A Walk to the Obelisk

A walk to the obelisk is just the thing to do on a sunny afternoon after Christmas. It isn’t far, perhaps a five mile drive from our house, and then an easy walk from the car park. As you can see from the photographs, yesterday Chris and I accompanied my dear old mum (alias Supergran) on a stroll through the forest path to Mamhead Point from where you can look across and see the Exe estuary, Exmouth and also the beautiful countryside below on our side of the river.

Mamhead Park

Mamhead house

The Mamhead estate was sold by the adventurer Sir Peter Carew (1514–1575) to Giles Ball, whose son Sir Peter Ball (1598-1680) was attorney-general to King Charles I’s Queen, Henrietta Maria. He began to build a country house here, replacing an older house. His grandson Thomas Ball (1671-1749), a merchant, planted many exotic trees brought back from his travels. Between 1742 and 1745, he built an obelisk on the hill above the house “out of a regard to the safety of such as might use to sail out of the Port of Exon or any others who might be driven on the coast”. The obelisk has a height of one hundred feet.

In 1823, Mamhead was bought by Robert William Newman (1776-1848), who completely rebuilt the house on a new site in 1827-1833, to the designs of Anthony Salvin. In 1833, Westley Farm was also rebuilt by Salvin. Newman was Member of Parliament for Exeter from 1818 to 1826 and High Sheriff of Devon in 1827. On 17 March 1836, he became Sir Robert William Newman, 1st Baronet, of Mamhead in the County of Devon. The third Baronet was High Sheriff of Devon in 1871. The fourth Baronet represented Exeter in the House of Commons from 1918 to 1931, when he was created Baron Mamhead of Exeter in the County of Devon, in the Peerage of the United Kingdom. The peerage became extinct on his death in 1945, but the baronetcy is still extant.

Mamhead Park became Dawlish College, a boarding school for boys. The building was owned by the Tyler family and run with a staff of approx 20. The usual number of boarders was around 75. The surrounding grounds were utilised for numerous activities from swimming,cricket,football,go karting etc. Dormatories and bathrooms were on the second and third floors. The ground floor was primarily used for the teaching and normal day activities including the school administration. The Camelia room was used as refectory. The Castle housed the science & craft rooms – Physics,Biology,Metalwork,Woodwork and Technical Drawing.The inner courtyard was used for 5-a-side football and also had a changing room area.

It is rumoured that a “white lady” ghost can been seen on the main stair case late at night.

Peace in Our Time (Oh For a Silent Night)

Chris always writes me a poem for Christmas; sometimes it’s romantic, sometimes topical, but always comical. This time the poem comes in the form of a song to be sung to the tune of “Flash, Bang Wallop”, which is exactly what Chris did when he brought in my Christmas morning cup of tea. I hasten to add that if you should happen to try singing it yourself you must do so with an East-End accent!

     “PEACE IN OUR TIME”

The Christmas Poem for Sally 2014 (To be sung with gusto to the tune of “Flash, Bang, Wallop”)

 With apologies to David Heneker, the composer of “Flash, Bang, Wallop” from the 1967 musical “Half A Sixpence”

 ’Ere we are in our night attire

We’re ready for a spot of sleep

We’ve settled down some time ago

and we’ve just started counting sheep

Since the sea wall broke and crumbled down

In the winter’s tempest keen

There’s always been a gang of engineers

To repair the unhappy scene

 Oh…… 

 Darn it!  crash bang wallop, what a racket!

what a racket, what a bloody noise!

there they were,  hammering all night

thump thump thump in a blaze of light

clap hands. On yer ears.

Try to block away that thrum

What a racket what a racket

Thrum tiddly um thrum thrum thrum thrum

Gotta save the poor old….eardrum!

 

The same thing happened long ago

When the sea wall was quite young

The mighty ocean broke right through

And the mortar was undone

But a team of trusty engineers

In the employ of Brunel

Rushed forward right into the fray

With a hue and cry from Hell

 

Oh…Darn it! ….(Chorus)

 

We’re wondering when the work will stop

And give us peace at night

We thought it was all over but

Were still in for a fright

the big boss of the engineers

assured us all was well

but then at two o’clock last night

we woke up with a yell

 

Oh…….Darn it! ….(Chorus)

 

But now at last it’s Christmas time

And the men have all gone home

No more the thump of the big machines

And the glare of the arc lights’ roam

We’re all looking forward to some sleep

And to relish all that peace

But come the fifth of January

Our reverie will cease…

 

With……

 

Darn it!….(Chorus)

 

Finish with..

