The most beautiful place in the world!

My huge yeti sized carbon footprint continued with a flight from Manchester to Plymouth and it was pleasing to see a tractor on the runway (seriously) as I arrived late on a Sunday night. Ah home, eternally home. After my blessed first week in England when they had their summer, it was more like autumn for five days in the Westcountry with Dad but somehow we managed to get lucky, see, do and eat pretty much everything we wanted to. Much of this was a nostalgia fest for both of us. I am very grateful to have grown up in a free, prosperous society but to grow up in a free, prosperous society which happens to be in the most beautiful of regions is truly a bonus. Clotted cream coloured spectacles? Maybe, but I’ve been to cities that never close down and I’ll still call the Westcountry home.

The nostalgia was instant first thing Monday as Dad and I made the pilgrimage to Wrangaton Golf Club to attempt to play golf. Wrangie was looking truly awesome in the low cloud and spots of rain, soft as a sponge, green as a bogey. There were a few memorable shots but for the most part we hacked round, spurred on by memories and a good lunch in the clubhouse.

For some reason, a round at Wrangaton often seems to produce something of a hangover, tiredness, achiness and a throbbing head. In this context, it was a challenge to wander the aisles of mega Tesco for goodies but we picked up some dinner and other bits and pieces. In a way maybe we shouldn’t as we ended up sitting at Cap’n Jaspers that evening with no room for a Jasperizer or Half a Yard.

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The next day held promise of sunshine and some showers so we headed to North Cornwall to bathe in the sunshine and avoid most of the showers. First up was Boscastle, seemingly restored since huge floods a few years back and a fine place to walk along the harbour and out to the headlands. Breathe it in, these are special moments.




Now, back in Boscastle, the sun began to shine and it was perfect to sit down by the harbour and have a drink. The cream tea was tempting me but we decided to stick to a coffee, what with other treats pending later in the day. How is it a small café in a very small village in an area of England so tucked away you have to squeeze through narrow lanes to get there serves a far better coffee than anywhere else in the land, including those stupid chains and expensive haunts in London town? It was even better than some poor examples I have had in Australia, praise indeed.

But you don’t come here for coffee, you come here for pasties by the sea in Tintagel, something which is incredibly hard to beat. Follow this up with a fudge crumble and you’re onto a winner.



This part of the world isn’t all hidden and tucked away, evidenced by the packed car park at Port Isaac, better known by many as home to Doc Martin. Surprisingly, the town remains quaintly beautiful and doesn’t seem to overly cash in on its links to a TV show – it remains at heart a typical Cornish fishing village, with narrow lanes leading down to a small harbour. However, you did find yourself thinking “Ooh, I wonder if Doc Martin will stomp down that alley in a minute” now and again.



In the evening it was good to return to the ‘Oe where the national firework championships were taking place. Excellent for getting in touch with the inner Janner and watching three great displays over Plymouth Sound. Who needs a harbour bridge?!

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If you said to me on Wednesday morning I’d be supping a pint of Cider sat in the sun beside the water I would have had you sectioned. The rain and wind swept through Plymouth city centre all morning and looked unlikely to abate as we set off to Noss Mayo in south Devon. Noss Mayo though seems to have its own little climate control switch which is set on idyllic. The wind remained for the bracing coastal part of the walk but had eased sufficiently for T-shirt and cold drink in The Ship Inn, an unexpected bonus.



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More holes in the cloud on Thursday and a trip to Dartmoor where I still got wet crossing a brook. Dad took me on a walk of great variety including gurgling streams, forest, high moorland, Celtic ruins, squidgy bogs and no path at all! Such exertion made me hungry and so it was more than time for a PROPER Devon Cream Tea!!




This is what you need Australia. Until this point you will forever remain a second class country, lol!

Cream teas and rolling hills go hand in hand, like Sonny and Cher, that politician and the Cheeky Girl and Marmite and toast. The rolling hill fix came courtesy of the views from Houndtor – surprisingly somewhere I do not recall visiting previously. Half of glorious Devon was on view from here, looking majestic in the afternoon sunshine.

Looking back at that huge bowl of cream you may be surprised to hear that we dined out in the evening at the good ol’ Britannia with Cheryl and Steve. You may be surprised. If you don’t know me very well that is.

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With all major things ticked off, fudge packed and fairy costumes in the suitcase, it was time to leisurely head to Exeter Airport on Friday, taking a route via the South Hams which nostalgia told me wasn’t so long, winding and clogged with traffic like one of my arteries after that cream tea. We stopped for coffee (normal service resumed) at Slapton and a walk on the beach. A pebbly beach, no doubt to the delight of my colonial friends.

Up the road, Totnes is a pretty little place, though not one you want to spend 40 minutes getting through when you have a lunch appointment and a flight to catch. Such is the hazard of being from a beautiful part of the world, all grockled out as it was on a sunny Friday. In the end we made lunch for about 30 minutes, savouring as much as possible the bargain carvery in Torquay.

My last few minutes in the south west were something of a blur as we raced to the airport so I could get on my plane to Spain. Thankfully I have had many more minutes in this part of the world and I hope many more are still to come my way in the future. Australia home? Nah, not quite yet me loverrrrrr. Home is where the heart is.