THURLESTONE

11.35 Intercity Train - Paddington to Penzance – August 1992

Dear All,

A long-distance journey to a new destination and, instinctively, out comes pen and paper.

Well, if I felt adrift at home last week, I’m feeling well and truly trapped aboard this Intercity train. A VAST woman robed in black satin, patterned like a much-used ski slope, and bordered with teardrops of lace, a black chiffon scarf sparkling with silver stars, shocking pink, lemon yellow and viridian green flowers has filled most of the space alongside me. The jet-black hair, black painted eyes, deep red lipstick and large, flashing hooped earrings give her the allure of a Spanish Senora but her language is indecipherable and, from the false diamond stud in her nose, I guess she’s Indian.

She’s crackling her way through a maxi bag of crisps whilst her husband, sitting behind us, is having difficulty understanding a woman who is painstakingly trying to explain that the seat in which he’s parked himself is booked from Reading.

At Reading, the couple, who may well have been my neighbours from Turnpike Lane, London, got off. A breath of fresh air blew in through the open carriage door.

Beyond Reading, blue sky washed by clouds over bright green fields, woods and haymaking. A father opposite is loudly I-Spying passing Churches for his son’s little book. A gaggle of grannies, returning west from the Isle of Wight, purloin seemingly vacant seats causing chaos at Westbury when new passengers come counting down the aisle to their reserved seats.

A youth in black, lost in headphones and carrying a book, creeps into the seat alongside me. Then comes an announcement, “The buffet will close at Exeter.” I head there for a drink. No milk, no Cornish pasty and, once privatisation comes, the train won’t be going to Cornwall. The harassed bar tender, at work since 5.30am, can’t wait to get to the beach with his fishing rod within the next hour.

At Exeter the grannies giggle off the train, the father opposite offloads most of their luggage, his son waves them farewell with a degree of relief while his father announces that he, the son, will be sending them postcards.

The lavatory’s blocked and it’s still hours to reach Penzance. Disgusting service for a £50+ ticket.

Suddenly, a wonderfully unexpected ride along the wide, sandy estuary of the River Exe, tiny sailing boats bobbing at anchor, men squelching through the mud seeking something indefinable and then, the sea, deep turquoise blue quite Mediterranean-like in appearance if not in temperature. The train travelled at a noticeably slower speed right along the rim of the beach, alongside wet stretches of sand, all the way to Teignmouth from where it followed another nameless river estuary back to the Devon of undulating fields.

Promptly on time we reached my destination, Totnes. Masses of people were pouring off the train, many taxis were awaiting them. A quick scan of T-shirts revealed the presence in the area of Dartington Summer School. Youngsters weighed down with musical instruments were heading there, the Silver Oldies, me included, joined the Holiday Fellowship group transport.

Half an hour of meandering past signposts to vineyards, we rediscovered the sea and the large sandy bay of Thurlestone. A sprinkling of large cream houses sat along the edge of the beach alongside spacious, hardly filled car parks, deep sea divers with surf boards were returning from the sea and, just three minutes away, our new Holiday Fellowship home for the week. A roomy ex hotel, where I’m sharing a small room with a tired German woman about my own age, Ursula.

Sunday

Now, a twenty-four-hour retrospective, written in avoidance of a group quiz evening.

The house is large, full of nooks and crannies, holding about fifty-five people plus a large group of young domestic staff. Ursula, my room-mate, flew in from Cologne. She speaks English fluently, is a great lover of England, spent a week here last summer and decided to come back.

Most people had arrived in time for afternoon tea from destinations various. We’re in Devon after all so the ubiquitous cream on jam on scone, and forgotten delicacies such as iced cream slices, butterfly cakes and chocolate sponge.

Less mouth-watering, my fellow holiday makers. First impression, a mass of grey haired matrons, some with male appendages of similar vintage, fifties-sixties, three families with teenage children including one from Brussels, also people from France, Holland and another from Germany. Quite odd to find these Anglophiles, the equivalent of myself in France over the years, lone English speaker amidst French friends. Second impression, a sprinkling of people, mostly women in their thirties-forties. Holiday Fellowship is obviously not the organisation for younger people’s holidays. This is my first experience.

After tea I went out for a wander. Just a three minutes’ stroll to reach the sea. Found a huge stretch of brown sand to the left, backed by green fields and a handful of houses. There was still a sprinkling of people on the beach plus a flutter of windsurfers.

