A Rainy/Sunny Weekend in South Devon

Having tried living in Sussex (Brighton, then Beeding) for a short while last year, my dear friend Harriet decided she needed to be somewhere more rural and departed for the rugged and windswept South Devon coast. She bagged a job at the Field Studies Centre in Slapton, and now resides on site, just a stone's throw from Slapton Ley National Nature Reserve (it's the biggest lake on the South coast, you know) and the nearby sparse shingle beach and rocky shore.

Now I love the countryside, but I could never possibly live somewhere so remote (unless of course I had a little pied-à-terre in Town as well). I've always loved Sussex for its pleasing balance between the bucolic and the urban and have grown to take for granted having certain amenities on tap. Knowing this about me, Harriet has always been at pains to stress the abundance of activities on offer in her new adopted home territory in an attempt to coax me away from my cosy townie existence for a visit.

Last weekend I finally succummed and went to see what all the fuss was about. I've been to Devon many times before - on childhood holidays and camping with Ant in the early days before we could afford jaunts to California and the like - but never to this particular area. As we were driving down the A303 on Friday night in the howling wind and rain, we began to wish we'd arranged something sooner and come in the summer months like any sane person would.

Opening the curtains to reveal a stunning panoramic sea view from our cosy B&B the next morning, we watched a lone dog walker struggling against the elements and resigned ourselves to a weekend of indoor activities. The first thing Harriet did when we arrived in Slapton was to take us down to the beach. In the rain. And the wind. Oh and did I mention the rain? Luckily I had my wellies and waterproof with me, but this didn't stop me from getting wet knees when the waves crashed up more energetically than anticipated. After a "walk" that basically involved us staggering about getting soaked for five minutes, we decide to cut our losses and head for civilisation.

The nearest 'happening' place to Slapton is Totnes, which is a lot like Lewes, only slightly less haughty. Inland, the weather was less severe and a few patches of blue sky had even started appearing. I was right at home amongst the endless hippy shops and lush organic delis, but my ultimate shopping nirvana materialised when I followed a glimpse of sequins spied through a dark doorway into a vintage clothing and costumery cavern the like of which I have only ever dreamed of before. I could easily have spent several hours and many hundreds of pounds indulging my fancy dress habit, but there was a carpe to diem and lunch to be had.

You can't go to Devon without having at least one cream tea and so when we found ourselves in Dartmouth later that day, we made it a priority to find one. We also took the opportunity to stock up on local cider and ale, some of which we drank by the pretty riverside right there and then, as day sloped into evening. Back in Slapton, Harry's boyfriend Ben cooked us up a hearty pie, made with hand-gathered chestnuts. When the booze supply started thinning out we walked around the corner to the pub for a scoop or two before closing and found ourselves surrounded by a bizarre mix of rowdy university students and chatty locals.

Thankfully I was not at all hungover the next day, because Harriet had optimistically booked us onto a guided geology walk at 10am. I haven't been on an organised walk since the days of Girl Guides night hikes but clearly they are popular in those parts, because we weren't the only group assembling in the car park in Prawle. Our enthusiastic steward was flagging down anyone in hiking boots, asking them "are you here for the AONB walk?" to which one grumpy lady disdainfully replied "no, I hike alone". She didn't know what she was missing, because not only was it a stunning tour of a truly dramatic bit of coastline, but I actually learned a lot about rocks along the way.

It had been a packed weekend of activities as promised, and I was sad to have to go home again so soon. I'm looking forward to going back in the spring when I'm assured there will be even more natural delights to see, perhaps even a seal or two. If you are passing down that way any time soon, I can highly recommend Frogwell B&B in Strete, who were friendly and accommodating and entirely free from chintz. And if you happen to be sinking a pint at the Tower pub in Slapton, say hello to Harry from me - because she's bound to be in there.

