South West Coast Path. Day 2: Warren Point To Kingston

I stepped off the bus in Noss Mayo at 9.45 the next morning. The weather was grey and misty once more, though it didn't rain until nightfall. The journey from Plymouth had taken 55 minutes, but the bus had gone 'all round the houses' to get there. I admired the pretty settlements of Noss Mayo and Newton Ferrers clustering on either side of the Yealm estuary. Then a fairly level, grassy path led me to Gara Point and Stoke Point and through another holiday park. I passed a prominent rocky tor on my left called St Anchorite's Rock.

Approaching the next estuary, Erme Mouth, the going became more strenuous. I knew that the ferry over the river Erme had suspended service for the autumn, so I'd arranged for a taxi to meet me by Mothecombe slipway at 2.30. I arrived with 10 minutes to spare. 20 minutes later and there was still no taxi. I wondered if it was waiting for me in the hamlet of Mothecombe one quarter of a mile up the hill. Sure enough, there it was. The driver was Eastern European and quite lost. Normally his routes confined him to the city limits of Plymouth. Now he was out in the wilds for the first time.

We set off along narrow, winding, steep-banked lanes in the direction of Kingston on the other side of the Erme, where I'd reserved a room for the night at the Dolphin Inn. The driver could not get his sat nav to recognise this isolated village, so I fished out my OS map and guided him. Eventually we arrived, though the fare was more than originally quoted because we'd taken a few wrong turnings. The Dolphin was friendly and inviting, full of posh, golf-playing, London types, but run by two brothers from the North of England. I ordered a steak for dinner — I felt like I deserved it as I had not eaten since breakfast — and it was very good.     

View from the coastal path between the estuaries of the Yealm and the Erme. 

Note the acorn marker, symbol of England's National Trails.

Impressive rock and cliff scenery.

The sandy Erme estuary, much wider than the Yealm.

The Dolphin at Kingston: 'Fine Traditional Ales, Quality Bar Food, Olde Worlde Charm.'

South West Coast Path. Day 1: Plymouth To Warren Point

Just over two years ago I walked two-thirds of the South West Coast Path from Minehead in Somerset to Plymouth in Devon — a distance of around 400 miles. I decided it was now high time I completed my epic journey along England's longest National Trail. So, on 14 November this year, I booked a room in the Squires' B&B, St James Place East, Plymouth, and took a train to the West Country. The next day I regained the path, my stomach knotted in expectation, and with joy in my heart.

On the dull and hazy morning of 15 November I left Smeaton's Tower on Plymouth Hoe and headed east.

Looking back towards Plymouth across Plymouth Sound.

Only 175 miles to go!

The path wound through a woodland of twisted trees and mossy branches. A few summer flowers still struggled on — mullein, red campion, gorse and one solitary squill.

See how the prevailing south-westerly winds have sculpted this tree into a pleasingly artistic shape.

I contoured round sandy, rocky coves and low headlands...

... and skirted the first of many caravan parks which have blighted this section of coastline.

The pyramidal Great Mew Stone Rock.

The river Yealm near Warren Point just beyond Wembury. 

There's a seasonal ferry across the Yealm but it had stopped running in September. So I retraced my steps to Wembury — only to find that the buses were on a one-day strike. I was about to phone a taxi when two kind walkers I'd met earlier gave me a lift back to Plymouth in their car. I would take a bus to Noss Mayo on the other side of the river the following morning, and resume my walk from there...

Six Poems Written While Walking The Coast Path Between Plymouth And Poole

dodo

dodo

dodododo

dodododododo

dododododododododo

 don't oh don't please don't

make me

extinct

Sleep work

Sometimes it's easy

paring the fruit, shelling the kernel,

picking the bones clean dry.

At other times you're sucking

thin wine through a straw

that's blocked and flattened,

or trying to play a flute

with no finger holes.

Who knows the reason

why work can seem easy

or work can seem hard?

Perhaps the work is done

in the coil of the dreaming mind,

long before

any gaudy thoughts unwind.

My Digital Life

Oh how can I live without Twitter

Or Facebook or Bebo or blogs?

If access were barred to my cell phone

My life would go straight to the dogs.

If you wrestled me from my computer

I couldn't account for my rage.

If you hijacked my laptop or hacked at my desktop

I'm an animal stuck in a cage.

If you unplugged my personal iPod

My life would be sadder than sad.

If you smashed my TV, DVD or PC

I'd go more than just acronym-mad.

However, if I think about it,

My rational mind might construe

That without all this digi-crapola

I've a whole lot of living to do.

Father and son

He cried, 'I love you, son', and then he died,

and something died in me also —

but something else strengthened, and survived.

Cahors

Rain cascades over Cahors.

In the church-cum-art gallery

a video by a Chinese artist

shows a waterfall flowing backwards

in slow motion.

