Tiling Ticked Off

          The view from our living room is an active panorama: to the right, the grassy promontory of Mount Wise, at the base of which is a boatyard and the skeleton of a stone building with eight tall, slender arches founded below the tideline and, beyond that, a waterfront lido; to the left is a marina full of bobbing boats, beyond which is the Tamar estuary, highway to the Royal Naval docks at Devonport. It’s enough to entertain you even on the dullest of days.

          But, having become accustomed to the scene, last year I found my eye constantly being drawn instead to the foreground, i.e. the state of our outdoor terrace. It’s a good space but the previous owners had given it an ugly, badly executed makeover, covering it in porcelain tiles the colour of pale-yellow puke, with a rippled surface, glazed, so they were slippery when wet. Earlier this year, I determined to do something about it and, after making a start myself, found and contracted a tradesman to finish the job properly.

          Now that the terrace is professionally laid with non-slip tiles in a tasteful, pale shade of terracotta, my eye is still drawn to it, but for a different reason: I am mesmerised by the transformation. Just this morning, I watched with deep satisfaction as the rainwater ran towards the gutter and the residue soaked away into the semi-porous surface. I’ll be seeing a lot more of that now that the long, dry summer is coming to an end.

          The August Bank Holiday was a watershed – literally. Our residents’ annual BBQ, held in the communal garden with a combination of doggedness and borrowed gazebos, was at the same time a celebration of summer and an acknowledgement of its demise. The singer we hired was unfazed by the gusty conditions – a true professional – and finished her set, by request, with a Dolly Parton tribute.

          More signs of autumn came with the return of my Other Half from a brief stay in the countryside – a bagful of windfall apples and a wasp sting on a fingertip that was swelling ominously. It was Sunday afternoon before she decided to seek direct medical advice and, with the following day being a holiday, the only resources available outside of A&E were via telephone. Although no emergency was declared, the swelling expanded to the point where it triggered acute anxiety in the patient, testing my limits as a nurse and, incidentally, obliging me to deal with the peeling, coring and stewing of the apples.

          After a couple of days, the swelling receded – as was predicted – and I grabbed some time for R&R. I sauntered into town and had coffee at a smart new Kurdish café, where you can get simit (a saucer-sized ring of sesame-seed-encrusted bread) to dunk – or not – and pretend to be abroad for a while.

          Suitably fortified, I then went to the Box, Plymouth’s prize-winning* museum/gallery/archive, to put some sunshine back into life by soaking up the colourful paintings of Gillian Ayres. Although the place was thronging with families filling the last few days before school with indoor activities, the painting galleries had only a few, solitary visitors and I was able to bask in the colours and contemplate the life artistic.

          I finished off by browsing the books in the local history room, where I like to pick up obscure facts with which to impress visitors to our patch. Flicking through a book of photos, a page fell open at a view I recognised. It was as if taken from our terrace, but in 1898, long before our building existed. Plainly visible were the eight stone arches, capped by a roof and with small boats and sailors busy all around. The caption read “The Admiral’s Boathouse”.

          The Admiral’s residence still sits atop Mount Wise, though it has been converted to apartments. Could his redundant boathouse one day be recommissioned and used by one of the several rowing clubs around here? I could do with a bit more activity to distract me from gazing at the tiling.

*The Art Fund ‘Museum of the Year’ 2026.

Friends and Neighbours

          It’s official: the second most friendly place to live in England* is the district of South Hams in South Devon. The criteria employed in determining the rankings may certainly be questioned, but there’s no denying that the area is visually attractive, with its five estuary valleys and a coastline of cliffs, bays and beaches. I spent some time there last week and didn’t see one ugly feature.

          I was there because my Other Half had undertaken a walk along the section of the South West Coast Path that fringes South Hams, a three-day route that has four ferry crossings and one carefully timed pedestrian fording. My part was to turn up in the campervan at the end of each day to provide dinner and accommodation, meaning my days were free for tootling around the picturesque fishing ports and the hinterland of hamlets formed through centuries of small-scale agriculture.