 

Gotta save the poor old

Gotta save the poor old

Gotta save the poor old…….EAR DRUM!

 

    

   

Our Aching bones

Sunday wasn’t perhaps the best day for taking a long walk on the sand dunes; it was extremely cold and windy but I had bought a new vermillion red dufflecoat the previous day and I was eager to give it an airing (which was quite convenient considering it was so gusty). I mention that my new coat is red only because Chris and a few other people have mistakenly called it “orange”. To be honest, I could tell that Chris wasn’t too keen on going out – he would much rather have stayed in to watch the final  F1 race of the season – but I was yearning for a “proper walk” and Chris could record the race.

“The days are so short, why don’t we walk locally?” Chris suggested.

My face fell.

“Let’s walk to the Warren and go a bit further than usual – onto the dunes,” he added to secure the deal.

We met two men dressed in orange (our beloved sea wall repairmen) on our way down to the seawall farther on from our section, which has been closed off since the storm damage in February. I could have wished that my new coat was the same colour orange (but is not) to show allegiance. Chris said we matched.

The wind was even stronger at Dawlish Warren.

“It’s very cold,” Chris remarked, hoping that I would recommend turning back for home.

“But you said we could go further…” I reminded him.

“Let’s take the beach then – it’s easier to walk on firm sand,” he suggested.

“But I had visions of us taking the path through the sand dunes…”

We took the winding path that took us over the dunes (we’re very democratic in our household) and we were exhilarated by the wind through our hair and the dramatic clouds that made an arrow in the sky towards Exmouth on the other side of the river (the Warren dunes are on a spit that meets the mouth of the River Exe). Chris said they were jet-stream clouds.

Ahead of us was a couple; the woman had long dark hair and she wore a red jacket which attracted us like a beacon, leading us onward. I was reminded of the poppy fields painting by Monet and I secretly hoped that my own new coat looked as picturesque… although I suspected not because the red dot in the distance was rather more crimson than vermillion… or orange.

In spite of another attempt, or two, by Chris to shorten our walk, we made it out past the golf course and the estuary on our left, to the very end of the spit. The sun shone beautifully over Exmouth. I pointed out the jetty where a little Jim, our son, at three years old caught his first fish.

With the afternoon sun in our eyes, we walked back along the beach, scrambled over the many lines of wooden groynes, and before even we joined the path again we were feeling the rigours of the walk.

“My left hip aches,” I announced, “not to mention my left thigh, which still hurts from Zumba.”

“It’s funny you should mention that because my right hip aches,” Chris admitted.

On “terra firma” once again we found a spring in our step…for a few minutes at least. Some hot chips helped us summon the energy for the last mile and a half to home. We had been walking for four hours.

“Sorry it was such a long walk today,” I said later, my aching legs up on the sofa.

“No, I’m glad – it was wonderful – but I can still feel it in my hip. And Darling, your new coat is orange,” Chris said.

Last word man.

Just Call Me Nigella

If only… But I do make delicious light fairy cakes, or are they butterfly cakes? They are fresh from the cooling tray and waiting to be tasted.

Number two daughter, Susannah, and boyfriend Darren will be here in less than an hour – I knew they were coming so I baked some cakes. The double mixture made twelve muffin-sized ones and eleven normal-sized fairy cakes; perhaps I’ve overdone it for three people – I’m dieting! So if you fancy a cake, a cup of PG. Tips and a bit of monkey-sitting…

The Walk Around Lanildut

There was a party of seventeen booked for lunch in the Irish pub at the seaside town of Lanildut, Brittany; five of the group were English and the rest were French, as were the owners of the Irish pub. But first we went for a walk that began on a country footpath and took us past pretty Breton houses, over a quarry and around to the coast in a big circle that brought us back to the car park; then a short drive to the Irish pub for a well-deserved feast. And what do you think French folk enjoy for Sunday lunch in an Irish pub? Why fish and chips, of course!

Autumn Mist on the River Teign

It was so calm and peaceful down by the river this morning. As per usual on shopping Saturdays, we pulled into the Passage House Inn car park for a bit of blog reading (to my mum) by the Teign River. The tide was in and the river was right up to the top of the banks on either side; a family of hippos going for a swim would have burst the banks and flooded the car park. Luckily, there were no hippos, just the regular wild birds that live amongst the reeds and the same bevy of swans (if you can call a penn and her growing cygnets a bevy!).