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Unfortunately my camera was stolen just after we got back, complete with all the film I'd shot over the weekend. So the above photo of Slapton Ley comes courtesy of me'n thedogs' on Flickr / CC BY 2.0

A Special Weekend in Sunny Sussex

The Annual Secret Beach Picnic

The only thing better than a picnic is a picnic on a sandy beach in the sunshine with good friends.

Last year I wrote about my long-overdue pilgrimage to a secret beach in Sussex on which I'd played and picnicked as a child. Together with a small gang of special friends, I'd rediscovered this magical spot, and we'd spent a happy day of munching, bantering and kite-flying. It was so lovely that I decided to make it an annual event, and this year I took a few more people, just as much food, and enough games and activities to keep even the most restless among us occupied for an afternoon. Once again we were blessed with beautiful weather, though there was not enough wind for kites (which was shame as we had brought three). Instead we played badminton, frisbee, Nerf ball and tennis; some of us even swam - though the water was a little like seaweed soup.

My freckles went crazy and a few of the boys turned pink, despite the suncream being forcefully dished out by yours truly. I think most people even enjoyed the mile and a half hike along the cliff edge to get there. The route along the rocky beach - accidentally taken by certain others who shall remain nameless - was perhaps less enjoyable, but worthwhile all the same. During the course of the six hours we stayed, there were moments of frantic sociable activity, and moments of quiet contemplative calm. After a manic few months of almost non-stop work (hence the lack of blog posts lately), it was the first chance I'd had to sit and really unwind since America. It was quiet and still and beautiful, and I felt truly blessed to be sharing it with such a lovely bunch. One small voice of mild hysteria emerged as the tide started to come in, but we all made it out alive - and if anything, improved by the day's experiences.

Hanover Day, 5th July 2009

The next morning Ant complained of aches and pains from our various exertions, but I felt fine and raring to get out into the still-blazing sunshine. It was Hanover Day here in Brighton - a mini festival in what is perhaps the steepest neighbourhood in town. Southover Street was closed to traffic and several stages had been erected about the place. Along the side streets, locals pedalled their bric-a-brac to eager kids with pocket money to burn. We bimbled about, bumping into familiar faces at every turn, and eventually settling down in the courtyard of the Hanover Community Centre - where my ex-yoga teacher's band, Gin Club, were playing.

After Gin Club's foot-stomping dirty blues spectacular, Kate's Kitchen Band took to the stage for a Ceilidh and poor Ant's heart sank at the site of accordions. But he gracefully agreed to partner me for a dance, and was soon Do-si-do-ing along with glee - even doing it with a four year old on his shoulders the second time around. I haven't done country dancing since my school days, and had forgotten what a riot it was. Unfortunately the combination of sweat-inducing hoedown and dry dusty courtyard made for some very grubby legs - but who cares if you look like an urchin, it's Hanover Day! As we strolled back up the hill past clusters of rosy-cheeked revellers lolling around on street corners, it became clear that most people were too cider-fuelled to notice anyway.

I had managed to make it through a triumphantly active and sun-soaked weekend without a hint of hangover, injury or sunburn. I even look a little less pale than I did before - and feel a good deal more relaxed. Weekends don't come much better than that.

Sussex Gastro Pubs Series: The George & Dragon at Burpham

The Sunday pub-walk is a longstanding tradition in the Stanfield family, and one that I have continued to observe into adulthood, despite no longer having the obligation of a dog to exercise. I'd thought we must have discovered every decent country watering hole in Sussex in the last however many years of weekend adventures, so it was a pleasant surprise to find somewhere new to fuel up at before braving the elements today. The George and Dragon at Burpham (pronounced at 'Burfam') is tucked away at the end of a long winding country cul-de-sac, right in the middle of a sweet little village. I guess it's what one would call a 'gastropub' - the focus being very much on the food, and with more of a chic restaurant feel than your usual rustic rural tavern. But it's still cosy and friendly, and amazingly buzzy despite being so far off the beaten track.

