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Published: January 8th 2016
I’ve always thought that if we could live in the UK it would have to be Devon.
Cornwall would do and possibly Somerset, but Devon is the place that feels like it could be home. The countryside is covered in a glorious billowing emerald patchwork duvet of lush grass and dense hedge rows hiding narrow roads which connect tiny white villages. These always contain at least one picture perfect pub and often that quintessential English icon, a thatched cottage.
Although they are so beautiful I wouldn't actually want to own a thatched cottage - they cost thousands to keep re-thatched...and who knows what wildlife you've got living up there with you.
In Devon for a week with the daughter, we’re escaping the crazy pre Christmas mayhem of London before experiencing the actual Christmas mayhem with her back in London. Our timeshare is literally right on the beach at Croyde, near Barnstaple. The view of the beach (real sand!!) is amazing and it looks lovely when the sun's out, but the wind is blasting straight down from the north pole.
I'd put on a thermal jacket, a raincoat, hat and gloves to go down to reception to see
Croyde Bay Holiday Park
Shared only with sheep this time of yearif the internet was working yet (it wasn't). I was blown in the door by a prolonged gust and was wiping the rain from my glasses..."It's not normally so mild this time of year!" said the receptionist chirpily.
What?! It was about 10 degrees with a wind chill factor that made your hands and face freeze and chilled your core unless you wore at least 4 layers (I've been wearing 5, two thermal and three of the most wintery items of clothing I own).
However we can't complain about the weather here in The West - there is massive flooding in the Lake District and temperatures of minus 5 in Scotland.
We made the pilgrimage to Padstow, or ‘Padstein’ as it's known by locals who clearly have a partisan relationship with their famous restaurateur and TV chef Rick Stein who now owns three restaurants, a cafe, a takeaway, a deli and a patisserie in the tiny seaside village. We had the winter special at his Fish and Chips, where the fish was excellent but the chips were nowhere near as good as in the pub in our little village.
Pub grub in the UK is now
pic courtesy of Moya
she braved the elements more than us and went for dawn runs along the Baggy Point walkway generally excellent and I would recommend a meal out in a country pub over a restaurant any day.
Devon is mainly known for its dairy produce and cider, so as well as a cloudy scrumpy or two on tap I always seek out a Devonshire tea. However many of the tea shops are clearly seasonal. On a trip to the nearby Victorian holiday mecca of Ilfracombe even the top ones recommended by TripAdvisor were closed. Panic started to set in. Trudging towards the wharf in a headwind I was pulled up short by a window display, strangely artistic and minimal amongst the tourist twee of Ilfracombe.
I was dragging my previously unsuspecting family down to the wharf to see an infamous Damian Hirst sculpture, but didn’t know he also had a gallery in the seaside town. Apparently he now lives in Combe Martin, a couple of miles along the coast and used to holiday at Ilfracombe – hence the existence of the impressively large and confronting statue Verity, providing a challenging welcome to all those entering Ilfracombe harbour.
Just down from the gallery was a café also owned by Hirst, which provided us with a timely, if
Arlington Court
A National Trust property is always a good bet no matter what the weather...as long as they are open... ironic, break from the chill wind to enjoy a Devonshire tea in an uber-trendy café owned by probably the most tradition-challenging artist in the land.
We were the only customers. There was a suspicion in my mind that we were part of some complex conceptual performance art, a la Dismaland. Maybe we’ll turn up projected onto a wall in a darkened alcove in Hirst’s London gallery, wiping jam and cream from our faces while commenting on his butterfly wallpaper and dot paintings.
I thought Verity was an amazing sculpture. Not exactly aesthetically pleasing, but I’m sure that’s Hirst’s point.
If you’d like to know more about the sculpture or Damian Hirst there’s a great article here:
http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2012/oct/21/damien-hirst-ilfracombe-public-sculpture There was a common joke in the 80s along the lines of visitors to New Zealand commenting that they’d been there, “but it was shut”. We used to laugh self-consciously, knowing it was an exaggeration but basically true. However in the 21st century I can report that it if you visit anywhere in rural England in winter it will more than likely be closed.