Walked around the headland to a smaller bay fringed by a golf course with a large number of tennis courts alongside the road leading to the village of Thurlestone, composed of a four star hotel, a pub, two shops, a church and some very attractive houses. Inside the church there were a great many military remembrance plates, maybe ex-military men who retired here. There must be some wealthy people around.

Returned home for a copious roast dinner. Quite a change to hear so many English regional accents, plus Europeans fluent in English. In the evening there was barn dancing but I opted out feeling exhausted from dragging my fifteen kilos-filled case on its annual tour. Most odd being part of such a large mixed group again. There’s an amiable atmosphere but it’s not really my scene.

Monday

Next morning pulled back the curtains and looked onto grey skies over young cabbage fields. Breakfast was copious, plus we were advised to make lunch packs to take out walking. The food is certainly good value for money.

Joined the shortest of the three possible walks to test out my stamina. Lovely stroll over the cliff top past the golf course to the sandy bay of the River Avon estuary. The air was cool but fresh, ideal for walking. We stopped at a quaint little village alongside the estuary, many moored sailing dinghies but few people using them. I don’t know whether it’s always this quiet or just the end of the season.

We picnicked on a hill overlooking the bay. Our young leader will soon be off to spend a year teaching as an English Language Assistant in Austria, the same as I did in France a very long time ago, nostalgia! We walked back to Thurlestone through the woods arriving hours before the other groups who were walking more than double our distance. I continued to stroll locally in an effort to build up the strength to move up a group tomorrow.

Another roast dinner, turkey today. I’m already sickened by fresh cream desserts, I’ve moved onto the fruit basket. Wonder whether I’ll sweeten towards the group by the end of the week?

Tuesday Evening

Just putting my feet up, or rather under, my pastel duvet after a day of exposure to the elements. I must say it is with gratitude that that I return to a clean bathroom, hot water and tea-making facilities in the bedroom. Reminiscent of old bedsit days.

Outside the window the old tractor that could be heard in the distance this morning has reached the boundary of the cabbage field, its ploughing of the neighbouring field completed. During the same time, I’ve walked six or seven miles along the cliff top.

This morning the masses were heading for Dartmoor but the thought of that brooding moorland, with hidden peat bogs waiting to suck in the boots of a misguided walker, was just too overbearing with melancholy still lurking in the background. Keep getting hit by waves of wondering what on earth I’m doing here with all these strangers, so very different from my more habitual holidays in France.

However, the countryside here is beautiful, the main positive reason for being here. So, I decided to walk alone. Took the coastal path towards the point where we joined it yesterday. Masses of bright yellow gorse bushes and pale pink heather splashing out between ferns, the grass nibbled short by wandering sheep. Could see the orange earth path snaking ahead then disappearing unexpectedly over a headland.

Delighted to suddenly come upon a small cove with thatched cottages, small houses and a few hotels clustered around a sandy beach littered with small dinghies and small children. The old bucket and spade seem irreplaceable, just plastic has replaced the tin of my youth.

Had a morning coffee and read a paper at leisure whilst watching families drift onto the beach. Very few teenagers or single people around, it’s a small child’s paradise, also fathers messing about in boats, mothers freezing on the beach with the sand-filled picnic. Alas, the weather is still overcast, okay for walking but not for sunbathing.

Not too much walking along the next stretch of path. Met the first person so far back bent beneath a loaded rucksack topped with a tent. He’d set out from Minehead nearly three weeks ago and is hoping to reach Dorset by Saturday. A REAL walker.

I reached the headland overlooking Sawmill Cove, the tiny beach we started from yesterday. Saw the long zigzag track down to the sand and decided to relax and have lunch with this magnificent view. Attempted to sketch it but failed miserably. Then headed home at leisure. Besides toddlers there are a lot of dogs around, mostly cream Labradors and wet. So far, no sign of a caravan site.

Yesterday’s walk was preceded by a short cross country coach ride and a climb down into Sawmill Cove, a walk along the shore before a climb back up. Puff, Puff, Pant, Pant, nearly died of heart failure, before continuing the walk along the cliffs to the unexpected estuary of the river leading to Salcome. Very pretty, so many sailing boats dotted about the river, woods and fields on either side with no sign of any great housing development around the little town.