At around £15 for a main course, the food isn't cheap, but it's good. There was only one vegetarian option for each course, so I went for the soup of the day (onion & Gruyere) as a main course, while the others had roast beef and poached haddock, respectively. We were all impressed with the quality of ingredients, preparation and presentation of our choices and didn't resent paying a little more for something a cut above the usual Sunday roast. Having been so impressed with the mains, it would have seemed a crime not to sample the desserts, which all sounded so delicious that it was difficult to choose. I couldn't resist the 'dark chocolate brownie with homemade vanilla ice cream'; my companions picked 'orange and cinnamon bread and butter pudding' and 'raspberry panacotta' between them. The awed silence that accompanied the devouring of our puds (pictured above) was testament enough to their excellence, and by the end we were all quite blissfully replete.

Everyone was glad of the walk that followed - a circular route that took us out of the village via its Norman churchyard and up onto the ridge behind. Apart from an alarming number of animal corpses along the way, it was a lovely landscape, and you could see for miles from the up on the tops. But what had started out as a pleasantly mild afternoon suddenly turned into a miserable murky evening when a cloud of menacing mist descended, chasing us back into the village at an alarming rate. But it was worth it to see the dramatic sunset that ensued, and we were safely inside the car and on our way by the time it really came on to rain.

Today's itinerary was provided by our rather out-of-date edition of Pub Walks in West Sussex by Mike Power - a very useful guide to finding country pubs which have a decent walk nearby.

A Holiday at Home

Finally, after a whole summer of damp dreariness, we were blessed with an entire weekend of virtually uninterrupted sunshine. Yes! It so happened that the other half and I were scheduled to be in Eastbourne for the duration, looking after Mother's mini-menagerie while she was away on her annual pilgrimage to Walsingham. I found myself falling in love with my hometown all over again as we made the most of its balmy climate (they don't call it 'The Suntrap of the South' for nothing you know) and genteel charm, for what felt like a proper mini-holiday - complete with traditional English seaside pursuits.

Having been born and raised in Eastbourne, I moved to Brighton in my mid twenties because it offered a more diverse range of cultural activities, and is generally more open-minded and tolerant than its nearest rival resort; but there are drawbacks to living in such a popular and 'trendy' destination. We rarely venture down to the seafront in the summer months, wary of the heaving crowds and rowdy daytrippers; whereas in Eastbourne we were able to wander along the prom in relative peace. Down at the elegant Holywell end of the beach on Saturday morning, there was nobody about but a few eldery sunbathers and the occasional dog-walker, as we strolled right down to the cliffs, basking in glorious sunshine all the way. I only wish I'd packed my bikini - the sea looked so inviting. Our intended lunch destination, The Ship in Meads, had a 'no dogs' policy, so we ended up across the road at the Black Cat Café for a perfectly pleasant sandwich instead.

After dropping Pascha the dog back at Mum's, we ventured into the town centre, partly just to see what was new, but mainly with the legendary Camilla's bookshop in our sites. I used to spend hours in this place as a book-hungry teenager, then later as a penniless undergraduate looking for cheap textbooks, and am happy to see that despite the increasingly ramshackle interior, it is still going strong. I bought myself a selection of paperback novels - including original orange Penguin editions of The Severed Head by Iris Murdoch and The Echoing Grove by Rosamond Lehmann - for our upcoming trip to Hungary and Croatia; while Ant browsed the military history section looking for some obscure tome.

I managed to drag him away on the promise of an ice-cream at Thayers, where we also met up with my sister, her boyfriend and their delightful new baby Nathaniel (who arrived nearly two weeks late on Friday 5th, in case you were wondering) for a ceremonious scoop (or in Ant's case, two) in honour of the new addition to the clan. We've been going to Thayers since I can remember - it was originally called Dayvilles and has always sold an amazing selection of flavours. My favourite (and my sister's) as a child was the now near-mythical 'Daiquiri Ice' - sadly no longer available, though still much talked about, and doubtless responsible for my subsequent penchant for cocktails. Despite the disappearance of certain retro flavours, the decor and furniture has hardly changed since the 70s, and the same jolly guy has been running it as Thayers for the last 15 years or more. Rather sweetly, he always remembers me, even though my visits these days are few and far between. I've yet to discover a comparable old-fashioned dedicated ice-cream parlour in Brighton - if there is one, someone please tell me!

