People are getting worse.

I’m not quite sure who said this but this seems a remarkably prescient sentiment with which to start my most recent blog. 

Over the past couple of months I’ve experienced outings in both North and South Devon, and the difference couldn’t be starker. 

My opening jaunt took me down to the Hartland Peninsula for no reason other than “days off in the week” and “heatwave”, so two nights it was in little campsite in the village. Ordinarily I’d pitch up at Hartland Point but didn’t think I would get down in time. 

What a jaunt. Campsite was nice, but filled with dead-eyed families, dad sitting in the Jaecoo with the engine running making calls and mum suspiciously eyeing the LONE MAN in a van, so I did my best to pitch in a corner and escaped the horrible little Englanders where possible. 

My day took me to the coast path…a particularly challenging stretch with horrendous uneven steps everywhere gently grinding away one’s knees, but what a day to do it. Baking and great tunes on the headphones, this is the best solo activity, even better with an emotional support chick. Don’t hate, that Sid Batty bloke on t´Internet gets away with it.

This led me to a chance encounter with a nice Devon farming family running the container cafe on Hartland Point. She spoke proudly of her 18 year old son who stopped in to grab a sandwich whilst hard at work, and him managing to field the weighty commitments of a family farm as well as all the other things 18 year old lads aspire to do. Nice people, working hard. People who don’t look at you funny when you dare to chat. 

By the time I was back in Hartland, having crawled up the steep hill from the quay, I was on a roll, we’ll airbrush out the unfriendly grockle hordes at the pub on the Quay and move instead to the Anchor Inn. 

I’d been to suss it out the night before and thought I’d give Shanty Night a go. Ardent readers might note that I’ve become quite enamoured of Shanty-ing of late, joining the crew group and, whilst my voice hasn’t necessarily improved I can bang out a good chant. 

Belonging is a funny thing. It’s something I’ve probably struggled with a lot in life, only occasionally finding it in the oddest corners like the lovely blokes at a Tejo club in rural Colombia taking me under their wing. Pubs should be a place where strangers find belonging.

So, I sat on the fringes and gently worked my way in, albeit struggling with some of the more complex ones but belting out the ones I knew with gusto. In the manner of little Sam at a disco throwing his best moves to win a sweet pound, this drew the attention of the head shanty-ist, who commented that I seemed to know what I was doing, and would I like to lead one?

Yes. Absolutely nailed it, a hearty roaring rendition of South Australia.

It’s nice to feel a part of something. I even got offered a lift back to the site, but this might have been a ruse to abduct me and harvest my hearty Somerset organs. 

My next jaunt retained the shanty theme but took us down to Ilfracombe to, shock, an actual hotel. Despite its rougher edges, I do like Ilfracombe, and this was a weekend of pleasant interactions. Too much beer and sunshine but good spirit. And people who don’t look at you funny. Nice accepting mates.

Next up, therefore, was to hit the South.  I had, shock horror, a full five days off coming off a late shift as well, so therefore I was fully awake when I hit the road in the morning. Unfortunately, I very quickly hit a very major spanner in the works with the motorway grinding to halt at the A38 split. Whilst sitting in this queue looking very judgy at all the people who were escaping off to the A30 I very quickly ran some mental maths and realised that actually this was a proper ´Won’t be open for hours, man sets up barbecue on hard shoulder´kind of job.

Off I went.

This then led to the realisation that there’s no sensible way whatsoever to backtrack down South from the ‘30, especially not with country lanes and a 10 foot high wardrobe on wheels. I eventually plotted up in a layby and tried to plan a route on Google Maps which dishearteningly would take me right over the top of Dartmoor and add over an hour, however this was a better detour than basically driving down to Cornwall and back.

The lanes were in places a little bit challenging but overall it was really nice little rural meander coming across an absolute gem of a local shop. Encyclopaedic stock, but naturally I plumped for a shitty tuna sandwich because it was half price and gainz after my morning beasting in the gym.

As result (detour, not sandwich) I arrived in Karragean around two hours later than planned impressive on a two hour journey but such is life. Karragean is a slightly overpriced but pleasant camp site on the grounds of a country house not far from Salcombe.

Overall, this seemed like a really nice place to patch up for a couple of days. I’d actually come to Hope Cove on my coast path walk last year and I thought it was a beautiful little harbour. I haven’t quite accounted for the fact that it was now chock full of utter twats however this did not distract from the overall loveliness at the place. Whilst waiting for Mark to arrive, I saddled up my bike and pootled down the Cove for an enthusiacally priced pint- £6 for an Otter, £8 for a Beavertown. Yeesh. 

Life is often a bit yin and yang with twats and nice people, generally there’s a smattering of both, although the scales are very much tipped in South Devon particularly out on the road where one can expect to be regularly mown down by either a range Rover or something Audi and large. One particular encounter was with a Rangey which just kept coming at us down a country lane not wide enough to pass. My sign language of “You stop, we move” whilst defiantly holding the centre of the lane did the trick in the end.

But, that’s not to take away from the place. Me and him had a great couple of days wandering around the undeniably lovely countryside.

