place: stanbury mouth and rane

A range of shattered cliff stumps divide the two beaches of this second 'place', said stumps being labelled Rane Point on your OS map, and the location of this distinctive rock mark, which I have designated as the logo for Stanbury and Rane. A sleeping duck balanced on a gravy boat. Subtle, don't you think?

This stretch of shore is just slightly north of the unlovely but impressive GCHQ listening and eavesdropping centre that graces the Morwenstow parish, whereas the other place I featured in an earlier post (Kempthorn and Wren) is just south of the radar station.

If it were possible to turn the Squench Rocks on the north end of the aforementioned Wren beach, and then weave your way underneath Lower Sharpnose Point, skip past Reed Rocks and frolic through the boulders of Holacombe Beach, you'd arrive on Rane Beach:  I doubt it's been done – but in theory it might just be doable. 

GCHQ is thankfully not visible from the beaches, if I recall correctly: my eyes were elsewhere, drinking in the wonders of the littoral hereabouts. The picture below shows the beginning of the delightful walks to Stanbury Mouth (there are two ways, the other goes off left) from the ancient Stanbury farmstead parking paddock from whence I have invariably made my way down to the subject of this muse.

Stanbury and Rane then. Fantastic! What a shoreline. One or two visitors do get onto it besides me, I am sure, but on my explorations there I've only had to avoid one couple and even they managed to leave their dog somewhere else! They were swimming. Unwise in these bays, let me tell you! Lots of rips you see. I kept my own counsel: I doubt they even saw me… They accessed the site from the steep and slightly tricky path down the narrow valley whose stream discharges at Stanbury Mouth (the name OS plumps for) – the more northern of the two strands here described. They came not from the South, round the Squench Rocks, dear me no: put-it-from-your-mind. Too rough, too tide dependent, too problematic… tsch… I bet some damned smart arse has done it… but now such a traverse must remain for ever on my 'not achieved' list…>sob<.  But I digress.

S&R beaches are surprisingly broad, if one has timed the visit to coincide with a low spring tide. When those strands are submerged the foreshore can feel a bit intimidating especially if the sun is not in evidence: the cliffs glower like mad if one is within their shadow. Low water allows exploration of Rane beach to be achieved along the sea's edge, without having to negotiate so many ankle twisting rock and boulder fields, a consideration to be taken into account when one is becoming challenged balance-wise, like your author has now to concede is his lot, dash it. 

Three particular aspects of this spiffing location spring to mind and, I hope, are reflected to some degree in the images I have made of S&R. Firstly there is the sculptural nature of S&R as a whole, missing perhaps at Kempthorn and Wren; here there are stacks and large rocks one can reach and explore around, great ribbons of cliff stumps, deep traps and pools left behind by the receding seas, walkways, sudden vistas, cul-de-sacs and natural promenades. 

Secondly there are those wonderful sandstones again, smoothed and burnished here, with grade A striations of quartz and other minerals that have been squeezed through and out of the complex bedding planes. A joy to see, touch and even sprawl upon if the sun is warming or you have a repast to consume.

Thirdly there are the manifestations of time and tide written throughout the whole, vast aeons of geological deposition, uplift and distortion, syncopated by the unfailing rise and fall of tides, incessantly moderating the coastal setting . . . it simply is top flight here, A+ with honours! 

As at Kempthorn, one could spend a lifetime on this beach yet never tire of the forms and juxtapositions. Well I could, I can't speak for the rest of humanity of course. Colour, shapes, position, light, contrast, it's all here. My poor efforts with the Box-Brownie can barely lift the lid on the delights to be found . . . I am welling up, it's so darn gorgeous (and my public know I rarely would call anything gorgeous, it's a term I'm not inclined to reach for). When I come across folk getting lyrical about the The Big Sur of the Californian coast, (for example) well,  I just think, my dears, Stanbury and Rane, Stanbury and Rane! Enough said. 

I introduced my learned colleague Dr Roberts to this locale one sultry summer's day. He was moved and he's not a man who is moved easily, I can attest. I recall the excursion ending in a massive thunder squall, thankfully just as we arrived back at Stanbury and our transport. Then some pints of fine ale consumed at Morwenstow if memory serves. 

I have been to Stanbury and Rane in winter inclemency but my memory always paints this place in sharp summer light. I have experienced the bay in a bit-of-a-bate at least once, you know, big seas, thundering surf, spume flying, inky black skies and specs obscured continuously by salt spray. My! 

footnote: technically the caption above probably should read (third line) '… certainly fit the bill' not fill the bill… but it's done now and I just don't feel like unpicking it and redoing it, you have to call time somewhere don't you? I'm sure you get my drift…

place: kempthorn and wren

I've been thinking about and reviewing places I might not get to again. Kempthorn and Wren for example. One of the best.