          As a tourist passing through, the opportunities to interact with locals are limited, so any attempt on my part to gauge the validity of the “friendly” accolade is really just guesswork, though that doesn’t stop me trying.

          For instance, there may be physical features inherent to the landscape that promote a sense of community – such as the predominance of single-track roads lined with tall, impenetrable hedges and provided with occasional passing places. Progress along these roads is necessarily slow and, when you do meet an oncoming vehicle, there is an interaction with the other driver – an exchange of glances, a flashing of lights and a raising of hands in recognition that one or other of you has made an accommodation for the passing.

          Then again, how can you identify a ‘local’? The whole area is so popular with holidaymakers, retirees and second-home owners that the criteria must have become compromised over the years.

          If it’s any help, there is a distinctly different feel to the town of Salcombe from that of Kingsbridge, which is further up the same estuary. The once modest fishing port of Salcombe is now one of Britain’s most expensive ‘property hotspots’. My afternoon there revealed a town centre devoted entirely to up-market holidaymaking, with an emphasis on yachting and water sports. It must be a dreary place in the winter.

          Kingsbridge, by contrast, has a healthy high street with a mix of everyday shops, a fish-smokery, a smattering of chic boutiques and a few decent charity shops. My time there was more profitably spent, not least in exploring the historic church and civic buildings at the top of the town.

          Perhaps friendliness is too difficult to pin down as a measurable asset when it comes to choosing a place to live. There is a widespread belief that the people of England’s northern towns are friendlier than those in the south – well, it’s widespread amongst northerners, at least – and when I moved from London to Manchester (long ago), I experienced the phenomenon, for sure. But does that feeling of community derive from the “we’re all in the same boat” phenomenon? In this case, northerners sticking together in the face of the snooty derision of uninformed but wealthier southerners?

          So, to the number one spot, the friendliest place to live. It turns out to be the Scilly Isles. I haven’t been there – for the following reasons: it’s not easy to access; housing and accommodation are limited; the cost of living is higher than on the mainland and, according to northern folklore, the further south you go, the less friendly are the locals – although now that I’ve moved south myself, it’s probably time to reassess my prejudice in that respect.

          Could it be that the Scillies top the poll because they are isolated and relatively untroubled by the turmoils of the wider world? If so, the same applies to South Hams, which is an oasis of calm, far from big-city strife and chaos and with a strong sense of community that is readily fostered by its seclusion. Friendly but somewhat disconnected?

*Link to report summary

 

A Certain Age

         There’s a phrase, ‘a woman of a certain age’, which I understand to be a euphemism employed to avoid the indelicacy of stating frankly that she is past her physical prime. Whether it’s still widely used I can’t be sure, but it comes to mind when I reach for a description of several women with whom I have recently had brief interactions. If pressed, I would estimate their ages as being in the sixth or seventh decades, ‘old lady’ territory from the perspective of a youngster, but near contemporary from mine.

          During my recent solo expedition in our campervan (named ‘Bluey’, for its livery), I came to realise that, even though it is 23 years old, our vehicle, far from being scrapworthy, is approaching the point at which the description ‘vintage’ might be considered appropriate. At the entrance to the car park at Scotney Castle, there were two volunteer attendants. I was explaining to the teenaged boy that I had not reserved a space, when his apparent supervisor, an ‘older’ woman came over, barged him aside and smilingly reassured me that I was welcome in the overflow field. “Just turn right by that hedge. Nice van, by the way”, she said.

          The very next day, intrigued by a roadside sign that read Off the Beaten Track, I turned into an extensive, leafy compound to discover a sprawling, scruffy shopping complex of shacks and yards in the indie/alternative/brocante styles. It being late in the day, everything was closing, but the person in charge of locking up, a woman of a certain age, enthused over the project and insisted on showing me around. “Come back tomorrow, when it’ll be busy”, she said.  I replied that I might and reached for my key. “I like your van”, she added, as I climbed in.

