A picnic in Devon

Our route from Bristol to Cornwall was simple; we’d take a lesuirely drive down the M5 motorway, then turn off the main road south of Exeter where we'd spend an afternoon exploring the country lanes of Devon. However, the morning of our departure dawned rather bleak. It looked as if our plans for a sunny picnic were cancelled.

As we drove south, the weather slowly began to clear. By the time we’d reached the outskirts of Torquay, the clouds had broken and the sun was shining. We were set for a wonderful day. I’d planned a route that took us off the A381, tracing the lower reaches of the Dart river, stopping at Dittisham for lunch and then on into Dartmouth itself.


Garry’s jaw dropped when I finally directed him off the broad, gently curving A-road and on to a narrow, slightly rutted lane. The route I’d chosen was far more exotic than either of us expected. We found ourselves literally weaving down quiet country lanes lined with towering hedges and raised banks, barely a car-width wide. I later learnt that most of the side roads in the area are like this. Our chosen route was the norm.


As we drove, we passed mile after mile of colourful wild flowers on display; red, blue, yellow and white. Occassionally the hedge would part, exposing a stunning vista of rolling paddocks or the meandering Dart river. Each village we ventured into was a postcard delight. Old stone buildings set at random along an equally narrow street. At times, the road would suddenly make a sharp turn at a stone wall, or shop-corner before carrying on through the town.


We eventually reached Dittisham on the upper reaches of Dartmouth harbour. Our friend, Martin, had recommended this spot. We weren’t disappointed. We soon found ourselves on the edge of a grassy reserve bordering the river where only one other couple could be seen. We stopped for a picnic, watching ducks wander the shore and boats traverse the rising tide. It really was an idilic spot.


Dartmouth was our next stop. Dartmouth Castle to be precise. For over six hundred years this stone fortification has guarded the narrow entrance to the Dart Estuary. We stopped briefly for a few photos before taking the coastal road along Slapton Sands beach. It was here that American and British troops once rehearsed beach landings for the D-Day invasion of northern France. This is also where a rather poignant memorial can be found.


On the outskirts of Torcross village rests a black Sherman tank. It was salvaged from the shallow waters nearby. The tank was on board a convey of ships participating in Operation Tiger in the early hours of April 28, 1944. German torpedo boats, alerted by heavy radio traffic, turned on this coast fleet and sunk two landing ships, killing 749 American troops. More Americans died in this event than during the actual landing at Juno beach a few months later. The scars of war can be found everywhere in the South of England.


Our final hour on the road was spent driving to Plymouth, passing by Brunel’s famous Royal Albert rail bridge over the Tamar river, and on into St Austell, Cornwall. We stopped here for the night at Boscundle Manor, a wonderfully maintained stone manor that once housed the local mine supervisor. The owner kindly gave us an upgrade and as a result, we found ourselves booked into a spacious three room suite tucked smartly under the rafters. The restaurant downstairs later served us one of the most memorable meals crafted from a menu of fresh local produce. It was the fitting start to our time in Cornwall.