Surprisingly, this treasure is on the beaten track (for the South West Coast Path is just that, in many places, a beaten track) but rarely visited I suspect, as access to it is neither obvious or easy. Someone has wanted to get down there at some time: there used to be firmly anchored ropes to assist the descent down the disintegrating cliff-slope until some zealot from whichever authority 'manages' the shoreline here removed the ropes and closed the nearby path with unpleasant little notices. So on my last visit to Kempthorn (my name for this place, see panel below) I had to descend and, more trickily, ascend, without benefit of the previously installed lifeline: not that difficult but I'm not as confident now so maybe, probably, this place won't host my footprints again (I was not minded to be told what to do by the zealot's notices, then and wouldn't be now either).

Once down to where the tides reach, there is still scrambling to be done to gain the sanded areas. A vertical rock-strata band bars one's way like a wall. But it has its weaknesses . . .  The beach is backed with the usual (for this stretch of coastline) grey sandstone pebble swathes interspersed with the stumps of the land that once reached so much further westward, and which give so much sculptural joy to these south western shorelines. The beach itself is only seen fully at the lowest tides; it leads the eye to Kempthorn's Rock and perhaps to the remains of the shipwreck that breaks the surface at low water, just below Steeple Point.

There is, for me at least, a lot more to see amongst the rock ridges and beach edges. I've found some of my most captivating small landscapes down here. Like this one, (left). Statements in smoothed stone, mirror reflection pools, veined and striated ribs, foam lines and sunshine glisters. There's a steel mast hidden towards the northern end of the bay, I presume washed here from the wreck, still in the process of dissolving, but there is little else that is out of keeping. 

I have felt the real exhilaration of solitude here, experienced the transience of sudden scene change, counter-balanced by timelessness of the processes being executed by the sea. The evidence of that force, working with gravity, abrasion, wind and weather is visible and foremost at every point. One could spend a lifetime frequenting just this one short stretch of the littoral and still not absorb more than a moderate percentage of the mystery and beauty of the place. 

I regret that I've not been on Kempthorn in rough weather, storm, or at night. It does also have, to me at least, a slight air of menace. I've been very pleased to be there, but relieved too, to have regained the cliff top safely after the visits I have made to this secluded shore, taking as I leave, fresh insights into shore-line beauty that this superb location has in abundance. The colour there is particularly special, the imprint of time is simply quite singular. I like it there… I conclude though, that perhaps I ought not to risk another expedition to K&W, you know, decrepitude is gathering pace I fear, but I am content to have been lucky enough to have found Kempthorn and Wren and had it to myself each time. Result!!

I am planning to offer a flavour of this location in a flickr album called, what else: Kempthorn & Wren and that name will be a link to those images.  I shall say unto you: Click on it, go on, you know you want to, even if you think you know what you are going to find there… you might just see what I'm on about*, you never know…  BUT NOT NOW. Y'see, I haven't got to it yet, the lawn needs cutting (as it were). Watch this space!

* and you might guess correctly (what I am on about) as I have presented you with such a lot of pictures here, there might be nothing left for a Flickr album… Only I know whether that is actually true at the juncture.

Don't forget that by clicking on the images you can obtain a better view of them, if you can be troubled to do so. 

risk assessment

The Covid-19 pandemic necessitated the imposition of national 'lockdowns', twice I think, one of the restrictions imposed during both being limitations on travel. 

Back in March 2020, before it all really got going and just before the government finally grasped the nettle, we went out and stocked up with victuals, after which we rewarded ourselves for risking a crowded supermarket shop by taking the air at Northam Burrows. We suspected that this might be the last time we would be doing this, having already cancelled our sailing to France and our long anticipated spring visit to Sablet . . . 

It was a lovely day. Northam Burrows proved to be almost the last visit we would be able to make to a North Devon coastline for the rest of the year. I took a solo visit to Blagdon in June as 'lockdown–1' was eased, where, as I was returning to the scramble back up to the head of the cove I missed my footing and fell against sloping smooth rock strata. I am pretty sure I cracked a rib: I was very sore for weeks afterwards… but as you know, I'm not one to complain…

My next communion with the littoral wasn't until September when we just managed to fit in a few days with Anne and the son-and-heir in our regular late summer jolly, down at Helford Passage. It was constrained by the ongoing limitations of Covid— but the sea was the sea: we were immensely glad of the change of scene and seeing familiar faces.

