The
Travel Bug began with my Devonish Weekend Brouhaha. I first discovered Devon during my Agatha Christie phase, in the (relative) youth of my late teens. Christie describes her home county like a slice of heaven, tucked into a far corner of an otherwise dreary landscape, where wealthy people, with murderous intentions, live in grand houses, doing very little to pass the time. In short, it sounded wonderful.
Against everyone's advice, I decided to drive down to Devon on a Friday evening in September. I picked up my car from Hertz in Russell Square, rushed home to change, and set off from Holborn around 6:45pm. I needn't have rushed, because it took 1¼ hours to reach Gunnersbury, a distance of only
10 miles from Holborn. Averaging 8mph, a Ford Ka in contemporary London is no match for a
horse-and-coach in Victorian times! The onward journey from Gunnersbury on the M4 was equally calamitous, taking another hour to travel
27½ miles to the Reading off-ramp. By this time I was furious. Throwing caution to wind (or more precisely my foot to the pedal) I managed the remaining
180 miles in around 2 hours... to arrive in Torquay
only 4½ hours after setting off.
Torquay (
slideshow) is a pretty seaside town, but I feel it's lost to time why people actually visit there. For that reason, it's rather like Surfers Paradise in Australia. I suspect some people visit these towns year-after-year out of habit... Let alone any substantial fondness for the place. That is where any similarity ends, for these two seaside towns separated by 11,000 miles. As one might expect, the temperature is somewhat cooler in Devon, and the beaches are still like most in England: thin brown streaks with an afterthought for waves. Cornwall, the next county over from Devon, is where it's at, surf-wise. But that is another trip, yet to be had.
Torquay's population must swell during the holidays, as the city seems to be mostly comprised of hotels, inns, B&Bs, apartments and all other variations of holiday accommodation. It was in Torquay in May 1970, that John Cleese (on tour with Monty Python) encountered Donald Sinclair, the "wonderfully rude" hotel manager of the Gleneagles Hotel. Sinclair was the inspiration for Basil Fawlty, and the Fawlty Towers sitcom. The recently-refurbished
Gleneagles Hotel is now a Best Western, and I considered staying there, but it was a bit too expensive for this budget trip. Instead, I stayed both nights at the splendid, and splendidly-priced,
Hotel Hudson. A short walking distance from the seafront, the Hudson is also a few doors down from Torquay's museum, which may be small but not short of interest. There are two special exhibit rooms, celebrating two of Torquay's most famous residents: the crime writer Agatha Christie, and the great Victorian engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who was responsible for the Great West Railway that still chugs through Torquay.
Christie has a long association with the English Riviera. She was born and raised in Torquay, and subsequently set many novels in the area. Her first novel,
The Mysterious Affair at Styles, in which we're introduced to Hercule Poirot, was written at the Moorland Hotel, nearby on Dartmoor. Another,
Peril at End House, was partly set at the
Imperial Hotel (
my photo). The novel opens with Hercule Poirot sunning himself on the hotel's terrace, which I tried my best to photograph.
A short distance ouside of Torquay is a little town called Totnes. I visited the Norman castle there, before stopping off at the more-scenic Berry Pomeroy Castle (
slideshow) on the return trip. Berry Pomeroy is considered the most-haunted castle in England. I didn't see anything suspicious, other than an English Heritage volunteer more than willing to encourage tourists to part with their money on the back of this legend. So I moved on.
In 1939, Agatha Christie purchased the Greenway Estate
(slideshow),
near Dittisham, and about 45 minutes drive from Torquay. This huge estate, itself the setting for two novels (
Dead Man's Folly, a favourite of mine, being one) was home to Christie, and then her daughter and son-in-law, Rosalind and Anthony Hicks, for many years. When the Hicks' passed away a few years back, the family gave the estate to the National Trust, a private not-for-profit charity that maintains important stately homes and estates around the country. I took out a year's membership with the Trust, to tour Greenway. The house, pictured at right, is in a poor state and clearly sign-posted as being off limits to visitors... not that the signs stop some rude tourists. Apparently in the final years of the Hicks' long lives, they had to endure an endless stream of tourists who ignored the signs to rush up to the house, thrust a camera up to the windows, and randomly fire off a photograph. No doubt, these muppets wouldn't know how to switch off their flash, making the experience even more unsettling for the aged Hicks, who possibly spent their remaining days regretting the decision to open the gardens.
Greenway House is not yet open to the public. In the meantime, one can tour the beautiful gardens, and visit the boat shed, with its nifty tidal plunge pool down below, that featured so significantly in one of her books. There, I chatted with Tessa Vattersall, an elderly lady who volunteers as a National Trust guide. Tessa told me that she lived in the area as a child. I asked her how the town folk interacted with Agatha Christie, given her celebrity. Tessa said that people knew who she was, of course, and would often see her going about her business. Yet they respected her privacy and didn't bother her. And, as Tessa implored, they never referred to her by any variation of Agatha Christie. To the townspeople, she was Lady Mallowan.
