Shower facilities: 4/10 – Warm, and clean and largely dry. But everything, and I mean everything, had a meter begging for 20 pence on it – plug sockets, hairdryers, showers. And given this was also one of the most expensive places we camped, that doesn’t really fly.
Self-timer photos taken: 0 (but one at arm’s length – does that count?)
Food and drinks consumed beginning with the letter C: cheese and tomato on toast, cider, chocolate (Bourneville)
The story: We left Dorset to stay in Uplyme that night, and drank cider in the first pub in Devon, reading our books while a group of Mancunians watched an Arsenal match on the big screen. At around 10pm a troop of Morris dancers walked in, complete with white trousers and shirts, slightly damp looking, since the rain had only just recently stopped. Or maybe it was from the sweat… They propped up one end of the bar, while the football supporters sat at the opposite end, and CC and I were in the middle, feeling conspicuously female. Traditional England is not dead.
The next morning we decided to leave the south coast and head inland, past Exeter to the wild badlands of Dartmoor. It was a cloudy, atmospheric day, totally appropriate for meandering across moorland, with epic Constable-esque skies, sporadic showers and sudden bursts of sunlight.
We walked from a village called Postbridge, right in the middle of the moor, and then we drove back to the Warren House Inn, a proper, in-the-middle-of-nowhere pub which has had a fire burning since 1845. We were joined by a couple who were pottering around Dartmoor in their van for a week before heading to Brighton for a wedding. They had travelled from Newquay and told us that the surf this week was meant to be amazing – the equivalent of Big Wednesday…. That fixed it in our minds. We would drive to theNorth Devon coast to look at the boys. National Parks are all well and good, but you don’t have to have certificated status to provide a girl with outstanding natural beauty.