Lunch took us to the Lobster Pod in Hope Cove, the amazing garden perched above the village and run by a proper resteraunteur, a larger than life character definitely not from round ‘ere but with the uncommon knack of making one feel exactly where they should be. We also really enjoyed dinner at 33 by the Sea, perched spectacularly on the cliffs at Bolberry Head. A very decent meal, but possibly not a 150 quid dinner in the manner that lunch was somewhat pushing it for 40 quid. Eek

The next day took us to Kingsbridge for the morning, a decent little town to mooch around, although maybe not on a Sunday as, to their credit, pretty much everything was closed. Shamefully this meant a Tesco picnic in the van for lunch. After this I headed westwards to the next stop. Just me and the duck this time, Mark had to go to work. Booo

Wow. Yes, this was a good choice. Surprisingly I had got down here without too much drama also, it was almost like people were thinking ahead and being considerate whilst driving. That´s rare.

This would turn out to be a very pleasant and reasonable stopover, just 10 quid per person per night, definitely one I’ll be back to. Folly Farm. Also the home of a veritably encyclopaedic series of vending machines selling local goods.

A beautiful view also over to the nearby Burgh Island, cut off at higher tides but with an impressive sea tractor service to rescue you. I decided for my afternoon’s activity to head over there, avoiding the tractor as we still had a fair bit of sand left. This ended as a sharp reminder that yes, we are in the posh bit of Devon and actually people aren’t all that friendly. A lady on the beach had about 7 labradors on leads. I like labradors “Gosh, you must collect them!” I commented. Harrumph. Ignored. Ok then.

Burgh Island gave off a similarly unfriendly vibe. It’s essentially a private island belonging to a posh hotel with a helipad, and they tolerate Muggles in the lightest sense possible, accessing the short footpath to the end of the island but with lots of grumpy signs to keep you on the tracks and off the island as quickly as possible. NO PICNICS

I was similarly mugged off by a posh couple on the adjoining table outside the Pilchard Inn (despite rustic appearances this is a shill for the hotel). These were the kind of people that I just can’t gel with, very serious and stern and, despite my best efforts to block it out and concentrate on my nice pint and view, he was being subjected to an extremely dull monologue regarding the assorted traumas of childhood.

I am not ashamed to say that, when I got Webster out for the obligatory selfie-with-a-pint (I will admit that this is socially challenging behaviour, but far from threatening), both fell silent and stared at me in a straight-faced manner. Thankfully laughing in their faces was the correct reaction as they almost immediately left the odd man alone to his pint.

You see, I don’t mind being odd. God, there’s not enough of it in the world. Life would be really dull if we were all the same. Life is far too short to take yourself seriously.

In fact, I’ve probably not been giving a toss since my very first international solo trip to Africa in 2006, crossing Southern Africa by train on my tod and miraculously coming out the other end unscathed, despite high risk activities like unplanned hitchhiking on the motorway near JóBurg and the like.

Apropos of nothing, but certainly pertinent to South Devon, I have always been drawn more to the workers in life than anyone else. I sound cultured, on occasion, people think I’m posh, but I’ve worked all my life. Part time since the age of 13, plus holidays, full time ever since Uni. Doing whatever. When I first failed my probation in the Police I was back driving vans the week afterwards, then working retail security in a rough part of Bristol weeks later. You do what you need to, to get where you want to be.

There’s no shame in graft. Put in the hours and you’re alright by me. So, I’m drawn to the workers. 22 years now as a cop, various roles in uniform and out, but never off the frontline.

And, coming back to the point, slightly, I found that all of my interactions with the workers of South Devon were very positive, friendly and engaging, and that’s not just the ones who were paid to be nice to me. I did get nearly run down by a Royal Mail van in a lane/footpath since he was busy sorting letters whilst, er, driving, but even that ended in a jolly manner and when I bizarrely encountered the same van later in the day he gave me a cheery wave.

The next day I had a leisurely start, intending to complete the lovely round-circuit walk up the estuary to Aveton Gifford.

This relies on a seasonal ferry which crosses the mouth of the river close to Bigbury, it only runs for 2hrs in the morning and afternoon. I surmised that I was far, far better just waiting until 10 and getting across early to avoid the utter panic of rushing for the afternoon and missing it, getting stuck on the wrong side.

So, I wandered to the departure board, rang the bell and a nice lady puttered over from the other side, [undeniably ‘old money’ posh but clearly working hard, so OK by me] directing me a few hundred metres down where the boat could land and I could avoid wet boots. 5 quid each way, and you get to meet Bear the boat dog. Winning.

As I wandered through the fields up the estuary, I surmised that this was a very nice day indeed, and was humming along to my music, looking forward to a very nice afternoon nailing the contents of the van fridge, until my phone pinged. Mate from work. “What time are we meeting tomorrow?”

F. F. S. I knew immediately he was right. I’m terrible with numbers, and distinctly remembered putting the leadership course into my work diary, one day late.

No beers. Drive home later. Fun over. At least I was only a couple of hours away. Still, I thought, I can have a nice pub lunch in AG anyway. No. It was Monday, so this was closed. What a great plan, doomed to failure. Since my only other food option on the route was a place called “The Lobster Shack” which would probably be full of twats/very expensive/both I thought I’d just press on back to the site.

As I made my way back, I further cemented my rather negative thoughts about the South Devon populace as I passed a portly older man, rudely ignoring my whilst his significantly younger wife from far away dutifully carried what looked like a heavy picnic rucksack for him. Disappointing.

See, people are getting worse?