Tessa's recollections were touching and really moved me. After all, these first-hand stories help to humanise and play down the celebrity of someone that I admire. Tessa asked me if I was an Agatha Christie fan. Yes, I answered. She said that there was something I must do before I leave: sit in Agatha's favourite chair. It's an iron chair, painted white, with a little cushion. And it's located just a few feet from where Marlene Tucker's body is found in
Dead Man's Folly.
The highlight of this Christie-a-thon was visiting Burgh Island (
slideshow), a tidal island (meaning you can walk to it at low-tide) off the coast of Bigbury-on-Sea on Devon's south coast. When cut off from the mainland, the island can only be reached by boat, or the regularly-scheduled sea tractor service.
Burgh Island's largest structure is the eponymous art-deco hotel, constructed in the 1920s by Archibald Nettleford, a mad millionaire. Agatha Christie, just one of many famous guests, visited Burgh Island on more than one occasion, and was very familiar with its terrain. The island's significance to Christie fans is that it was the source of inspiration for two of her novels.
Evil Under The Sun was set here, partly written here, and was also the location for the Poirot television series adaptation in 2001. But for me personally, it is the island's assocation with
And Then There Were None, that made this visit so special, as that is my personal favourite of all written by Dame Agatha. So visiting Burgh Island wasn't just an interesting set-jetting experience, it was something I'd dreamed of doing for fourteen years.
The following morning, back in Torquay, I abandoned any intention of taking a leisurely drive to Cornwall for the day. A few mislaid crumbs would obscure both counties on most world maps, and on a road map, it looks like a morning drive separates the two. In reality, it would take several hours just to drive from Torquay to Penzance. Distance isn't the problem; the narrow, winding country A-roads are the obstacle.
With a modified itinerary, I set out across Dartmoor, on one of the few roads that actually cuts through the moor, to Castle Drogo (
slideshow). Built in the 1930s, with concrete structural elements, and utilising modern construction techniques, Castle Drogo has the distinction of being the last castle built in England. It's now owned by the National Trust, and on the day I visited, there were also special WW2 celebrations. Castle Drogo, like many stately homes throughout Britain, was commandeered during the war years, and became a home-away-from-home for many people relocated from London, or elsewhere.
My next stop was the stately home of Athelhampton (
slideshow)in Dorset. (I intended to stop in Exeter along the way, but the horror of one-way lanes and no parking facilities proved too much for me to bear). I chose Athelhampton because it was here that the exteriors were filmed for Joseph Mankeweicz's
Sleuth (1972). I've
previously blogged about my love for this film, so I won't repeat myself now. But let me just say, Athelhampton was one of those magical set-jetting experiences: the house exterior looks exactly the same as it does in the film.
From Athelhampton I drove north to Wiltshire to visit Stourhead (
slideshow), another stately home. Stourhead is
almost a set-jetting experience, as a model of the
house was used for Lady Penelope's mansion in the
Thunderbirds. I need to go back, actually, because bastard slow drivers prevented me from getting to Stourhead in time to view the interior. However, the beautiful gardens, for which Stourhead are famous, were open, and I was able to snap a few photos in the magic hour of dusk.
My final stop was Castle Coombe. I actually attempted to visit this postcard-pretty village on way to Bristol in 2005. I missed the turn-off on that occasion, which on an English motorway means one might travel ten miles to find the next exit. Anyhow, I made it this time, although only in time for dinner! There was scarcely any moonlight, and no streetlights on the country lanes that evening. Both factors conspired to make Castle Coombe very difficult to find. But it is well worth the trip, as it looks just as one expects an English village to look.
I ate dinner in one of the three pubs (all within 20 metres of each other), and eavesdropped on the proprietress' conversation with some locals. They were discussing a trip, "up" to London, perhaps to see a show. It's curious how English people say they're travelling "up" to London, even when most of the country is
north of the capital. There are a few theories, one having to do with the directions used by railway companies, whose main terminii were in London. But one gets the sense that it has more to do with London's place as the seat of power and wealth, and thus the capital's tradtiional hold over the rest of the country. This latter meaning was the best fit for the conversation I overheard at Castle Coombe. The locals decided against the trip to London because they couldn't be bothered dealing with the pretence of snobby Londoners who think that they're "all that". That conversation suggested to me that there is a parallel between how non-Londoners view London, and other Australians view Sydney. For what it's worth, I don't think Londoners think the world revolves around London in that rather special way that Sydneysiders have made their own. But the country/city divide does exist in England, and is so profound that it cannot be ignored. I often feel that England is comprised of London,and what's left. Still, it's what I enjoy most about travelling outside of London, as on this trip to Devon. It truly feels like I'm visiting a different country.
All of my Devon photographs can be viewed
here on Flickr.
