Postcards From Across the Pond

Where No One Can Hear You Scream

Some months back, we got it in our heads to do a bit of glamping. Fast forward to now and we’re in an Airstream caravan (a 1956 American Classic) and it is … interesting.

The trip took longer than it should have and made difficult by the on-again off-again rain (we’ve been enjoying clear skies, hot weather and drought conditions for weeks, but we go on holiday, and it rains) and the fact that we’re heading to Devon. In the summer.

This was not, however, unexpected, and we weren’t in a hurry, so despite the traffic and the weather, it wasn’t as stressful a trip as it might have been. Along the way we stopped at Mottisfort—a National Trust house and garden—for a not-quite-halfway-there rest, lunch in the café, and a nice walk around the gardens. We didn’t go into the house because we didn’t have time, which was a shame as it sounded fascinating.

We then returned to the A303 so we could join the miles-long traffic queue as it passed Stonehenge which, far from being an annoyance, is a sort of tradition when traveling to the West Country.

Incredibly, the SatNav found our glamping site without difficulty. It is out in the middle of nowhere at the end of a dirt track, which is kinda how I imagined it, but with fewer people. I did a quick walkabout after we settled in, and we are definitely the only people here. Aside from, you know, an axe murderer hiding in the bushes.

Agatha

The first day we visited Dittisham. It’s a mere mile away, but we took the car because it would be too stressful walking on the dangerously narrow roads. As it turned out, driving was just as stressful. Even getting out of the compound was a challenge because the hill was very steep and the track covered with loose gravel, meaning the car literally slid backward as I attempted to drive forward. They should have warned us to arrive in a Jeep Wrangler, not a Kia Picanto.

After a fifteen-minute drive that should have taken less than two, we found there wasn’t much to Dittisham, just impossibly narrow streets and a couple of ferries to take you somewhere else. One went to Greenway, a trip of 300 metres that took less than five minutes. There was no schedule for this ferry; you had to ring a bell to summon the Captain, and then he came whenever he jolly well felt like it. The big draw, however, is that Greenway was the holiday home of Agatha Christie.

Disappointingly, as her holiday home and not her real residence, she never did any writing there, just editing. Additionally, it was only three stories high with about 28 rooms (counting servants’ quarters), so it wasn’t like it was luxurious or anything. It was, however, interesting, and the grounds were lovely.

Driving back was even hairier, and we left the car in the upper car park so we didn’t have to drive up the hill again. Walking it is no treat, but it’s worse in the car.

The Airstream

This place is nice, but we’re glad it’s only booked for three nights because it’s a bit cramped. Also, while luxurious and posh—the decking, railing, outdoor furniture, everything, is top notch—there is a lot of “the illusion of luxury” about it.

There is a Krups coffee maker, which I suppose is to make you believe you’re getting a faux-brewed coffee without the faff, but the kettle and a jar of Sainsbury’s Brand instant would have done just as well. And, of course, the welcome pack has a loaf of hand-crafted sourdough bread. Outside, the cabins have lots of amusements and amenities, but most of them, while top-quality, aren’t worth the effort. The hot tub is the trendy Oriental-style that uses a wood-burner to heat it. The fuck? I have to build a fire, then wait for it to heat up a supersized tub full of water? My feeling is that, after the initial outlay, they can just advertise its availability to add a hint of opulence, but nobody will ever actually use it.

The Airstream itself is a marvel, so compact and full of useful nooks and crannies. It’s like a canal boat, but smaller. Everything is tiny and tidy and made for little people. A person of above average height and/or girth would not fit comfortably into this trailer. Fortunately, we’re small.

Dartmouth

Dartmouth, the SatNav assured me, was only 15 minutes away, and I hoped it was on a road wide enough to have a stripe painted down the middle. We found it without incident and accidentally discovered a Park and Ride, which was a welcome sight indeed. The bus was every ten minutes and got us to the centre of the small (ish) town in short order. There was a castle, so we went.

It didn’t look promising at first, but it was an interesting outing that filled up the morning so, once back in town, we undertook the usual search for sustenance. This involves deciding on the definition of “lunch,” then wandering around unfamiliar streets until we’re too tired and hungry to care. After verifying that all the eateries in the small town centre were chucka with tourists (really, the nerve!), we nipped down an alley and around the corner to the Flavel Art Centre where they had a fine café that served plain scones, but no clotted cream.

We then visited a used bookstore where, naturally, we bought a book, then stuck our noses into the American Candy Shop (and quickly retreated before the overpowering smell of sugar gave us diabetes). That about covered all the entertainments Dartmouth had to offer, so we returned to the bus stop, and our car, and made our way back to the Airstream, leaving the Kia in the upper lot again.

It turned out to be a lovely, sunny, very warm evening, and we enjoyed it relaxing on the sumptuous deck. I even tried out the hammock with predictable results.

Home

On Friday we woke early, had breakfast, packed, and hit the road, glad to be taking our last hike up the lower hill, and the final scary drive to the main road, which is, itself, a scary, single-track lane.

We were looking forward to wider roads, but the SatNav took us on a detour down single-lane roads where a scattering of passing places to allow for oncoming traffic. Usually, a trip down these types of roads isn’t too bad because the traffic is light. This time, however, with everyone using that route because of the detour, it was a nightmare. A line of cars going one way trying to pass another line of cars coming the other way wasn’t really ideal, or the time-saving alternate route the SatNav promised.

Consequently, it took us a lot longer to get out of Devon than it should have, but we still got to Kingston Lacy around 12:30. After loos and the café, we toured the house, which was as grand as it had looked on the episode of Hidden Treasures of the National Trust we had watched the night before which had prompted our visit.

I wasn’t worried about the final leg of the journey because driving out that far had taken only an hour and a half. That had been on a Tuesday morning, however, not a Friday afternoon on a sunny day in summer. The only good thing was the traffic jams we inched through all the way to Chichester were mild compared to the ones going in the opposite direction.

We arrived home in the late afternoon, which wasn’t bad, but it was still more than five hours of driving for a distance of just 200 miles, something I could accomplish in the US in about three and a half hours.

But, all in all, it was a nice holiday. The accommodation was top notch, the area was stunningly beautiful, and we saw as much of the local area as we cared to. The only downside was, despite having visited at least four cafés and three National Trust Tea Rooms, I never had a real Devon Cream Tea.