Teignmouth 10 Years On

 

Teignmouth

“I wish I was coming with you” my old mucker ‘Wilf’, John Wilson said as he dropped me off at Corby Station. In a way I wished he was too. We had shared a load of memories from as far back as the 1960s when we used to travel around the country following Liverpool F.C. and going to gigs. “Where's the rucksack?” Wilf asked, laughing. In 1971 we had headed off down south with just that, and a tent on our backs. We were hitch-hiking and bound for the Isle of Wight but ended up in Ramsgate. Not because we didn’t have a map, more because it was done on a whim. Reason will become clear later on. The abiding memory is of causing mayhem in a shop nearby Ramsgate Station as we knocked boxes of sweets off shelves with the protruding tent poles from our rucksacks and being told angrily, “Get out!!”.

Here I was in May 2014 with a hold-all that weighed a ton! I was off for eight days to wander around Devon and Cornwall, starting in Teignmouth. Something I had been looking forward to since Sue had passed away in January.
There are no rules in coming to terms with handling grief. At times it catches you unawares, anything can trigger a bout of depression. Loneliness, photographs, memories…You tell yourself, ‘life goes on’. ‘It’s what Sue would have wanted’. Indeed there were times during the latter stages of her illness where we discussed just that, candid conversations at night in bed.

Five months on I decided I had to get away. Away from the house, away where nobody would know me. I didn’t want to talk to anybody, to see anybody. I wanted to disappear. And then an idea came to me. To re-trace mine and Sue’s footsteps over the last forty odd years, visit places from our past and visit places where I had never been before.

Sue was never keen on such adventures. She loved her holidays abroad but asking her if she fancied a day out to the coast or a visit to a stately home; I’m only kidding with that one - that's not my cup of tea either; she wasn't really interested.

Thus I was heading south to Devon and Cornwall where we had enjoyed holidays in Newquay, Bude, Torbay. Since Sue’s passing I had spent some time with Carly in Widnes and Gareth in Sweden where the legendary Swedish actress Great Garbo is laid to rest, in a cemetery not far from where Gareth lives in Karrtorp, Stockholm. I felt some empathy with Greta, understood when she said ...“I want to be alone..”

*

The hour long train journey to London gave plenty of time for reflection. Making my way from St. Pancras to Paddington on the Underground however brought me back to the present.
“Single please” I requested at the ticket office.

“That'll be £4.70p” the chap informed me. Seemed a bit steep for a ride that passed through only five stations I thought. For some reason I still imagined the Underground was a cheap way to travel! After all, didn’t we used to hop on and off these trains for a couple of bob in the 60s when we regularly came down to watch Liverpool games?

I know time has moved on, inflation, wages etc have increased too, but £4.70p?
“Do you have concessions for senior citizens?” I asked hopefully.
“Not for single tickets sir”
I shrugged my shoulders, smiled, conceded; ‘Typical! If anyone can rip you off in this bloody country they will!'

On reaching Paddington and with an hour to spare I went for a drink at the lavishly named Cafe Rafitta on the concourse, and ordered a Hot Chocolate.
“£2.60 sir”

At least everyone is polite but they always are when they are knifing you in the back at the same time I mused. I was slipping into my cynical mood. Sipping the chocolate, which was lovely I had to admit, I was thinking; 'the Cafe Rafitta? What's that all about? 

I guess it sounds better than Joe’s Caff though. 

The Cafe Rafitta was apparently of Portuguese origin, which explained the price of an egg custard on display at £1.89. 

'Stick Portuguese in front of an Egg Custard and hey presto, you have something exotic' I pondered, 'you can pick up a pack of two in Asda for 50p!’ 

