms look onto it.
Our terms were room only so meals were quite a significant extra. We were to be continually disappointed. We went down to dinner and in fact did have a window table, which turned out to be in a draught so we had to request a move. I ordered venison, and was straight away told that "chef only serves it rare". I always think of the clever response after the event - I should have said "customer only likes it medium to well". I thoroughly resent this type of attitude, especially when I'm paying good money. It's as if I'm being regarded as somehow lacking sophistication for not liking my meat rare; it's not as if I was asking for it to be drenched in HP Sauce. This fastidiousness on the part of the chef was not otherwise much in evidence, for the vegetables were some rather tired-looking carrots and broccoli and a large and unappetizing jacket potato. Breakfast the following morning was also disappointing. I think there is a vital ingredient that makes a restaurant meal great. It's called "TLC" and there was a lack of it here.

We had hoped, the next day, to go by waterbus, up the River Taff to the city centre. However weather conditions weren't right and we instead went by bus. In our ignorance of Cardiff bus routes, we boarded a bus going the wrong way but the friendly driver let us ride to the terminus for free, then we headed off the right way. The journey took us through the Grangetown district, quite pleasant looking with its rows of well-kept Victorian terraces.

We had a walk along the main shopping thoroughfare, Queen Street, now pedestrianized though in the sixties it had had trolleybuses, Cardiff being one of the last cities in the UK to retain this form of transport. There was an exhibition of sculpture along its pavements. I am not into sculpture if it's modern art we're talking about but these examples were very good, the work of a local sculptor and including a fine statue of local hero Aneurin Bevan, founder of the NHS. Then we visited Cardiff Castle, where we had lunch. I had Welsh Rarebit but it was on focaccia bread so not the real thing (for first class Welsh - actually known in this instance as Yorkshire - Rarebit, I'd recommend Betty's in Harrogate or York). We had a guided tour of the Castle, which we much enjoyed. The Castle dates back to Roman times but the present-day building is essentially the creation of the Marquess of Bute in the Victorian era. He owned much of the South Wales coalfield and was thus one of the richest men in Europe. This was his private residence. The rooms are exquisite. The Bute connection ended in 1947, when the Castle was presented to the city of Cardiff, though the name lives on, in nearby Bute Park and in the district of Butetown further away.

For a while afterwards we went our separate ways, which we sometimes do, as Cathy enjoys looking round shops and I don't. I took myself off for a stroll through Cathays Park, the leafy administrative area just north of the city centre, Bute Park, and along the River past the Cardiff Millennium Stadium. This of course is where the FA Cup Final has been taking place whilst Wembley is being rebuilt. In 2006 it was to take place in Cardiff yet again, albeit it had been expected that the new Wembley Stadium would be ready. Let us hope we do better with the 2012 Olympics. There won't really be the option of transferring those to Cardiff! I'd rather hoped we could visit the Stadium but I found no sign of any information in this regard nor anyone to ask.

Back at the hotel, we decided to chance the restaurant again. This being a Sunday, a number of the nearby restaurants were closed. Also it was freezing cold so we didn't much fancy the idea of a walk. There are times when it is nice to relax in one's own hotel. However dinner was again disappointing. Next morning we complained to the front of house manager. She was very concerned and we ended up not paying for the previous night's meal. But I'd rather have paid and had a good meal than not paid and had a poor one. I think that if one is staying at a first-class hotel one is entitled to a first-class dining experience, and St David's was not providing this.

We were determined not to have breakfast at St David's on our second and last morning. Finding somewhere else, however, was something of a problem: plenty of restaurants in the vicinity but none offering a cooked breakfast. We wandered into an American-style diner. Breakfast was not being served but the very helpful lady who was preparing for later in the day recommended Georges, a couple of blocks inland: "it's a bit downmarket but they serve a cracking breakfast". It was indeed a workman's caff and maybe not somewhere we'd normally venture, but the lady was right. It was clean, the staff were friendly, and we had an excellent breakfast for a fraction of the price at St David's.

Had the Millennium Stadium been open, we might have lingered in Cardiff. We did have a final wonder along the waterfront and visited, in the historic Pierhead Building, an exhibition about the work of the Welsh Assembly, which was interesting, but not very. The Assembly Building itself is nearing completion and has incurred none of the controversy aroused by its Scottish equivalent, which ran considerably over budget. Some nationalists wanted the Assembly to be in Swansea, a city more to their liking as Cardiff, like the eastern half of Wales generally, voted against devolution, in what turned out to be, nationwide, a neck-and-neck vote. Most however would regard Cardiff, the official capital of Wales since 1955, as the appropriate place for it to be.