At Croyde, one of the top surfing beaches in the UK, the
The Thatch
our local pub in Croyde - excellent chips! This is the sufers pub in summer cafe's, surf shops and cream tea shop was closed. Most of the surrounding museums and local attractions were closed for the season or only open at weekends.
In Laugharne, Wales, for our second week in the country, most of the leisure facilities at our resort were closed, one of the main museums (just voted the second best museum in Wales this year) was closed for renovation and a key National Trust property was only open at the weekend, so we missed it. Laugharne castle had been closed for over a month, much to the dismay of a Welsh couple tutting at the locked gate. I'd researched it so wasn't surprised, and was relieved to find that at least the Dylan Thomas Boat House was open for viewing and cream teas all week.
Welsh poet Thomas wrote his most famous work Under Milk Wood here and although we weren't necessarily interested in Dylan Thomas per se, our resort was next to the Milkwood of the title so we thought we should patronise the venue. Without Thomas, icon of British literature and famous alcoholic, this little village would cease to exist.
Even the days close down early – it’s
Moya's pic
dodging the showers dark by 4pm or 3pm if it’s raining. Thankfully for us as well as Thomas, the local pubs were always open.
Wales gave us another little example of travel/food irony. With the weather completely packed in we decided to go to Carmarthen to wander round the markets. Needing something for dinner we noticed the West Wales butchers truck and spied the lamb chops. Ideal - Welsh lamb. “Where are you from?” said the butcher as he wrapped the chops. We usually like to do a guessing game, but it was cold and raining. “New Zealand eh? You're going to love these,” he said with a wry smile. We slowly twigged and asked where the chops were from...”Southern Farms,” he replied, “South Island”, handing them over. Oh well, let’s see if New Zealand really does export our best lamb.
The chops were delicious and to make up for a lack of regional eating, Moya found, by the magic of TripAdvisor, as authentic a Welsh tea shop as you could want. Up a flight of dingy, narrow and uninviting stairs we emerged to a packed dining room in very un-ironic traditional décor with most patrons tucking into a roast turkey
Moya's pic
rugged north Devon coastline lunch. I had local trout. At one stage the waitress led the whole room in singing a Christmas carol and while paying we had a free Welsh lesson (staff and many of the customers were Welsh speakers). Thank you is ‘diolch’, pronounced like you have a rodent stuck in your throat. You’re welcome.
Previously we’ve visited England in high summer and never got out of polar fleeces. What could be so bad about the countryside in winter? We’d expected to be cold and you can still go for a walk in the wind and cold…but constant rain is no fun. “There’s so much to do in London…” pined Moya, so back to the capital we scurried, with the clouds clearing in front of us.
London knows how to do Christmas.
And of course, being the best city in the world, you’ll never run out of things to do no matter what the weather. Darkness falling by 4pm doesn’t even seem so bad when all the Christmas light come on along the Thames and the major shopping streets. The whole Harrods building is lit up like a Christmas tree. Half of Hyde Park becomes the biggest fun fair
The Quay
critiquing the Devonshire tea in Damien Hirst's cafe in Ilfracombe you’ve ever seen, Kew Gardens becomes a fairy tale light show at night and venerable buildings like the Natural History Museum and Somerset House become pop up ice skating rinks.
Before our skate date Moya had assured me I’d be able to get a skate aid – a penguin shaped mini-zimmer frame, but there were none left, so I joined the aged, infirm and just plain terrified clinging around the edge of the ice rink until she rescued me and dragged me around the rink a couple of times. The ice seemed so much more…slippery…than I remember. I put it down to the unseasonably warm weather causing problems keeping the ice frozen.
Our fears of hypothermia were unfounded – we were never really cold in London, in fact on one day it reached 17 - the same temperature as it was back in Matarangi! Unfortunately the rest of the country was still suffering appalling weather - two weeks after we’d left it was still persisting down in Devon and Wales and there was even more flooding in the north of England.
After this trip I’ve revised my thinking on where we’d live if we won the biggest
Verity
Damien Hirst's sculptural gift to Ilfracombe Lotto jackpot ever, (we couldn’t afford it on just a few million)…
London, the best city in world.
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