Moaning to myself passed the time before I eventually boarded the train for Bristol where I was to change for Teignmouth. I had been looking forward to this but was disappointed not only to find the train jam packed, but the journey boring, the view of the countryside boring. One thing that amused me though was the TV screens on the back of the seats, like they have on aircraft and I thought to myself; 'Blimey the Great Western Railway is doing its best to creep into the 21st century.' There didn't appear to be much to watch, switching the stations as you do but one item did catch my attention. 'We are travelling at an altitude of 243 feet'. Now that did tickle me. If there’s more a piece of useless information going I don’t know what it is.

Changing at Bristol Parkway I was surprised to discover I was joining the Manchester to Paignton Cross Country Special. I was even more surprised to discover it only had four coaches with everyone again packed in like the proverbial sardines. God almighty, wouldn't you think for a journey this long they would have a full compliment of coaches? Making matters worse was I ended up being hemmed in around a table by laptop maniacs. What is it with these people?

Tapping away at their keyboards, all with the obligatory earphones to give the impression they were important and engrossed in their work; an occasional break to sip a bottle of Pure Mountain Spring Water; a nibble from a Marks and Spencer Cheese sandwich and then it was off again. Tap tap tap…
They were doing my head in!

Then out of the blue, the ringtone on my mobile went off. Bob Dylan’s ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ blasted out and stopped these people in their tracks. It was a call from my mate Danny Coyle. The lap-toppers paused and looked on in disdain. 

'Yes' I thought, 'I can be a pain too!'

So far this trip into deepest Devon had been one of disappointment. I had imagined there would be scenes of great beauty, but it was rather bland. Daydreaming about this brought the TV show ‘Fawlty Towers’ to mind. This is where the show was based, Devon, Torquay to be precise. I gazed out at the passing landscape. Basil Fawlty's diatribe to a deaf old woman complaining about her bedroom view brought a grin to my face. I didn't exactly expect to see the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or herds of Wildebeest galloping by either but it did occur to me. The countryside is really rather dull.

Finally I arrived in Teignmouth at 7pm, there was drizzle in the air, the sky was grey, nobody around at the station. As I took the scene in I was wondering; ‘Where is the Bay Hotel I'm booked into?’ I wasn’t even sure what the address was! Hadn’t given it much thought since I booked it. So I decided to get a taxi. Alas, there wasn't a taxi to be seen!  Maybe they don’t expect visitors at this time of day down here. I began to walk in the direction of the Town Centre. My hold-all was getting heavier with every step. What did I put in this thing?

I kept my eyes peeled for a cab coming round a bend, not one came. A sign pointed to the seafront. I carried on. There was still nobody around and thoughts were circling in my head; ‘Christ this place looks lively!’ 

A young girl then appeared out of nowhere, coming my way, oblivious to everything with her iPod and headset on.

I stood in the way and stopped her; “Excuse me, any idea where the Bay Hotel is?” 

She took her headphones off. I repeated my question.
“No” she said. 

And put her headphones back on, and carried on her way. 

You couldn’t make it up I thought, ‘Dead friendly!’

I carried on walking, trailing this getting heavier by the minute bloody hold-all behind me, and then much to my surprise, and delight, there was the Bay Hotel right in front of me. Jammy or what but it was relief. 

First impression was it didn’t look particularly inviting, but you never know…I had been forewarned that the Bay Hotel had a dubious reputation. I never look at Trip Advisor when I’m booking hotels, don’t think about it to be honest but Carly and my mate Pat McMahon had both checked it out and both had cracked up laughing. I was sitting having a pint in the Rockingham Arms feeling quite content and looking forward to my trip when Pat phoned me, laughing his head off! ‘Didn’t you check out Trip Advisor?’

Carly then phoned me, wailing “Didn't you check this hotel out dad!”

“Can't be that bloody bad” I said. 

According to reviews on T.A. the owner, a woman, was an alcoholic by all accounts, pissed up at breakfast every morning, was insulting. The hotel was dirty to boot. My answer to Carly and Pat was the same.

“Well I'm only staying there four nights, I'm not living in the bloody place!”