We headed back into England, diverting to visit the Painswick Rococo Gardens near Stroud. Reason was that we'd discovered, having Googled the word ‘snowdrop’, that it boasts a large number of these. Maybe it was because this was rather a grey sort of day with the snowdrops thus not looking their finest, but we were not as impressed as we'd been a year or so previously with the display in Hopton Hall in Derbyshire, which opens its doors to the public only a couple or so times a year, once for the snowdrops, or the display in the Physic Garden in Chelsea.

A couple of months later, we headed west again, this time to Lundy Island, off the coast of North Devon. Cathy in particular had long wanted to stay there. This meant self-catering for there is no hotel. The island is owned by the National Trust and properties there are rented out to visitors by the Landmark Trust, which has a large portfolio of historic buildings across the country; we met one couple who always holiday in a Landmark Trust property. There being just two of us, we rented one of the smaller properties, Castle Cottage, which as its name suggests is by the castle, a not particularly grand edifice which is itself subdivided into flats for renting. We decided to stay for four nights and then indulge in a bit of luxury by having another two nights away, this time in the Carlyon Bay hotel in St Austell, Cornwall, where we'd stayed a couple of times previously.

An advantage of going to Lundy, as we did, before the end of March is that one gets to go there by helicopter, a six-minute trip from the heliport in Hartland. Thereafter one has to go by boat from Bideford or Ilfracombe. The flights are around midday and whilst we could have made it had we left home at the crack of dawn, we opted for a more leisurely drive down the day before, selecting at random one of the nearby b&b places listed in the Island's literature. We were pleased with Gawlish Farm, a very friendly place where our room looked over a field of cows. Dinner was not available but we acted on our host's recommendation that we go to the Anchor Inn in Hartland village. We were not disappointed: an atmospheric sixteenth century inn, a friendly landlord, and an excellent meal.

The next day we firstly went into Bideford, aka the "Little White Town" and rather pleasant, for some shopping. We were here in the vicinity of the seaside resort Westward Ho! but, despite the title of this piece, we didn't go there. The place name has two great distinctions: the only one in Britain to be named after a novel and the only one to include an exclamation mark.
There are four helicopter flights and on the outward journey we were on the fourth. But all was fair as coming back we were on the first. There were wonderful views to be enjoyed during the short flight, of the Devon mainland and then of Lundy itself. Once on Lundy we reported to reception where the lady made it rather obvious that she was very busy and we were hurriedly directed to our Cottage. This is at the southernmost tip of the island and possibly offers the finest views of any of the Landmark Trust properties, looking out as it does towards the mainland. The Cottage is small and fairly basic and I didn't much appreciate the fact that the toilet was outside. But it was cosy and the bed was very comfortable.

We had lunch at the only eating establishment, the Marisco Tavern. I'd fondly imagined that old-fashioned home cooking would be on offer, so was surprised when I asked if the burgers were home-made only to find that they were of the bought-in variety. I passed on those but we still had an indifferent meal and for the rest of the time I instead enjoyed Cathy's excellent cooking. There is quite a well-stocked shop on the island, and meals included some of the local venison as well as the chilli con carne which Cathy had made at home. Fortunately we had brought our portable radio: Lundy doesn't do TV. Lundy is near, and is indeed part of, Devon but it is also quite near the Welsh coast, visible from further north in the island, and the local radio station which we picked up was Welsh.

The weather on this, our first day, was fine and there was time for a walk halfway up the island, finishing at the furthest flung of the Landmark Trust properties, Tibbetts, which is without electricity. One can go inside any of the properties that are unoccupied and we availed ourselves of this opportunity. We were not always to be so lucky with the weather. For the whole of the next day there was a thick blanket of fog. So much for our view! The island's literature confidently asserts that it is impossible to get bored on Lundy but one is quite weather-dependent if one wants to make the most of the island and there was little to do other than stay indoors, apart from a walk to the shop and a look inside the small church. I didn't actually get bored: there was the radio, our Sunday papers and their umpteen parts to get through, and the jigsaws which the Landmark Trust thoughtfully provides in its properties. I hadn't attempted one for years and enjoyed only partial success.

