Black Hole Sun

And so here we make it to quaint little England, arriving via a brief and random stopover in Munich for some Bratwurst and lederhosen. I arrived into London City airport and breezed through the various check points in seconds (they can smell the Pommie blood), finding a London seemingly ordered and awakening for another day selling shares and making millions. I had time to spare before my train down to Plymouth so, seeing it was turning into a rather pleasant day, I waited out in Hyde Park at Lancaster Gate to read the Metro, telling me what an awful, dreadful, dangerous and callous place Britain had become in the space of a few days. It seemed hard to comprehend in that sunny park shaded by regal horse chestnuts and accompanied by a quartet of sparkling fountains.

In fact, it was an even more preposterous notion upon entering Devon, which put on its best fluffy white clouds and green hills dotted with sheep and cows winding country lane and thatched cottage wondrousness. More viable in Plymouth perhaps, but even here things appeared to be calm and pleasant. Later on however, flames started to appear from a council estate and a large cacophony of noise swelled: Neil and Steve were lighting the BBQ and grandmothers and mothers and clucky women were cooing over babies. Here I was, finally showered from Hong Kong for my niece Brooke’s first birthday. Burnt snags are better the English way.

The next day and any sense of anarchy was far from the Devon-Cornwall border, though those gangs of fluffy white sheep hanging around the stile in their fleecy hoodies looked a bit suss. The weather was picture perfect for a jaunt on the picturesque Tamar Valley branch line to Calstock, with its impressive viaduct spanning the gentle waters. In such days of austerity you wouldn’t see anyone building such monumental accomplishments just to get to a small village with a pub and some ducks. But back in the day, this area was obviously more than just a nice place for a pleasant amble, plus the Victorians just built stuff because they could. Now I’m not one for harking back to times past – sure the Victorians had nice bridges, but they also had slavery, gonorrhoea and a frumpy old queen, but Calstock does have 1950s type air, when looting was a form of music rather than a favourite pastime and the milkman said hi and gave you a wink.

Underneath the arches was a nice walk along the river to Cotehele House – more sumptuousness within steeply banked woodland and manicured gardens – and Cotehele Quay, with further evidence of that Victorian industriousness when this place was an active port shipping supplies down to Plymouth and the world beyond. A natural spot for the National Trust to care for and develop tea rooms and gardens and, oh yes, cream teas. There was also a little interpretative centre, ideal for the kids among us to fritter away some of the lengthy wait before the next train back to Plymouth.

From this point on the weather really decided to go downhill, more traditional English summer school holiday fare of drizzle and dankness and cool temperatures (though it’s true that it never feels quite as cold as the thermometer suggests it is). But deep down my Britishness means I don’t let a bit of cloud and wimpy attempts at rain get in the way, and my next excursion was spent with people soaking up such weather for their summer holidays in Teignmouth and Shaldon. Fish and chips and ice creams (both of which I soaked up) alongside deckchairs, beach huts and amusement arcades all attempting fairly dismally to brighten the gloom.

While Teignmouth was a tad tatty, across the river Shaldon was far more clean cut, with its little cottages and window boxes and quaint riverside pubs. It also formed a gateway to escape the summer holiday melee and attack a small but intense part of the coast path. The Ness – a rocky red outcrop at the southern entrance to the Teign estuary – was a small bump compared to the next hill south, which never seemed to end in its rolling creamy greenness. The rewarding views and ice cream reward back in Shaldon was merited, though a little more blue sky and a little less grey cloud wouldn’t have gone amiss.

In between little trips there was of course jolly old activities in Plymouth, with its ever depressing but still somehow lovable city centre, rapidly disintegrating but lovable football team, and the mayhem of lovable family and friends. Mostly, activities revolved around lovable food, such as scrumptious dinner at Dave and Sue’s and, the next day, feeling a little tired and emotional from the night before, a perfectly designed combination of roasted pork belly, roast potatoes, veggies, stuffing and the liquid gold that was Mum’s gravy. The roast.

Hark at me, anyone would think I was Rick Stein or something the way I am rambling incoherently about a bit of tucker. But Rick Stein I am not, since I don’t own an endless cash generating machine that is Padstow in August (though I do have an amazing skill at linking seamlessly to the next day trip destination). After a shortish jaunt on the train to jaunty Bodmin Parkway station, a wait for a bus (time productively filled with tea accompanied by coffee and walnut cake at said jaunty station), and an hour long churn through the Cornish countryside, Padstow was reached. And I was not the only one there, despite the incessant murk which, at least, had not turned to rain. Most were giving their money to Mr Stein, lovable chap that he is, or just standing around the harbour probably contemplating why on earth did we have our summer holidays in England?