Stopped at a National Trust Garden planted on a hillside. Lots of palm trees, banana trees and tropical flowers, they must get good weather here at some point!

We strolled down the hill of another sandy bay cut off from fields and woods by a handful of houses and shops. On the beach we clambered onto a strange contraption, a sort of two-sided bench on wheels, and chugged out into the shallow water. At this point a small ferry boat motored up, its bow neatly fitting into the open ‘arms’ of our contraption. Much amusing dialogue followed this embrace from the northeners, two men and a woman, all good friends, often holiday together, obviously used to keeping up an incessant witty repartee.

Otherwise during the walk the main voices heard were those of foreign people all excellent speakers of English no doubt determined to increase their fluency. Personally, not too keen on conversing since the stony path passed very close to the edge of the cliff, I’ve been more intent on keeping within the group!

Couldn’t get over the cost of small flat prices in Salcome, average £125,000! More expensive than London! I asked the woman in one of the many ice cream shops about this. She said the young people are leaving in droves due to no houses since so many have been purchased as second homes, and there are no jobs. A huge number of hotels have been converted into holiday flats with a loss of jobs and many shops now only serve the summer tourist industry. Apparently, the population is reduced by two thirds in winter, a sad change from the days when she was growing up in a busy little town. Now it’s ice cream, cream teas, lobster lunches, endlessly long dinner menus and little shops selling smart yachting fashions plus all the gear for sailing and surfing.

We drove back through the fields to Thurlestone which seemed quite rural by comparison.

Evening meals start with a Knorr packet soup followed by a choice of meat or vegetarian dishes. It’s not fine cuisine but quite copious and tasty. Desserts are a range of frothing cream hiding different named items. I was seduced by these at first but now find the selection of cheeses and the fruit basket more palatable.

Coffee is served in the lounge after which comes the entertainment. There have been different kinds of quizzes for the last two nights provoking grumbling from the European contingent that the questions were English biased.

Never one for quizzes I opted for the quiet room. Later, had a longer chat with my German room-mate and discovered that she too teaches immigrant children. She didn’t seem any more enamoured with the job than me, we didn’t pursue that conversation.

Discovered that another German woman has ended up living permanently in Weston Super Mare. Having divorced her English husband she, now with English nationality, stands little chance of obtaining a pensionable job in Germany so has resigned herself to staying in Weston.

A third German woman does seem happily married to an English man. She stoically swims at every beach halt when we’re out walking. I haven’t put a toe in the water yet.

Now it’s 6.30. Ursula has just returned from the Dartmoor trip which went well, no rain, no one lost, just a near crash on the way back.

Wednesday

A ‘free’ day with the option of a coach trip to the small town of Totnes which I decided to join. Half an hour of driving up and down small hills, past farmlands and pretty villages before arriving at Totnes, apparently the centre of The New Age in the south of England. People have been attracted here since the 1920s by Dartington Arts Centre and many decided to stay on. Found a wonderful bookshop as good as any in London.

The town sprawls along the River Dart. We ended up in the main street, lots of pretty shops, an ancient Guildhall, the original town jail made to look very realistic, including a rat. There was no time to explore the museum as I was captivated by an exhibition of paintings by a local artist, an ex-world traveller. Discovered he runs painting and walking holidays and because of my interest I nearly missed joining my current holiday group on a boat trip. It’s useful being able to lose oneself from a big group, the disadvantage, no one may notice my absence at a crucial transport point.

The cruise down the River Dart was delightful, huge, high trees fencing off fields which sprawled over low hills, Canada geese, cormorants, seagulls, lovely houses dotted here and there including the home of Sir Walter Raleigh which was later the home of Agatha Christie.

There was a gradual increase in the number of little fishing boats and dinghies in the vicinity of small villages along the riverside, with the river gradually increasing to about a mile in width. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the wooded hillside on our right curved into a womb shape forming the harbour of Dartmouth. The red and grey brick naval college sat impressively above the estuary on the hillside. What a wonderful sight it must have been when the old twelve-masted ships sailed into port.

Time to wander around the tiny naval museum including many paintings of Dartmouth over past centuries, plus models showing the development of sailing craft, before sitting in the sun watching the many boats coming and going. On the opposite bank of the estuary a little train with brown and buff carriages steamed along. I haven’t really got a clue where I am on the map!