Mary and I did get to Sablet in late September and we did get some joy over there, a lot in fact. You'll be be familiar with my accounts of that visit on the Driving on the Right blog.  Of course you are. And that we had to make a run for home early as a French lockdown was announced and our trusty ferry operators began pruning their late autumn sailing options. We made the penultimate overnight crossing out of Roscoff, but not before we'd enjoyed a bit more communion with the sea at Les Sables-d'Olonne, La Rochelle and the Île de Ré. Again,  I refer you to my Driving on the Right accounts for more detail on the excursion to Sablet —you'll be gripped. 

This post is supposed to be about the shoreline here, and where I think I may be with the littoral thing, after being somewhat starved of it by events . . . and now infirmities… 

The truth is, I have lost my former moderate degree of nimbleness over the last few years. My balance is shot. I am suffering another rash of rather unsettling mishaps and misjudgements. Nothing as bad as the fracture I sustained on the eve of the new millennium, thus far, but reluctantly I have concluded my boulder-hopping days are behind me. I am losing confidence as well as the stamina to negotiate rocky foreshores. Traverses I used to relish, from one cove to another (like the one running south, from Blegberry to Hartland Quay, see below) along shorelines, between tides, well I think I have done my last. Can't take the risk. It was alright when it was just superficial grazing, the odd bruise etc,  but now I can't be quite sure of being able to pick myself up and get off the beach… fearful of what bit of me may be damaged the next time I totter…

All is not lost however. There are still places I can make use of, places that still offer the mini-landscapes and singular rockforms that intrigue me. True, such locations are often favoured by rather too many people and dogs but I anticipate that foul weather or the cold will reduce that popularity to more modest levels, which is when I like to be there anyway. 

And I shall still try to get to particularly favoured remote coves and shores when I feel it safe to do so, or (and here's an appeal!) accompanied by someone who wants to go see, and can tolerate a couple of hours or more of pottering about in a relatively moderate but far from modest space… Who is up for it?

………  best not hold my breath!

I've logged here some of my top 'local' littorals, in no particular order: my favourite is or was usually the last one I visited. I admit I am a bit fickle with these places: if one or other revealed a particularly intriguing line of enquiry, a special array of forms and beauty, well then, it got more visits, often consecutively. And places where I've come unstuck (cracked a rib, broken a toe, taken a dive) may get a cold shoulder from me for a while. But probably not. St Catherine's, as I like to call it, has twisted my knee, ricked my back, broken a toe and skinned my shins. As previously mentioned though, I am not one to complain…… But I just have to go there when I can, hoping for solitude and safe passage.

I was somewhat surprised when looking for an image to represent Sandymouth and Warren Gutter, adjacent stretches of the North Cornwall Coast, that I've not graced these locations with a visit since February 2018. The former is rather too popular at times for my tastes, the latter rather less accessible (but generally left to its own devices), and now perhaps a case in point if approached from Duckpool, north of the gutter: very rough going indeed, perhaps too rough now for my diminishing sense of balance. 

And that's the problem: my sense of balance. Let alone my lack of stamina. So, enough already, today is the anniversary of a memorable traverse along the littoral, first walking the Warren Cliff (another Warren, not the Gutter Warren) northward to Dyer Lookout, above Blackpool Mill, then returning south to Hartland Quay along the tortuous cliff stumps as the tide receded. A strong favourite this, full of wonderful and awesome grandeur. Traverses! Where few folk have ever trodden…

stepping out

Great Heavens! Is it all of five months since I turned my creative muse toward the 'Driving on the Right' blog-u-like? 

Of course it is — but let's be honest here, sod all has been happening to the incumbents of Fortress Bullsmead in 2021 thus far, while just about everything that could be expected to have gone wrong in a country with a government like ours, went wrong or was mismanaged, mis-sold or proved ineffective. And this thing called lockdown, well it has been on and off, mostly on, as my readership will be all too aware.

But let's not rehearse all that over again, beyond noting the sobering fact that some 150 000 UK citizens who might reasonably have expected to be cropping up on the 2021 census have had that pleasure stricken from them by this plague and the Govt's mismanagement of same. And it isn't over yet. But the vaccine roll out is going on apace, organised and administered by the NHS — so standing a much better chance of avoiding the government and its chums cocking things up. At time of writing Madame Melling and self have had the first needle of hope. We expect the second, if things stay on track, early next month.

All I can offer to my public at this time is the thin gruel that follows…

In the true spirit of lockdown, we have done all that can be asked of us to stay safe. Not left the county in fact. Of course, as we live so very close to the southern extremity of North Devon (the boundary runs along the middle of our river hereabouts, more or less) we have occasionally taken our exercise in Mid-Devon, but almost always within a moderate walking distance of HQ, if not quite in plain sight. We have set out to try a few more of what are a rather fragmented designation of rights of way, paths and by-ways – to get our exercise, our constitutional right to roam for an hour (or a bit more) as prescribed as acceptable by HM Govt. during the crisis. 