          When, later, I told my Other Half about the compliments Bluey had received, she immediately put a different spin on things. “So, you’ve been picking up old ladies then?”

          More recently, in the company of a couple of friends, the four of us boarded the Cremyll ferry for the eight-minute crossing over the river Tamar. The open prow is fitted out with bench seats that are coveted in fine weather, such as pertained at the time. The other three bagged a section, leaving me with not quite enough space between them and a woman of a certain age (and her backpack). “Excuse me”, I said to her, “any chance you might budge up a bit?” She shifted and, as I parked myself beside her, she said, “A slight chance”, which I took as a compliment on the slimness of my hips.

          Whether or not that was her meaning, it was certainly an invitation to a conversation between the two of us. After the usual niceties, she told me about herself. She had seen The Odyssey and it had reawakened her interest in the classics (all of which she had read). She also told me where she lived and that she had to hurry off to her book club as soon as we disembarked. And, in what might have been a last attempt at a pick-up line, she told me her name.

          Walking home, my OH made capital out of this and the other incidents to amuse our friends with her theory that I am in the habit of picking up “old ladies”, as she put it.

          That same day, I overheard a conversation between two, let’s say, ‘retired’ women who were walking just ahead of us. They were talking about the recently introduced electric scooters that can be hired around the city. “I hear they can be quite dangerous”, said one. “Yes”, said the other and, after a brief pause, “Mind you, I must admit, I’d quite like to have a go on one”.

          Now, there’s a game old bird, I thought.

 

 

  

     

 

The Restoration

         This morning, on the radio, I listened to Rupert Lowe, the hectoring leader of the political party, Restore Britain, express his stance on immigration with the frequent assertion that “most people would agree (with me)”. So, to what point in time does he want to ‘restore Britain’ and how does he know that most people concur (with him)?

          The latter point may be dismissed as irrelevant: what he may assert without proof, I may refute without proof. As to the former, there is a great deal of context to be considered, which is what I’ve been doing this past week, as it happens. In Devon, Dorset and Sussex I have enjoyed experiencing traces of British history and the cultural residue left in its wake.

          The 4000-year-old stone circle at Kingston Russell (Dorset) was the oldest of these but, unfortunately, I couldn’t quite locate it. After a two-mile walk along a private farm road and in searing heat, the last stretch lay across fields, uphill and without signposts. I chose the wrong side of the fence and ended up lost in a crop of sweetcorn, with no sightline to the stones. I did subsequently identify an alternative route but, since it entailed passing through a large herd of cattle, my enthusiasm waned and I trekked back to the campervan, pondering the while whether Britain in the Late Bronze Age had been a better place, you know, before the immigrants invaded.

          It’s a moot point, of course, because the Romans, Vikings, Angles and Saxons all turned up before too long, each wave flooding ‘our’ island with its foreign genes and funny ways. Then, there were the Normans. By coincidence, I stayed at a campsite near the Sussex town of Battle, named for its location as the site of the 1066 defeat of King Harold by William, Duke of Normandy. There is a signpost to the actual battlefield, though more recent evidence suggests it took place closer to a roundabout in the centre of town. Whichever, I didn’t visit it anyway, as I’ve nursed a particular grudge against that last wave of newcomers ever since I saw the tapestry at Bayeux back in 1982.

          That grudge is reinforced each time I visit a stately home, the seat of such-and-such a family that has owned it since they built it on land given to them by William as reward for their support in his conquering endeavour. And when, thereafter, those families used the social media of the day, portrait paintings, to glorify their lineage, boost their status and persuade everyone else to consider them a class apart – aristocracy – they pulled off a great con.

          I doubt that Restore Britain is considering a return to pre-Norman times, as that would entail a lot of property being returned to the commons. Perhaps they have in mind a more recent period like, say, the 1980s, when the concept of common ownership was sufficiently diminished to the point where most of what remained in our ownership could be taken without much resistance, or “privatised”, to use the capitalist euphemism for theft.