The sun hid behind the clouds and a grey mist levitated above the river, making the tranquil scene quite magical. Then it rained.

Thursday is “Pirates” Day

I may call it “Pirates” but in truth the Thursday night class over at the Leisure Centre (not) is nowhere near as exciting as a class for budding pirates (imagine… no ‘step’ but ‘walk the plank’, and no trampoline but ‘climb the yardarm m’hearties’; I really mean Pilates, in case you’re wondering. In fairness, Pilates is quite hard to master – everything is done slowly and intensely; in fact you could say that it is intensely slow. There is no music to help it along and the class members, albeit that they all look fit and slim (apart from me), tend to be fit and slim older people in the main (apart from me – hopefully). I like Zumba Class on Friday evenings – that’s my favourite. But today is Thursday.

This morning it struck me that if I cycled all the way over to Rosie’s farm, where Mary is farm-sitting this week, I would burn off loads of calories and feel justified in skipping “Pirates” later on. Chris wasn’t too keen on the idea of me cycling on the narrow country lanes, which have a great deal of uphill, and rain was forecast. But I was too keen to be put off (the thought of avoiding “Pirates” was uppermost in my mind) and I donned my cold weather gear (including a scarf), and I put my waterproof jacket in my pink backpack.

Luckily, the ninety-mile-an-hour gusts (well it seemed like that) were behind me and I made it to the farm in what seemed minutes, rather than hours, in spite of the steep hills. I was so quick that Mary, thinking I would take hours, was out walking the dogs when I arrived and I had to kill time picking apples in the orchard.

While we sisters went inside and had a good time petting the four dogs, chatting and eating soup – Mary had made vegetable soup with next to no calories for me and I had made tomato soup, similarly low calorie, for her – the weather outside worsened. At three o’clock I put on my shower-proof jacket and made to leave.

“You can’t go in this, it’s pouring down,” said Mary, “You could wait until it clears or I could drive you home.”

“No, no, I want the exercise,” I stressed.

An hour later I thought I had better make a move before the peak traffic time; on the way over I had met two cars and had been forced to get off my bike and lean into the hedge – it would be twice as bad if I left it any longer.

“But it’s still raining…” began Mary.

“Good for the hair,” I walked over to the barn to get my bicycle and my hair got wet immediately.

Then Chris phoned….

The bike went in Mary’s boot and she drove me home. We didn’t meet any traffic but it rained full pelt.

“Are you going to ‘Pirates’ Chris asked a little later.

“No,” I laughed, “think I’ll do my blog instead.” Chris laughed back knowingly.

I’m on a ‘go slow’ this evening – it has nothing to do with me being a tad saddle-sore

 

 

Apple Picking and Blackberry Picking Down on the Farm

Mary and I went over to see Rosie and the dogs (Jazz, Malachi, Inca and little Sasha) on the farm this afternoon. We picked apples – eaters and cookers – in the soft light of late afternoon and, as the sun was setting and turning the clouds a coral pink, we walked up to find blackberries in the hedges bordering the upper fields that overlook the beautiful valley and the sea in the distance.

Messing About on the … Harbour

The Sunday ride to Cockwood was somewhat deflating. As you may know, it’s incredibly tiring for both the rider (me) and the pumper (Chris the stalwart) when your bike has a tyre with a faulty valve; it is a case of pump, pump, pump, then ride as fast as you can for as long as you can (until your bottom can feel every tiny stone and you begin to worry about the rims of the wheels); then all over again pump, pump, pump – and dash, dash, dash – and walk, walk, walk (up the steep hills) and so on.

It’s amazing what a difference a new inner tyre with new valve (they are integral nowadays) makes; I felt like I was riding on air, which I was at last, after months of making do with a gradually increasing emission of air from my rear tyre. Eurphoric to realise that my usual fitness had not all but deserted me, I rode like an athlete (albeit a ‘ride for fun’ style of athlete) and in next to no time we had ridden to Cockwood Harbour.

To top it off the tide was in and the sun came out to welcome us, and the members of Cockwood Boat Club were out in force (well, there were four of them). One gentleman had made it out on a tender to his fine-looking catamaran and another chap paddled over in his rowing boat to a larger boat, which was moored close to the edge of the harbour wall above which Chris and I had parked our bikes and were walking.

“Is this your boat?”I asked as the man stepped on board.

“No, it’s for sale. I’m just inspecting it,” he replied with a smile (it seems that most boating people are friendly and happy to talk about boats).

