17 June 2016 - Exmoor House Caravan Club Site, Dulverton, Somerset

Although we did not set the alarm this morning, we were away by 8.30 am, lunch prepared last night and me dressed in shorts (or at least my concession to “shorts”) and sandals, all exhibiting great optimism for a fine day’s touring. We were to travel across roads still wet from recent downpours, and little sunshine, but we ourselves were not rained upon. But …. my shorts and sandals  were inappropriate for the day. 

Fascinating Clovelly

We headed back down the River Exe to Exebridge where we turned westwards on the B3227 and drove about forty miles across lovely rural countryside to Great Torrington, across the grain of the land, crossing the Rivers Taw and Torridge which flow north into Bideford Bay. We then joined the more major A386 north to Bideford and travelled the last thirteen or so miles west to Clovelly. This destination found on the western side of Bideford Bay is shown in very modest small lettering on any map, because it is a very small village and apart from having being a tourist attraction for the past one hundred and fifty years, has little else to commend it. A few fishermen operate from the small high walled port at the bottom of the cliff wedge, but their catch would be unlikely to impact the North Devon economy by much.

But Clovelly  has a rather strange history, and is likely to remain on the touring itinerary for many a year to come. It is one of the few privately owned villages in England and is held for the Rous family by the Clovelly Estate Company.

Tourist interest in the village started when Charles Kingsley (1819 – 1875), a prominent figure in Victorian England; a Christian socialist, a controversial essayist, a poet and a novelist, drew attention to the village. He moved to the village with his five siblings, when his father became Rector of Clovelly in 1832. Although his own residence in the village was short lived, he carried a passion for the place all through his life. It influenced his published works, particularly “Westward Ho!” published in 1855. 

Thousands of excursionists came by paddle steamer across from Wales or from Ilfracombe. There was competition among the local people to take them out on boat trips round the bay, donkey rides, or trap rides further along the coast. Almost every house in the village did teas for visitors and many took in paying guests during the season.

Today Clovelly is a tribute to Christine Hamlyn who inherited the village in 1884. She cared for the village intensely and it is due to her work in restoring many of the cottages that much of the old village still exists. She became known as “Queen of Clovelly”. It was she who decreed that the steep cobbled streets remain traffic free and so the village appears to the tourist  like those portrayed on  chocolate boxes, with an almost artificial air, although the reality is that the locals still try to go about their normal business, ignoring the tourists peering into their front room windows and sometimes knocking on their doors. 

Fishing boats in Clovelly port

The tourist must enter from the top of the cliff through a very large well-appointed visitor centre; offering a cafe, a souvenir shop and a small cinema room where one is told the history of the village and hopefully shamed into not acting like some of the tourists in the film, a subtle lesson to exhibit some sense of discretion. Our Rough Guide, which is now quite dated, stated the entry fee was £6.95; today it was £7, an incredibly modest increase. I guess the Company prefer to make their profit in the shop and café. We arrived soon after 10 am and spent more than two hours there, glad to have arrived before the crowds we encountered as we walked back up the hill. 

There is a landrover which charges £2.50 per person for a one way ride, because there is still road access to the port. But if some semi-disabled person were to consider this the way to see the village, they would soon be very disappointed. There is no way to see the village but on foot, or perhaps by sedan chair, which is the way unwell folk are extracted from their quaint cottages to be removed to hospital. All goods are carried on sleds, simple contraptions of plastic bread or fish crates mounted on two wooden sled beams, and attached to a rope for some sort of control as they whoosh down the cobbles. We watched a builder move a sled loaded with construction materials down past us; we wondered whether the materials would be in one piece when they reached the bottom.

We wandered along the wharf and spoke briefly to a cray fisherman, readying his pots for the morrow. We learned the tide comes in very fast and can be as much as seven metres. The shore is a dangerous place to linger, and certainly not a place to fall asleep. 

It was Chris’s sister, Margie, who alerted us to the existence of this place; however we have since read of it in our guide books and picked up pamphlets in information kiosks. It did take us a full hour and a half to drive across there this morning, but we were certainly glad we had made the effort.

We returned via Barnstaple, and then on a minor road across the southern stretches of the National Park, arriving in time to call back up to the National Park office and check out the River Barle.

Barnstaple lies at the head of the Taw Estuary, once a port for trade with America, a wool market, cloth manufacturing town and shipbuilding centre, but in the 19^th century after the estuary silted up, simply became a agricultural centre. History records that Barnstaple was granted a charter in AD 930, and claims it to be the oldest borough in England, however I am hearing this “oldest” this and that all too often and wondering the truth of the matter. It did mint its own coins in the 10^th century and has had mayors since 1300.

We found our way to the Tesco superstore, shopped for a couple of items then walked into the centre of town across the bridge over the River Taw. In town we wandered up and down the High Street, along Butcher’s Row and through the Pannier Markets. Our purchases were few; a second hand world atlas and a reel of black cotton, but our delight in the town was far greater. Back at Tesco’s we refuelled, then headed toward home.

The River Taw from the bridge at Barnstaple

Our route across the Exmoor National Park took us onto some of those unnamed white roads, through North Molton and Twitchen, on roads that were barely wide enough for a Mini let alone our Kia Sorrento. I omitted to explain the two kind of white roads on the map; there are fat ones and skinny ones, the latter that cause my husband, an otherwise very confident and competent driver, to say “Oh Shit!” whenever  we encounter an oncoming vehicle. This exclamation, a rather rare one from my husband who normally favours other phrases, was heard several times today. But one of the more interesting and welcome obstacles was a flock of sheep, or rather, the farmer’s wife who suggested we wait until the flock came through. She explained that the sheep were Welsh Mules and that she and her husband were off to New Zealand themselves later this year. Waiting for the sheep turned out to be quite a bonus.

We travelled on across the ridge road high on the moor, and encountered ponies, several sets of mares and foals, as well as small flocks of black faced horned sheep. It was a taste of what is to come over the next couple of days as we concentrate more on the moors.