Knackered and hungry, I just wanted to get checked in to this establishment, get myself sorted and get out for a pint and a bite to eat. A young guy was on the desk. “Ah you must be Mr. Smith?” he announced, drawing himself away from his newspaper. Had he been waiting up for me or something? He looked irritated, or maybe that was just me thinking that. I looked at him, “Yes” I answered, and asked; “Don't you have any taxis in this place?”

“Yes” he replied not lifting his head up from the paperwork he was sorting.
“Well I've just walked all the way from the station and I didn't see one!”
“Oh, we do”
It was clear this conversation wasn't going anywhere, so I left it there. He picked a key up and showed me all the way to the top of the building, up four flights of stairs. Must be packed I figured. ‘Busy?” I asked. No, I was wrong again. Turns out I was the only one there! And they‘re shoving me up in the attic!

The room was tiny but adequate. The single bed squeezed in under the window, looking out over the rooftops which was covered in bird crap. It was still pissing down.
Taking in the view it crossed my mind.. I’ve come all the way for this. I had a quick wash to freshen up and went out. Looked around the seafront for a while, took some photos of various things, the Lighthouse, Lifeboat Shed, usual mundane things and went and treated myself to a fish supper from the wonderfully named Rock and Sole Fish Bar. Sitting on a bench opposite to enjoy my dinner, the rain had eased sufficiently, I was immediately set upon by a hungry seagull. Plonking itself alongside me on the bench! I looked at it in disbelief, and shouted, “Fuck off!scrounging bastard!” If anyone had witnessed this they’d have thought I was a vagrant or a nutter or something but the gull didn’t bat an eyelid. Plain ignorant. Whatever, it was getting sod all.

Two pints in the Blue Anchor pub next door to the chippie and I was ready for bed, which was quite comfortable as it happened. I drifted off into the land of nod, thinking; ‘tomorrow should be a better day.’ My friends Pat McMahon and his wife Yvonne were coming down on their Trike from Bude, where they had spent a couple of days, to meet up before heading home to Corby. ‘It’ll be nice to have some company’.

It was also Sue's birthday. She would have been 63. 

I woke up to find the weather was still grim, still raining. I was thinking about Sue. Checking my iPad a lovely birthday message from her friend Gill on Facebook saddened me but I was determined not to be morose today. I’ve forever been told; “Sue wouldn’t want you to be sad, she’d want you to get on with your life”. 

Of course I knew she would, but it was still too early and raw.

I dressed and went down for breakfast, somewhat apprehensive. Where was the dreaded landlady? Was she going to be lying on the floor in a state of undress with a glass of wine in her hand, paralytic? Cursing everyone that came in looking for something to eat? Well, surprise, surprise, there was no sign of her. In fact there was no sign of anyone, except a couple of young girls looking bored and hanging around in the kitchen sitting on worktops waiting for someone to come in. The dining area was laid out nice, it was clean, ‘Good Morning’ television was on. ‘Take a seat Clive’ I said to myself, ‘take your pick’. One of the girls came out and asked if I wanted a cup of tea first, followed by a Full English. “Sounds good” I said and she trundled off looking pleased to have something to do. Meantime I was waiting to hear some expletives, some crashing of crockery, maybe even a song. Perhaps the landlady's on a bender I guessed, or can't get out of her bed. Felt a bit disappointed to tell you the truth. I was looking forward to meeting this lady, warts and all. Think I could have taken to her.

Breakfast was served and it was lovely. I don't normally bother with this but I figured that if I was going to spend the best part of my day roaming around in the fresh air, it’d be best to fill the engine up, as they say.

A text message from Pat informed me that he and Yvonne were arriving after lunch, and they were staying overnight in an establishment called the James Luny House. Yes you read that right, what a name! I decided to spend this first morning taking a good look around Teignmouth, or ‘Tin’mouth’ as they say down here, and it’s harbour. An ‘easy’ type day after yesterday’s excursion. I was particularly keen to walk the coastal path to Dawlish but was dismayed to find it closed due to the recent storms that obliterated this part of the south coast. Not totally unexpected as the coastline and scenic railway had been decimated in February and was only now showing signs of recovery. A workforce was carrying out repair work as I approached. Nonetheless I walked as far as I could and had a chat with the site manager. Interesting and informative he was. “I’ll have to come back next year” I said to him. “Yes, afraid so, unless you’re around here for about a month”. 

