Return to Exmouth and Sandy Bay -10 Years On

 

  Return to Exmouth and Sandy Bay

With the amount of walking I’d done already, I felt as if I’d been here a fortnight. Twinges in the groin, knees beginning to creak but I had a long way to go yet and I was on my way to Exmouth and Sandy Bay, a short 40 minute train journey from Teignmouth.
First of all it was breakfast and I nearly slept in for it. The dining room was deserted again with the girls hanging around sitting on the chest freezers in the kitchen. I was sure they were waiting for me to arrive. 

“Cup of tea and a full English?” It’s funny really. I never eat this sort of stuff at home first thing in the morning. Anyway, I just had to ask; “Where's the owner?” To give a hint of what I was getting at, I added; “I heard she's a bit of a case”. 

The girl looked a bit sheepish as if she didn’t really want to comment but laughed a little and admitted; “she is a bit eccentric”. OK, I let her off the hook, didn’t want to embarrass her. “She's just gone out” she added before shuttling back to the kitchen.                                                                                                                                                     

I wasn’t convinced.

The weather was on the grey side again as I made my way to the station, didn’t look very promising either but I wasn't here to top up a sun tan. Exmouth as the name would suggest, lies at the mouth of the River Exe. The railway runs parallel to the sea for a good part of the journey and it was particularly interesting to travel over the section that was ripped apart by the winter storms at Dawlish. Repairs were still going on and how they managed to re-open the line in such a short space of time was remarkable.

The journey, via Exeter St David’s, entailed a stop at a station called Lympstone Commando where a sign on the platform warned menacingly; ‘no unauthorised person should disembark here unless they have official business’. Intimating that if you did, you could expect to be shot. Lympstone turned out to be an Army Training Base but to me it looked more like a prison camp. There wasn’t a watchtower in every corner but there was an air of something spooky and top secret about the place. Maybe I’ve read too many Alistair McLean novels.

As I’ve already said, I was here with my family 50 years before as a 14 year old, bored shitless with my sister Gwyneth and parents on a caravan site. Over the years we often laughed when recalling our first sighting of Sandy Bay after a long day travelling. Of course we were excited about a caravan holiday by the seaside and as our taxi drove past all these wonderful looking state-of-the-art vans wondering which one was ours, the excitement intensified. Sadly the taxi carried right on past the lot of them and dumped us amongst a plethora of small decrepit bottle green vans which gave you a feeling that we were in the poorer quarters. The caravan even had gas lamps, which to be fair was the norm back in 1964 I suppose but to this day I can still smell them when thinking about it.

First port of call in Exmouth was the seafront and to make sure I wasn’t heading in the wrong direction, I stopped to ask a postman. Whenever you’re in a strange place, always ask a postman or a taxi driver for directions. You can’t go wrong. That’s the theory.
This chap looked like many a beleaguered postie you will find anywhere in the country. Stressed. “Morning mate” I said in my friendliest manner. He looked at me, vacant; miles away I could tell, daydreaming. I've been there, done it, got the T-Shirt as they say. It’s like being on automatic pilot as you walk the streets and open garden gates. A habit of mine and I don’t know why I do it, is to gabble on about something that is of no interest whatsoever to the recipient. I’ve been known to tell postmen, “I was one of you, 35 years with the Royal Mail”, thinking ‘beat that!’ This time though, after he informed me to keep walking down the road, I found myself telling him; “last time I was here was 50 years ago”. Don’t know what I was expecting him to say to that but the postie looked at me blank and replied “really?” 

Even though I could tell he wasn’t in the least bit interested I pursued; “yes, with my family, 1964”.

I’m giving him this useless piece of information and there’s a voice at the back of my head telling me; ‘shut up for Christ sakes, he thinks you're a knob’. Nevertheless, I can't help myself! Must be an age thing.                         

To my surprise, and I don’t know why I say that, the seafront was quite nice considering it was right next to the estuary. Clean too. Walking along and gazing out to sea, the wind suddenly got up and the promenade was engulfed with a sandstorm. Brilliant! Covering my eyes, my face stinging, I ran for cover and headed for a nearby cafe. The day had started promisingly but now the rain came along too. Belting down but one consolation was that it washed the sand off me! With nothing to be gained hanging around the seafront and getting sandblasted and drowned I made my way back to the town centre to seek out the bus station. Might as well head for Sandy Bay I decided. 

The bus station was right next to the railway station which I hadn’t noticed and I’d walked around in a big circle and got soaked for my trouble.

There was one bus in the depot with Sandy Bay on its destination board. The driver was sitting in his cab having a sandwich. 

“Excuse me; is this the bus for Sandy Bay?” I asked, rather obviously.
“It is”
“What time does it leave?”

I had a feeling I was annoying him. He was still trying to eat his sandwich.
“As soon as I've finished this…”
Oh, I got the message but just for good measure I told him “last time I was here was 50 years ago!”
Why do I do it! To be fair to the bloke, he paused, looked at me, and between munches said; “…it’s probably changed it a bit since then.”
Fair enough. I left him to enjoy his sandwich.

The bus went through the village of Littleham, a place I had on my agenda but unfortunately the bus didn’t stop. I remembered the church there and the grave of Lady Emma Hamilton, Lord Nelson’s mistress. Yes, seems old Horatio was a bit of a bounder, he was married to Fanny at the time. Infidelity was rife even then, back in the 18th century.

Back to the present. On arrival at Sandy Bay I took a minute or so to get my bearings. In my mind’s eye I was trying to remember the Social Club which we used to frequent every night all those years ago. Not that it’s a fond memory; it was a good place to cure insomnia. Can’t recall any entertainment as such, maybe a game of bingo and some half wit trying to sing, which might have been my dad; he was prone to warble when he’d had a couple of pints. 

There was nothing else to do in this fount of recreation so I suppose there was little option other than to entertain yourselves. It was hardly as if we had a tele in the caravan as an alternative and the more I thought about it the more I remembered how much I had hated this place! Yet here I was again. With hindsight it could have been some kind of exorcism I was seeking!

One thing that remained embedded in my memory was the awful stench of seaweed on the beach. It was terrible but for nostalgic sake I was keen to have a whiff again. The steps down to the beach still looked the same and there was even a warning about seaweed on a wall. Something about advising you not to eat it I think it said. And there’s me thinking it was a delicacy of some sort nowadays. Anyhow I was pleased to find the beach and high red cliffs were exactly how I had remembered them. Deserted. Time had stood still! Was I in a time warp? I have a photograph of myself, Gwyneth and my dad taken near some rocks at the far end of the beach and blow me, there they were. Walking over the sand I looked up to the sky; “Well mam, dad, I’m back here at Sandy Bay and the bloody place hasn't changed a bit since 1964!” 

There was a roll of thunder; my dad was answering. No. I’m making that up. It was a poignant sort of moment though, coming face to face with your past, 50 years on. As I kept telling everyone I came across. Got to get out of this habit. 

They call this area the Jurassic Coast and you can understand why. Does seem a bit weird. No funfairs, donkey rides, deck chairs. No sign of anything come to that. Even the seaweed was short in supply. No smell either which in a curious way was a little disappointing.

After half an hour of day-dreaming and talking to myself, I left the beach and went to the cafe on top of the cliffs and ordered a crab sandwich. Delicious. One thing I enjoyed in Devon was the fish, fresh and wonderful. Looking out of the window while I tucked in I decided to text Gwyneth. Hadn’t seen her for a month or two but we keep in touch text messaging. Gwyneth didn’t even know I was down here. Her reply told me she still has a good memory though. Reminding me of the time when we smashed the gas lamp in the caravan playing sock football! Ha I'd forgotten about that. Told you there was no entertainment. That was the best fun we had. Mam wasn't best pleased if memory serves me right. Probably lost the insurance money.

Refreshed, and with the sun peeking through the clouds, it seemed a perfect time to walk over the cliffs to Budleigh Salterton. Yes, we did this in 1964 too. A memento of that trek was dad picking up a pebble which amused him because it was shaped exactly like an egg. He liked it that much he brought it home with him as a souvenir and it was placed next to the fireplace for years. Did I say we were poor? Couldn’t afford ornaments? Not really.

I was thinking about this as I set off. ‘What happened to that pebble?’’ 

Half way over the cliffs the heavens opened up and I was soaked to the skin again. Drat! I had to abandon the idea and once more make for cover, dodging in between the caravans. Ringing wet I decided I’d seen enough and joined the queue at the bus stop. Sandy Bay was as dull as I remembered. I was tempted to tell the bus driver, same one by chance, ‘it was pissing down last time I was here as well, 50 years ago’ but thought better of it.

Didn’t want him to think I was a plank.

The train stopped at Lympstone Commando on the return journey; nobody dared to get off but five hefty soldiers, built like the proverbial outhouses joined us. Kept themselves to themselves. Gazing at the assault course and barracks I could see from the train, the camp looked intimidating. I formed the impression that these guys wouldn’t be the sort for small talk. I refrained from telling them I’d been here before!

Instead of returning straight to Teignmouth I jumped off the train at Dawlish, I wanted to take some photos of the station and railway line. Well it is unique. Lovely views of the coastline there. I spent the next hour in and out of the charity shops, sheltering yet again from the rain and then used my bus pass to grab a lift back to Teignmouth. All was well until a fat bloke got on and sat right in front of me. His perfume wasn’t what you would find on the shelves at Boots that’s for sure. I was tempted to tell him soap is cheap enough. I was glad to get off. The guy stunk.

Dawlish Station

It was only around 4pm and feeling peckish I called in at the bakers to treat myself to a Cornish Pastie to keep me going. They looked tasty, but looks can be deceiving as I found out in Looe. At £2.50 a go it was a bit steep but I was famished.
“Are your pasties hot?” I asked the young girl behind the counter.     

 “Sorry, they're all cold now” she replied.
“Oh” I said, “can you heat them up then, like in your microwave?” Pointing to the machine behind her.
“That'll be an extra 50p”
“What!”
I thought she was extracting the urine.
“What's that all about?” I asked her flabbergasted, “50p to press a button!”
“Sorry, that's the way it is.”
“No wonder they call us Rip-Off Britain” I griped.
She looked at me in complete indifference. I told her to forget it. I’d sooner starve. £3 for a medium size hot pastie?                         

“No wonder your shop window is full of pasties!” I said as my parting shot.

I headed back to the Bay Hotel, worn out but my groin and knees were still intact. I hoped that the staff had cleaned my room and replenished my stock of coffee sachets and tea bags, as well as the miniature packet of biscuits. Rattled, I was ready for a confrontation with the Invisible Woman (TV series from the 1950s.) The owner, but she denied me the pleasure. I didn’t see anyone at all. Queer bloody place this, I ascertained. I’d had enough of this joint.
Still, next day I was leaving for Penzance. 

And I never did get to see this infamous woman.