          But heritage isn’t all about property. Back in Devon, I poked my nose into the week-long Sidmouth Annual Folk Festival, a celebration of traditional forms of music and dance created, curated, performed and, to this day, still owned by common people. I saw youngsters doing clog-dances that originated in the Lancashire cotton mills of the industrial revolution; Morris dancers performing stories from medieval England; hurdy-gurdy players teasing tunes out of unwieldy instruments invented in Europe a thousand years ago; and impromptu bands of assorted musicians playing jolly, Celtic jigs in packed-out pubs.

          Perhaps, in a few years’ time, we may expect the programme to include more recently integrated forms of British folk music – African drumming, say, or oud-accompanied middle eastern love songs, both of which I would pay good money to hear. Whether most people would agree remains to be seen.

Nose-Following

          If you like films with cartoon characters, lots of swordfights and a dull script, the Odyssey is for you. My Other Half and I spent three and a half hours (including ads and trailers) of our bi-annual date-day watching it at the local Imax, with only one positive comment at the end: neither of us had needed a loo break. Latterly, however, I have been speculating on whether the saying Never trust Greeks bearing gifts originated with the Trojan Horse. Perhaps, after all, there is some educational value to be had from the movie.

          Soon after, I began a mini odyssey of my own when I embarked upon a solo road trip in the campervan. Not that I expect to encounter monsters and gods during my progress along the south coast of England from Plymouth to Hastings and back. What I do anticipate is an epic tale of cider farms and places of historic interest. At the end of day two, I can report positively on both fronts.

          However, I do feel inclined to challenge the notion of romance that attaches to road trips. It’s all very well if you’re doing, say, Route 66 in a classic Chevrolet, but England’s highways have no such aura – especially when you’re driving in a heatwave, without air-con. Plain sailing is the best you can expect from long-distance driving here.

          On day one, out of curiosity, I diverted into the little Dorset town of Bridport, which appears to have plenty to offer in the way of regional character and history (though you would have to eat a lot of lotuses to be tempted to stay too long). A couple of hours mooching around revealed an Arts Centre (closed that day), an old cinema now serving as a theatre for am-dram and touring shows and a local history museum, where I astonished the staff by buying an entry ticket instead of just browsing the shop as an excuse for using the facilities.

          My lone perambulation through the galleries yielded what I was looking for: the town’s raison d’être. Because it is set in an area where flax and hemp flourish, Bridport had become prosperous by making ropes for the Royal Navy and nets for fishermen. Ropemaking disappeared when the RN took it in house, but the netting developed into a major international operation encompassing aero-space and sporting industries. Who knew that Wimbledon’s nets are freshly woven in Bridport each year?

          Leaving the Tudor-fronted museum building, I crossed the road to an independent wine shop, stocked and stashed with hundreds of interesting varieties – and a range of bottled ciders. I left the cider on the shelves, as it’s a keg I’m after, but I bought a nice bottle of Douro for suppertime.

          I pressed on steadfastly through Hampshire, teeth gritted, as though passing through the straits between Scylla and Charybdis (I have never warmed to the county), then, somewhere on the outskirts of Chichester and far beyond the reach of the siren call, I noticed a road sign pointing to the HQ of the Women’s Institute, a comforting signal of safe haven. I had reached East Sussex and the beginning of the end of the overpopulated South Coast.

          It was then, just past the town of Lewes, that I saw a sign from the gods: Middle Farm Cider Barn. With barely time to indicate, I swerved into the driveway, shuddered to a halt and alighted with eager anticipation. I was not disappointed. This place has a vast selection of proper ciders – in kegs, bottles and demi-johns. Excitedly, I selected a wide range and resolved to add more on my return journey.

          That evening, the Douro remained unopened, like the door to Penelope’s boudoir. Which reminds me: I must make it home before the next date-day, lest trouble should brew in my absence.