Back at Thurlestone a wonderful buffet supper was awaiting our return followed by a sunset reminiscent of a Chinese landscape painting. Square dancing and more party games followed, I opted out and chatted to Ursula, my room-mate.

Thursday

We drove back along the coast today to start our walk in the tiny village of Prawle, a slightly different walk along a narrow stony path with high ferns on either side, just intermittent views of the sea, not very convenient for chatting.

Today I got to know Marie Helene, a rather typical French woman in voice and manner who reminds me of a character in ‘Allo, Allo’ that TV programme. She teaches English in France, worked in Plymouth for a wonderful year, had a divorce after three years of marriage, was in analysis for years, now knows herself well and likes to talk a lot about herself. I’m quite good at listening.

I’m making an effort to talk to different people in the group but with fifty-two of them milling around any contact is very superficial.

Later, the coach stopped in a tiny village where many houses near the beach had been swept away by the sea, apparently a danger along much of this low-lying coast. We then came out unexpectedly at the end of a huge bay stretching endlessly into the distance. The golden sand turned out to be shingle but there were still lots of holiday makers sunning themselves. Behind the beach were a few small hotels and houses, behind these was a large freshwater pond and a nature reserve containing a blackened American tank retrieved from the sea. Torcross, altogether a drab place.

Arrived back home with time to sunbathe on our own beach, some fellow group members were courageously swimming, not me.

This evening I’m feeling slightly stiff after more climbing and descending than usual so decided to relax and avoid the News Quiz. “Is there any other nationality that enjoys playing games like the English,’?” I ask myself.

Friday

On the last morning awoke to grey skies over the cabbage field. Last in at breakfast. Last picnic bag to collect. But not last onto the coach. Sat next to a divorcee, fortyish, who spent the journey telling me about the early days of her marriage in Nigeria, then the break-up, and souvenirs of her life with many sisters as she plodded through therapy.

(Some may wonder at my capacity for listening at length, often to many difficult life situations. Well, I perfected this skill after I acquired the ‘label of Manic Depressive’ in my mid-thirties. I had absolutely no desire to talk about my experiences in psychiatric hospitals and so instead, in a conversation, I ‘interview’ the other, or simply listen. People really do like to talk about themselves.)

When the coach stopped, so too did my neighbour’s story. She had opted for the long plod of the day, apparently the most arduous so far. I had opted for the easiest which began at a delightful pine-backed beach, followed by a gently undulating walk over the cliffs to Dartmouth castle, spied in the distance on our earlier visit.

On arrival we were greeted by the inevitable Devon ice cream shop. When suitably refreshed we strolled along the road near houses fronting the estuary into the now familiar Dartmouth. Not a beach in sight near the town itself.

There was time to spare before the coach ride home, so I took a little boat ride to the castle and back. The owner was explaining how Devon fishermen have been hit by the new EEC fishing policies. They’re only allowed to fish on certain days each week, hard luck if it’s blowing a gale and, if it’s glorious weather on the non-fishing days, tough.

Headed to a café for a final cream tea. Wonder how many extra inches I’ve gained? We all met up back at the coach at the appointed time like sheep rounded up by shepherd and dog. The organisation really has been very good.

With London in prospect I felt chirpier than usual so participated in the final farewells after coffee, followed by the last entertainment, a series of sketches and the old familiar country dances. My two French neighbours were shrieking with laughter at the sketches, shaking their heads and muttering, "Oh, les anglais!” “Oh, the English!” They’d never seen anything like it elsewhere.

Returning to my room after these festivities I discovered that I’d actually stayed out later than Ursula. Unlike the French, the Germans couldn’t cope with the English sense of humour. However, she was groaning at the thought of being with her compatriots in a hotel the following evening and being obliged to ‘dress’ for dinner.

Saturday

The last breakfast. The last coach to the station. The large group dispersed into booked seats on the train. Found myself sitting opposite someone I hadn’t spoken to all week so had a chatty return journey to London.

At Paddington, farewells and a return to Haringey, quite a shock after Devon where I’d only seen three black people. It set me pondering, maybe there should be a black teacher in my job. However, two more weeks holiday before I can voice that opinion.

Love Pen

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Next Week - A week spent painting in southern Poland with the long-time tutor of my London Art Group.

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