“How much is it?”

“One thousand two hundred pounds,” he came back.

At that moment another small rowing boat, bearing two men, came onto the scene;a man with a cap rowed to one of the many sets of steps on the harbour wall and the two got out and sat on the railings at the roadside where they opened a flask.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took photographs of you coming in,” I said, “But you looked so picturesque.”

“No, we don’t mind,” the man in the cap looked at me with a smile of recognition, “you took some photos of me before…”

“That’s right,” I remembered him too (although he appeared quite different in his cap and high green waders), “I still have the photographs – you were picturesque then too”.

“Why don’t you buy a boat yourself?” asked the friend of the man with the cap and he pointed to the boat that was for sale. “That’s a lovely Orkney Long-Liner!”

“An Orkney Long-Liner? I’m not in the market for a big boat. (A rowing boat is more the ticket!) I wonder if the owner would take less than twelve hundred pounds for it,” I pondered.

“One thousand – without the outboard motor,” his eyes twinkled with glee.

“How do you know? (he chuckled) Is it your boat?”

“One thousand two hundred with the engine,” he continued to chuckle.

“I suppose it’s expensive to moor a boat in the harbour?” I queried.

The two friends looked at each other and laughed.

“Twenty-two pounds a year,” they agreed.

“Wow, that’s cheap,” I looked at Chris.

Chris smiled in his quiet negative way and said nothing.

“You can have my boat for one hundred and seventy-five pounds,” Den said (he’s the man in the cap).

“I could afford that! I could go fishing in it,” I turned to Chris who was still smiling negatively.

“Or, you could join the club for ten pounds a year and take out the club tender for a bit of fishing – there are plenty of eels and the mackerel come right in here” suggested Alec (the man without a cap).

“I could sell them to the pubs,” I had it all planned out in two seconds flat.

“But,” said Den, “if you take the tender out you have to bring it back whenever club members need it to take them to their boats…”

As you can tell, readers, this all needs some consideration. For now I’m going to settle for joining the Cockwood Boat Club – the man who inspected the Orkney Long-Liner came along and he just so happens to be the Vice Lord Admiral (or something like that) of the club. The forms will reach me in a few days and my membership will begin in January. I can hardly wait till next year to go fishing in the harbour with Chris (apparently he can be my guest). It is my hope that the other members will be equipped with their own tenders by then (Den could sell someone his) so that I’ll have enough time to catch a few nice flat-fish such as plaice.

Oh, speaking of flat-fish, that reminds me, the tyre stayed up and I’m buoyant about it!

 

And here are the words to Messing About on the River, written by Tony hatch.

 

When the weather is fine then you know it’s a sign
For messing about on the river.
If you take my advice there’s nothing so nice
As messing about on the river.
There are long boats and short boats and all kinds of craft,
And cruisers and keel boats and some with no draught.
So take off your coat and hop in a boat 
Go messing about on the river. 

There are boats made from kits that reach you in bits
For messing about on the river.
Or you might want to skull in a glass-fibred hull.
Just messing about on the river.
There are tillers and rudders and anchors and cleats,
And ropes that are sometimes referred to as sheets.
With the wind in your face there’s no finer place,
Than messing about on the river. 

There are skippers and mates and rowing club eights
Just messing about on the river.
There are pontoons and trots and all sorts of knots
For messing about on the river.
With inboards and outboards and dinghies you sail.
The first thing you learn is the right way to bail.
In a one-seat canoe you’re the skipper and crew,
Just messing about on the river. 

There are bridges and locks and moorings and docks
When messing about on the river.
There’s a whirlpool and weir that you mustn’t go near
When messing about on the river.
There are backwater places all hidden from view,
And quaint little islands just awaiting for you.
So I’ll leave you right now to cast off your bow,
Go messing about on the river.

 

Through the Bedroom Window

Of course I mean the view from our bedroom window, curtains drawn back to greet the morning, and nothing but sea before us; if you peeped your head around from the other side you would see Chris and me sat in bed, and enjoying our cups of tea. Well, there’s not always nothing but sea, sometimes a passing fishing boat catches our attention; or canoeists, or sailing boats that come in close to shore.

On this grey, misty morning a relatively large vessel, accompanied by a smaller boat, chugged into view and lingered in the patch of sea right in front of our window; we wondered what they were doing. At first I thought they were fishermen. I rushed upstairs and grabbed my Canon camera with the telephoto lens. The best of the shots are below.