On Saturday night we dropped in to my old local, and setting for a many a rites-of-passage, The Marine, for a quick drink before dinner. After a brief speculative wander, we ended up at what has lately taken over from good old Solo Pasta as Eastbourne's most popular and reliable Italian restaurant, Pomodoro e Mozzarella. The place was buzzing with birthdays and hen-nights, but nothing too disruptive, and the service was excellent considering. I chose a simple spaghetti and sun-dried tomato dish, while Ant went for a more indulgent calzone - the biggest I have ever seen! It was the size of my head, I'm not kidding! Amazingly, he still had room for dessert (a Tiramisu-style ice-cream sundae), though was happy for me to help him out.

On Sunday we took to the Downs with the dog for a circular walk from Butts Brow via Jevington, stopping at The Eight Bells for a cup of tea (it was too early for lunch) half way, and marvelling at the incredible panoramic views on the way back. A final weekend indulgence was cream tea at the Pavilion tearooms, where we sat reflecting on what had been a wonderfully relaxing weekend, and complimenting Eastbourne on its previously unappreciated virtues. I'm not quite ready to consider moving back there just yet, but would certainly recommend it as a haven for anyone wanting to escape the seemingly endless cycle of hedonism and wanton-eccentricity that tends to define weekends in Brighton. It was especially nice for me to be in the comforting surrounds of the familial abode, but without the usual chores and errands of a weekend at home hanging over my head. I came back feeling utterly refreshed and revived, resolving to spend more time re-acquainting myself with the place I once called home.

Recapturing Childhood Magic

When I was a child, we used to get taken on these big jolly picnics with a whole gang from the amdram crowd, including lots of other kids. We'd hike down the steep path from Beachy Head, little ones on shoulders, to a secluded sandy beach under the cliffs and spend long summer Sundays playing rounders, swimming, and going off exploring caves and rockpools while the grown-ups sunbathed. I once even found a fossil there. They were happy times, and I've held that beach in my memory as a place of childhood magic ever since.

On Saturday I finally went back there, hoping to recapture those carefree days and to share it with a few special friends. Contrary to all forecasts, the weather was perfect, with just the right amount of wind for kite-flying, and the place itself was just as beautiful and magical as I'd remembered it. Apart from the odd passing hiker or two, we had the whole beach to ourselves all afternoon, and time seemed to stand still as each of us soaked up the wonderfully tranquil atmosphere. If it hadn't been for the incoming tide, we could have easily sat there all evening - I don't think anyone wanted it to end.

Dragging out the day as much as possible, we stopped for a game of frisbee on the cricket green on the walk back - although the combination of cheap frisbee and a gathering wind made it a little frustrating. It was especially satisfying to pause and appreciate the sea in all its sparkly glory, away from the cheap distractions of Brighton promenade. I even had a brief pang of nostalgia for Eastbourne, as a crystal clear view of the town spread out below us. Sitting in the back of Olly's estate (perfect for picnics!) on the drive back, I was overcome by a severe case of the warm fuzzies, and an immense affection for my fellow passengers. It had been a truly lovely day.