Four Wise Axioms

Find the seeds of spring in winter.

Take a walk around the lake.

Learn to skate in the summertime.

Learn to dream while you're awake.

Quinterview 13

Learn what poetry means to retired clinical nurse Pam Moyle in our thirteenth Passionate Transitory quinterview.

You only have to look at the work of first world war poets such as Wilfred Owen to see how important it [poetry] is. How could the world have known the truth without such poets? I also think of the imprisoned political poets — their writing considered dangerous! Poetry also brings pleasure and relaxation to people in this increasingly frantic world. Poets will always be there to record the truth, so yes — it's very important.

Pam Moyle

Pam Moyle

Four More Years

Tonight, in this election, you, the American people, reminded us that while our road has been hard, while our journey has been long, we have picked ourselves up, we have fought our way back, and we know in our hearts that for the United States of America, the best is yet to come...

America, I believe we can build on the progress we've made and continue to fight for new jobs and new opportunities and new security for the middle class. I believe we can keep the promise of our founding, the idea that if you're willing to work hard, it doesn't matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or where you love. It doesn't matter whether you're black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, abled, disabled, gay or straight. You can make it here in America if you're willing to try.

President Barack Obama

Quinterview 12

Our twelfth quinterview is with Roy Bayfield, one of The Passionate Transitory's most talented poets. Details about Roy's book Bypass Pilgrim: Writings From The Vicinity Of The Heart can be found here. 

In the global scale of things, there is so little separate individuals can do to make their corners of the world better, that if poetry or any art is possible it seems noble to do it. 

Roy Bayfield

Roy Bayfield

Plogsland

I've lived in many different places, but I was born in Lincolnshire, raised in Lincolnshire and for the past ten years have lived in Lincolnshire (or, to be exact, on the border between Lincolnshire and Nottinghamshire). This county (one of England's largest, one of its flattest and one of its most depopulated) doesn't exactly draw me — well, not in the same way as Dante to Beatrice, or Tristan to Isolde, or Abélard to Héloïse. More like a tube of iron filings is attracted to a magnetic field, maybe — prosaically, unromantically, habitually. Today I marched another short stretch of Lincolnshire's most well-known trail, the Viking Way, and revisited once more the barren fenlands and ploughed-earth flatlands of my youth.

In Woodhall Spa I dawdled in tea rooms and bakeries, waiting for the torrential downpour to end. The uniform sky stretched monochrome-grey from horizon to horizon. I put on my Goretex gear and set off reluctantly down the path. Immediately I knew yet again why I loved walking, even in the rain. All my niggling little cares and worries had slipped away and my head felt light. I was really enjoying the simple, autumn-tinged walkway out of Woodhall Spa — across the golf course, through the woods and past this magnificent oak tree...          

The path led through woodland and over a golf course...

... to this gate with its reassuringly familiar Viking helmet marker.

I gained the old trackbed of the Horncastle and Kirkstead Railway at Sandy Lane. This disused railway line is now a cycleway, bridleway and walkers' route, known as the Spa Trail. The fallen leaves were pleasing to walk on... 

Here's a signboard highlighting the sculptures to be found along the way... 

I passed this striking artwork made of galvanised steel. It had now stopped raining and for the rest of the afternoon the sun came out in fits and starts.

Looking down at my feet (how often we miss what's happening down there!) I was struck by this random pattern of colourful leaves... 

The tree-lined pathway continued its delightful progress...

... unveiling wooden sculptures of fractal forms...

I eventually came to the small market town of Horncastle. A place, I admit, I would not like to frequent often.  You know those films where a stranger enters a pub in the back of beyond and the locals suddenly go all quiet and sinister? Well, I had a pretty similar experience entering Horncastle's Market Square dressed in a bright blue Berghaus rainshell and waterproof trousers, with a rucksack on my back and a camera round my neck. I mean, those incredulous faces didn't just latch onto mine and stay latched — their jaws dropped too, and they remained dropped...

St Mary's Church, Horncastle.

Far away I'd seen a hint, a suggestion, a faint whisper of hills beyond Horncastle as I'd approached the town.  Low — yes. Treeless  — certainly.  An illusion — probably. Yet my heart and soul yearned for some higher distance and airier spaces. 'Touch wood' I'd reach them soon. I seemed to remember that John Hillaby in his book Journey through Britain had described this part of the country as 'plogsland' — a word that had always conjured up for me a picture of plodding and slogging and bogginess. Undeterred, however, I plogged on... 

Shop in Horncastle.

Quinterview 11

Meet Cheshire poet Stella Jones who believes in bringing poetry to the people. We like that attitude very much here at The Passionate Transitory. Stella helps organise local poetry readings and events, and is a regular performer on the open mike scene.

Stella Jones