We have somewhat tired of striding across our local pastures. There are no rights of way there-upon but what the heck, we close the gates after us and even rescue the odd ewe which has decided to end it all by forcing its head through pig wire fencing. But mostly the fields have been empty of stock; that will change now Easter is sorted.  

Our initial walks away from the homestead involve no more than a few minutes drive in one of the company transports. We try to avoid bridleways as horse riders round here do use them, rendering the terra firma almost life threatening to folk on two feet (see below). Wellingtons have been de rigeur of course and we've encountered plenty of fine muds and puddles, notwithstanding. 

We have returned to (some) paths not trodden by us in decades. I can report that the county has made great strides in signposting these rights-of-way, putting in kissing gates, stiles and directional indicators where none existed before. It seems also that the landowners whose sacred acreages these byways cross have now desisted from stretching barbed wire entanglements over the right-of-way, felling trees across, locking or removing entirely access gates and throwing down any county signage that has been erected. I am not saying that all our paths have been completely clear of obstruction – but most have been reasonably obvious – consistent with the mapping on which they are indicated. Only one bull has been encountered and there was a warning sign — so we didn't. Encounter it I mean. We went another way . . .

So this ramble is simply an aide-memoire to your author, of the walks we have done since 2021 began. The illustrations that grace this essay all come from what we freely admit have mostly been walks on the short side: not more than five miles, sometimes as little as two. We walked round Chawleigh along a number of options associated with Shooting Lane; we walked through our own woods up to Eastleigh, Huntersleigh and back to HQ from Leigh Bridge; we took in Chawleigh Week a couple of times, walking down through the woods to the A377, and again to the river via two routes, (see above) once taking in the old lane up into Chulmleigh. We walked from Chulmleigh down to where the Nethercott stream joins the Little Dart and back to Chulmleigh (see below left). 

Slightly further afield, we took in a route from Alswear through to Radley, down to the River Mole and back to Alswear. Another route went from Mariansleigh to Radley via farms either side of the Crooked Oak stream. We have walked a round from Afferton to West Worlington and back to Afferton on the road, trudged from West W. down along the Little Dart eastwards to take in East W. and back. Then there was the Afferton Moor round, along the ridge to woods distant and back via West W, after a tiring stretch on that never ending road. From HQ we went to East Cheldon to try and get back via Winswood Moor as we once could, but now found no way through: there are no paths to take advantage of. Of course, we've done our own Little Dart River Round once or twice. This walk was once almost completely unused: at one time I did it almost weekly and never saw another soul. Dog walkers have found it now. On all the above routes we saw no other walkers save on this last round where it is now almost impossible to undertake it without encountering others doing likewise, usually with inevitable dogs in attendance.

There have been no great sightings. Just pleasant country, memorable trees and hedges, rivers in spate or running normally; drifts of wild daffodils and snowdrops earlier on, then larks, chiffchaffs, lambs etc. A kingfisher here, a dipper there.  Big skies. Light. And the mysterious collection of disintegrating reaper-binders, a score of them or more, at Radley.  Anyway, these walks have given pleasure to us have got us out a bit, given us exercise and fresh air. Not epic, even slightly, just pleasant. We shall do more. Perhaps take in a pub when they finally are allowed to try and make ends meet again.

There is a lot to do in the garden. Some of it even gets done. It is shaping up. We have projects… and there is hope now that the son and heir might just be the next person to grace the household, in late April; he was the last person here when he left us in January… all being well of course, and in accordance with the bally 'roadmap', naturally…

footnote: In accordance with tentative relaxations of the keep-your-distance regulations I was able to meet up with long standing associates recently who have come to live in Buckland Monachorum; to trudge a round taking in Meldon Reservoir, Longstone Hill and the Meldon Viaduct together, on the northern edge of Dartmoor. It made a change and a safe distance was maintained at all times (no kissing or pressing the flesh either).

 

further footnote: What's with all these footnotes? Well, I just don't seem to be able to round this ramble off. So I am concluding here that the walks have seen winter retreat and spring arrive, really here now as demonstrated clearly on the latest walk from Warkleigh to Warkleigh and back round to Warkleigh (look at the OS map if you think I am mistaken: there are two Warkleighs a mile or two apart…). Lovely in every respect. Flowers, birds, sheep, long long views to the west and the north, ancient trees, a fine church… (locked unfortunately) and lots of light, clean cold air, without too many troublesome breezes. No other walkers encountered either. Dry underfoot. Top flight. You've not read all the way to this point  have you? Of course you haven't… Why would you? 

This post is also to be found in the Driving on the Right blog