The weather was a bit better the next day but still not wonderful. It was showery and not really a good day for walking. We did a couple of trips, one to the Old Lighthouse, which we ascended, and another to the beach, where the boats from the mainland arrive. In the summer daytrippers come here. Some renovation work was taking place around the beach and there were warning signs as we headed there so we thought we might have to turn back, one of the few possible walks now not possible. But there was not an outright prohibition: one was merely warned that going further would be "on your head" and, since there were no signs at all of any work taking place we reckoned we'd be safe and are here to tell the tale. On our final day the weather was glorious and we walked right to the northern tip of the island, about 3½ miles. This really is a beautiful island and we regretted that the weather had prevented us from exploring it further, for there are many good walks. But nevertheless our stay there was a worthwhile and enjoyable experience.

Back on the mainland the next day, we drove across the Southwest Peninsula to our hotel. We diverted into Clovelly. There used to be adverts for "lovely Clovelly" leading me to suppose that Clovelly was pronounced "Cluvley". I wouldn't call it lovely. To start with one has to enter it via a hideous visitor's centre, a privilege for which one pays £5. Actually we bucked the system without actually intending to. There was no-one around and we just walked through, only realizing afterwards that we should have paid. One descends through the village via a steep cobbled street but it is not otherwise picturesque. We looked forward to finding a quaint old harbour at the end only to find there is nothing very much. If there are friendly locals we didn't find any. A passing lady hauling some heavy luggage looked right through Cathy when she made a friendly remark to her whilst the receptionist in the hotel didn't know whether their bar offered lunch and clearly wasn't going to bother to find out. This place is 'touristiness' at its worse.

We hurried away and found an excellent place for lunch on the road back to Bideford, Hoops, a very attractive old building where I enjoyed steak with an Exmoor blue cheese topping. Then drove through the scenic Devon countryside to the pleasant town of Tavistock. Here we turned right, entering Cornwall via the back route and thus avoiding the Tamar Bridge and its tolls.
The Carlyon Bay is some distance from the centre of St Austell, which we've only visited once, just to use an ATM. It is on the coast, on the eponymous stretch of water in, appropriately enough, Sea Road. Shortly after our first stay it came to national attention when Tony and Cherie Blair stayed there, having decided in the aftermath of the foot and mouth epidemic to do their bit for the hard-hit British tourist industry, though St Austell actually sailed through this unscathed, thank to its twin attractions, Eden Project and the Lost Gardens of Heligan. We've been to both and whilst Eden is worth a visit, we might not hurry back there whereas the Lost Gardens are fabulous, their re-creation an amazing achievement. Subsequently another Cornish hotel reported that they'd turned down a request, on behalf of the Blairs, to stay there for a discounted price. The Carlyon Bay is tight-lipped as to whether they gave a discount. The Carlyon Bay is part of the Brend chain of hotels, which is confined to Devon and Cornwall. It is old-fashioned in an agreeable sort of way with entertainment to the taste of people of my age group. "Do we want Eminem? - noooooh!" was the refrain of the DJ during our last visit. One can count on the meals being good.

We had just one full day in Cornwall, and once more drove across the Southwest Peninsula, here of course a far shorter distance than in Devon, to one of our favourite spots, Tintagel. Exploring its rambling ruins, and enjoying the superb views along the coast, is a delight. It is a romantic place, steeped in Arthurian legend. But of course Arthur was a mythical figure. He was - wasn't he? Back in the village we had, what else, Cornish Pasties for lunch. Then we went on to Boscastle, long a popular beauty spot, which had, since our last visit, suffered from devastating floods, which mercifully produced no casualties, unlike in Lynmouth some fifty years previously. Certainly it looked as if normality was returning and by all accounts it has been making a strong recovery. We rounded off the day with a visit to Truro, a city we'd passed through but never actually visited. It was a trifle disappointing. By no means an unpleasant place, just nothing very special. Even in this far-flung part of the kingdom, high street homogenization has had its impact. Its Cathedral is the same, pleasant but hardly one of our greatest. On the following day, we drove home. We had worthy intentions of stopping off at Stonehenge, but just felt like getting home so drove past.

First published in VISA issue 71 (Feb 2007)