Mercifully, markedly few walked beyond Padstow and out alongside the sweeping sands of the Camel estuary to the Atlantic Coast. Where it was still not raining...a small achievement rising that I had made it this far, out to the promised land of the North Cornwall coast without getting lashed by painful squalls and getting soggy trouser bottoms. It was, of course, as satisfying as ever, regardless of weather.

Out beyond Stepper Point, the classic images emerged around every corner, though the sea was surprisingly subdued, less in the way of dramatic crashes and rushes of pounding water echoing around. There were cows, and a few people, the odd foreign looking type enjoying their summer holidays somewhere cooler than home, and a friendly man walking the dog to get away from the wife who he left shopping in Padstow. He must have been worried, as I passed him again coming back in the other direction, in somewhat of a rush to get back to Padstow and rescue his credit rating.

I probably should have followed him but decided to follow a cross country signpost vaguely indicating the direction of Padstow, thus creating a perfectly formed loop path. Alas it was mostly along a country lane that was so typically narrow to the extent that I had to breathe in when anything bigger than a Nissan Micra passed by and you couldn’t see much because the magnificent hedgerows were like 200 feet high or something. It had also now decided ‘oh yes I will actually rain today like I was supposed to’, at which point your feet suddenly start to hurt and you have a mini losing the will to live type episode. This losing the will to live episode continues unabated as you wait for several buses to connect you back to Bodmin Parkway and its jaunty little station, and realise you actually spent more time today on public transport than being outdoors.

Without wishing to sound like an irate Daily Mail reader, I swear it is getting harder and harder to reach parts of Britain by public transport these days. I noticed the twice daily bus service to wonderful Noss Mayo appeared to have vanished. Train times rarely link up with bus times and some services don’t even appear to connect to any place or anything else whatsoever. It’s still a million times more navigable than in Australia, but when you have a double decker bus heading to Bodmin Parkway station which has a low bridge to pass under, you know things aren’t quite right. So it was a pleasure to jump in the car and be driven to the edge of Dartmoor, and the beautiful and captivating gurgling of the River Plym one afternoon later in the week.

England really does has an excess of chlorophyll, though one thing I don’t get is that if green is supposed to be a relaxing colour, why isn’t everyone here just sooooo chilled? I blame Eastenders or something, all that screaming and shouting about nothing in particular. Now if people watched In the Night Garden more then things would be very different, although perhaps that tune would get stuck in their head, driving people to despair and even increased murderousness. Oopsy daisy, as they say.

Ah, the children, what it is all about...each trip to Europe involves several bouts of peekaboos and getting beaten up by kids and reading stories about a blue thing with a red towel. Despite the tiny terrors it’s actually rather joyous to visit family and friends with little ones. I figure it’s something I don’t really get exposed to so much in Australia, what with my own lack of children and seeming inability to be serious and contemplate procreation on a reproductive scale. Anyway, a day at Paignton Zoo in the pouring rain with nine-going-on-nineteen Bethany is probably enough to put me off for life! Bless her, she’s a diamond, but I’m not so fond of her cheating at Top Trumps!

The day at the zoo was inevitably dampened by the tormenting rain, which can’t have been what the animals were hoping for when they got captured and told they were moving to the English Riviera... “Oh look at this Ming Ming, they have palm trees and everything there, and even a love nest for us to make out complete with Panda-cam”. There were no pandas by the way, but an elephant and rhino and plenty of monkey things and lovely giraffes and numerous other creatures. I didn’t see the Kangaroos but they were probably wishing they were back in Canberra, in the sun.

Of course, the day that it came to depart Devon this time around heralded splendid clear blue skies and warmth. Gliding through the countryside on the train things were idyllic once more. Glistening in the morning light, Teignmouth looked rather charming. Children were playing happily and without incident. Sheep and cows and other exotic animals were grazing contentedly. It always seems to send me off this way, Devon. I’m just glad I’ve scheduled a few more days in next month. If someone could schedule some sunny, warm weather as well that would be just super.