Restoration & Recreation

My poor bicycle, I call her Hedwig, has been sat in the hallway looking a bit sad for the last six months, since we were both damaged in an accident that resulted in a broken jaw and smashed up teeth for me, and a blown tyre and a few scratches for her. I finally got round to taking her in to get fixed at the weekend, with a view to getting back on the saddle in the next few weeks. Now that the weather is improving and the evenings are getting lighter again, cycling to work is becoming a more enticing prospect, and I think I am about ready to tackle the psychological challenge. So I dropped Hedwig off at G-Whizz, a great little second-hand bike and repair shop down in Hove borders, which is also handily only a stone’s throw from my favourite café in Brighton & Hove, The Sanctuary. At first glance, the damage was apparently not too bad, but she will be given a good once-over, and I will be able to collect her next weekend. This was a small but significant step for me in getting over the whole ordeal, and now that plans are also afoot for a Hungarian dental trip, I’m starting to feel a lot more positive in general. A celebratory lunch at the aforementioned Sanctuary café was inevitable, as was a visit to Taj, the best ever food shop (in Brighton anyway), also just around the corner. The clement weather only served to reinforce this upbeat mood, and sunlight was streaming through the windows as I sipped my mango and passionfruit smoothie, and wolfed down a plate of delicious potato wedges with garlic mayonnaise.

An obliging Nikki, apparently mid-sentence, on the South Downs Way

A long overdue girlie night ensued on Saturday evening, with a trip to the Hanbury in Kemp Town for We ♥ Pop, the perfect cheesy night for one very excitable gay man and five willing fag-hags. We danced our little socks off to everything from Kylie to the Beatles, and enjoyed the laid back vibe of the refurbished venue (it was done up a while ago, but this was the first time I’d been since the change in ownership), complete with ironic wallpaper and an extremely well-stocked spirits bar. A remarkably hangover-free Sunday brought more delightful weather, and a chance to get out into the countryside. My photography homework this week was ‘portraits’, and Ant was very long-suffering in letting me take endless snaps of him sitting in trees, pausing at gates and even tucking into a hearty brunch from the little café in Stanmer village. The intense winter sun was perfect for capturing the surrounding colours of the countryside, already sporting the first signs of spring - with the odd crocus bursting up, and even blossom on some of the trees. Nikki joined us for a walk, giving Ant a break from the constant modelling, as I subjected her to some paparazzi action on the way up to Ditchling Beacon. Brian was waiting outside, keyboard in tow, when we arrived home, and we rehearsed for next weekend’s big wedding – my first same-sex civil ceremony – at which we shall be performing ‘Nobody Does It Better’, with tongue firmly in cheek. This pleasantly eventful weekend was rounded off with the hilariously bad Ghost Rider, starring a typically hammy Nicholas Cage, complete with dodgy toupee. It is certainly a strong contender for the ‘Top Ten Best Bad Films’ blog, which I’ve been thinking about for a while, and am now newly inspired to write, so watch this space.

What, No People?

After spending all of Saturday night photograhing pirates and wenches (see previous post), I was less than enthusiastic about doing my landscape photography homework on Sunday, ready for my second class of the course. I find it hard to inject energy into a composition without people, or at the very least, animals in it. But I am enthusiatic about learning to use my camera, and becoming a better photographer, so understand that this is all part of the process. To make matters even more difficult, the weather was pretty dire all weekend, the Downs shrouded in fog, and everything remotely landscapey looking rather grey and dull. My best bet was to head for the woods, where I might at least find some interesting textures, and hopefully some moss, to inject a bit of colour into my shots. So we drove out past Lewes, armed with the OS map, and took a chance on the first bit of accesible woodland, which happened to be near Chailey. It was certainly more colourful in the woods - the damp weather making everything look lush and vibrant. There was moss aplenty, of every kind, and some striking orange lichen to boot. I even managed to snap some lively geese, though unfortunately that particular photo was out of focus. It was frustrating not being able to delete the duff shots, but again, a good discipline to observe, enabling one to analyse what went wrong afterwards. Out of the 20 shots, I was really only content with one of them, though the rest were mostly OK. Our next assignment is 'urban landscapes', which I guess could be interpreted in a number of ways - I suppose at least one is more likely to see actual people in an urban setting! So, while I put some thought into potential locations for my next project, here's the one half decent snap I took on Markstakes Common: