MEDIA CENTRE - Off The Wall

Phil’s Travels – Dawlish, England (11.25)

Phil’s Travels – Dawlish, England (11.25)

Encumbered with a dodgy back and the onset of Storm Claudia, we did not walk to Paddington. We tubed it all the way (one stop). As ever, in Paddington the platform announcement came just a few moments before departure time and we were swept along with the masses to Platform 9. Fortunately, I had booked seats and we had a table and a pleasurable journey ahead of us.

Not to be. The seats on GWR were butt-numbingly painful. Like all intercity trains in the UK it would seem, there was a horizontal bar imbedded in the seat just where my buttocks would like to be. It was no contest and I had to give way to the bar and either sit fully erect or fully lounged to position my cheeks on one side or the other of the buttock slicer.

The furthest aspect from pleasurable though was yet to come. At Reading the table behind us became occupied. The occupants were a group of lady friends on a jolly jaunt to the West Country. However, in their jolliness the volume was ear splitting. The aromas from their table were pungent. And the bottle-popping disconcerting. Each new pop resulting in higher volumes of discourse and laughter.

The ruckus was so loud I could barely catch my usual 20 winks on a train (the motion always sends me into a nap). At one point I went to the facilities and glanced in their direction. The table was covered in a red and white checked tablecloth, bedecked with wooden boards smothered in cheese remains and accompaniments. It was like a scene from a Paris pavement café. Very impressive, but way too noisy.

After Exeter, the ladies jumped into action, packed all their stuff (to their credit, nothing was left for the cleaners) and proceeded to block the aisle so I could not get up. My wife had escaped early, before the full armada of ladies and their stuff was fully mobilised, but I was stuck for a good five minutes. In the end I asked if they were in fact disembarking and this seemed to sway them into further motion down the car to the exit. At the exit, they filled the entry space and I could barely see my wife jammed into a corner.

At Dawlish the ladies peeled with laughter and jostled themselves and their many bags onto the platform only to realise they were at the wrong station, about turned and clambered back on board, nearly crushing underfoot my poor wonderful wife who was trying to disembark behind them. In the end, we let them all aboard again and moved them to the side, and we then disembarked into the peace of Storm Claudia right by the choppy waters of the English Channel. Peace at last.

That evening we stayed at home and ate scrumptious fish and chips from the local seafront fryer. On Saturday, my wonderful wife and I rolled down the hill into town, bought provisions and sat for a coffee and a moment of reflection whilst admiring the massive earthworks underway beside Strand.

The Lawns, as it was known, was an expanse of grass by Dawlish Water (a stream that comes from Dartmoor and drains into the sea by Dawlish railway station, and is home to the famous black swans), used for fairs, events, recreation and sports. It was completely dug up. And dug up to a huge depth. They were constructing a 2.2m litre tank in the pit they had dug. This was one of three cavernous tanks being built in and around the town and many of the roads were up in sympathy as Southwest Water replumbed the drains and sewers. The idea is that instead of storm water mixing with sewage and going out to sea as a potent cocktail, the storm water will be diverted to these tanks, stored and released at a later more clement date. Thereby improving water quality in Dawlish Water, the sea and all around. A very honourable cause, but for now The Lawns and the Crazy Golf are unrecognisable as major building sites filled with diggers and cranes.

After lunch I suggested a spur of the moment ‘explore’. My parents usually require a couple of weeks of detailed planning and a thorough risk assessment before embarking on any excursion, but credit to them, they rolled with the idea and we took a train around the River Exe to Lympstone. A visit to Lympstone Manor has been an itch I have wanted to scratch for many a year. Our Teign Train zoomed up the west bank of the Exe, made the switchback in Exeter and seemed to stop every few metres down the east bank. The east bank is far more populous and comprises a litany of little communities, all served by a mostly single track railway that terminates in Exmouth. One way in, one way out.

One community not on any timetable or station indicator was Lympstone Commando. Lympstone Commando is a military training facility for the Royal Marines. The train stopped at Commando and I was curious. So, I stepped out only to see a sign instructing that there was to be no alighting unless one had business with the base. What kind of business could one have, I wondered? I didn’t so I quickly reboarded before the sharp shooters found their range.

In Lympstone Village, we walked a mile or so past an architect’s delight of Grand Design homes to Lympstone Manor. Although my fellow explorers kept insisting it was further than a mile and taking too long and where was I taking them and are we nearly there yet.

Sadly, in a nice and not snooty manner, the Manor refused to serve us a cup of tea, or coffee, and advised that only bookings for meals or a £55pp afternoon tea were possible to be served. The place was quite small, so maybe that was fair enough. And yet, on a Saturday afternoon at 16.00, the place looked pretty empty to me. So, instead I bought a bottle of their homemade rose wine (from the vineyard in the front garden) and we trudged back to the village and had a lovely afternoon beverage at the High Tide Café (a tiny, low ceiling, few tables, gem of a place on the high street).

Back in Dawlish, we went immediately to Sticky Rice for a yummy Thai dinner. For a town of 15,000+ inhabitants (ref 2021 census, up 16% from 2011) and still growing rapidly, there were few restaurants to choose from. Some say, only three: Sticky Rice, The Ghurkha and the chippy. Commerce is clearly tough in the West Country.

Sunday comprised coffee on Strand, lunch at Powderham, hot chocolate in The Shed and a busy train back to London (with no noisy ladies!). It was on the train home going up the west bank again that I realised that I am an X-Man. I was born in Exeter and the Exe is in my blood. I am a man of the Exe. What is my superpower? I have no idea. I certainly don’t have any business to offer Lympstone Commando and my charm offensive failed miserably at the Manor. Maybe it is my ability to sit through an entire train journey without going deaf from ladies jubilating.