I headed into town, which proved to be small but there was plenty of shops to browse through, including charity and junk outlets which I love to rummage around in. I bought a half pint Heineken glass jug emblazoned with its colourful logo. Only £1.25p. I have a collection of half pint glasses that I’ve nicked from pubs over the years. I don't like pint pots in the house. Think they look vulgar.

View from the Shaldon Bridge

With camera in hand I headed in the direction of the Shaldon to Teignmouth Road Bridge. On the way, passing the local rugby club ground which was interesting as it was right next to the railway line and also the sea. How many balls do they lose during a game I wondered? A big hoof by a full back would surely see the ball flying over the fence and into the harbour.

Crossing the bridge I received another phone call from Danny Coyle. “Where are you?” Dan asked, “It sounds noisy”.
“What?” I replied, “I can't hear you”.
The traffic was constant walking over that bridge and it was noisy. “I’m walking across the sea” I said. That would throw him I thought! Dan laughed and said “Oh, right, I’ll get to the point then” and then attempted to explain that he had booked a couple of single rooms in a hotel in Llanberis, North Wales for an adventure of climbing up Snowdon the following month. “Is that OK?” This all sounded like an excerpt from the TV programme ‘An Idiot Abroad!’ “Yea, whatever Dan, good stuff”

I couldn't tell if he had heard me or not, the wind and the traffic noise was quite intense. Another burst of cackle and Dan signed off, I could hear him chuckling; “Good, enjoy the rest of the week, see you soon”.

Time was getting on and instead of taking the roadway back into town which was hilly I decided to take an overgrown looking pathway running parallel to the railway line. Big mistake! Brambles were overhanging everywhere, snagging me at every opportunity. The path was mostly submerged with puddles from the recent inclement weather and I ended up bogging. ‘This was a bright idea’ I said to myself. My shoes were manky, jeans wet, splashed with mud. Emerging out of this quagmire I happened to pass the place where Pat and Yvonne were due to stay. I couldn't resist it, sending them a text. ‘I’ve found the Luny house Pat’. Thought that was quite amusing but I've always been one to laugh at my own wit.

The Luny House was owned by a retired Rear Admiral or something, ‘very posh’ Pat later told me, ‘bit well-to-do’.
The Admiral’s lady knew all about the establishment I was staying in; “Oh, yes, she's a barrister and an alcoholic”.

Well, there you go; it takes all sorts don’t it. Although I still hadn’t met her. I’d been back a couple of times since breakfast and the hotel still appeared to be bereft of life.
Meeting up with Pat and Yvonne we headed for a pub and chewed the fat for a couple of hours, talking about Sue which was nice, talking about a proposed show I was due to make with Pat on Corby Radio, talking about the future prospects of Corby Town F.C.

With it being miserable, grey and still drizzling, it was a pleasant way to spend an afternoon in a cozy, friendly little Inn. The ale was going down well too, enough to dull the senses a tad and cause Pat to crack his head on a solid wooden toilet door! ‘Bar steward!’ he exclaimed rubbing his head, “I’m going to complain” he said, “feel the lump on my head!” Sympathy was in short supply as me and Yvonne laughed, Yvonne asking; “it was nothing to do with the beer then?”

At that we called it a day and went back to our respective hotels to rest, wash and prepare ourselves for the night, a meal and some more refreshment.
It was nice having good company on such a poignant day.

Pat and Yvonne were heading home next morning whilst I was going to begin my adventure in earnest. My first port of call was going to be Looe and Polperro, a fishing village I had last set foot in back in the early 1960s.