Arriving at Exeter is ideal, for the town is well placed for access to Devon, Somerset and Cornwall. These are England’s sunshine counties, where place names — Newquay, Weston-super-Mare, Lyme Regis — conjure up postcard images of ice creams on piers and sunbathing with windbreaks. Less well known, however, is north Devon, an area rich in unspoilt beauty, wild moors, river valleys, golden beaches and picturesque harbours.
Our first stop was Clovelly, a fishing village that dates back pre-Domesday Book. A jumble of whitewashed buildings spilling over wooded slopes, Clovelly is almost unbearably charming. In high summer the day-tripping hordes that swarm like ants through its narrow lanes are hard to bear, making off season the perfect time to visit. We strolled the steep cobbled main street, flanked by antique cottages.
It’s certainly a twee little place, yet something wasn’t quite right. And then it dawned on us; the only traffic sounds were hooves on cobbles. Vehicles cannot negotiate Clovelly’s steep hill, so donkeys are still used to transport goods.
Down on the 14th-century quay, we were inclined to sample the local fishermen’s haul. At the harbourside Red Lion hotel, offerings included delicious freshly caught lobster, bream, shark and bass.
Following this marine feast, a brisk redemptive hike seemed in order. Reached via a clifftop path through dense woodland, the walk to Blackchurch Rock neatly fills a spring afternoon, with views over broad blue Bideford Bay, and some startling geology. Boulder-strewn Blackchurch beach was deserted. We clambered out under a teetering cliff of folded pink shale to reach the rock. Breached by two cavernous tunnels, this great gothic pyramid seems quite otherworldly compared with the soft pastoral scenes found inland. Southwest England is not all cream teas on the village green, as any visit to its wild coastline makes clear.
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We spent the night in nearby Welcombe, a tiny old village above a steep-sided glen. The local pub was a leisurely stroll away along dinky high-banked lanes, winding through copses and meadows. Walking into the unpretentiously rustic Old Smithy Inn at Darracott felt like unwittingly stumbling into a scene from The Archers. The food was excellent and refreshingly simple, while the real ale was washed down with local banter spoken in those slow vowels so often badly mimicked.
Relaxed country rambles and indulgent dinners might seem the perfect way to pass a weekend, but adrenaline junkies will be hankering to nip over the border to Cornwall and visit its surfing capital, Bude. With miles of sandy beach, hammered by Atlantic swells rolling straight over from Newfoundland, this coastline enjoys some of the best waves in Britain.
Big Blue Surf School offers equipment hire and well-supervised courses for students of all abilities. I joined a small group that included two young girls and their mother. Just my level, I thought. As usual, however, the kids turned out to have the edge. The sea was pounding furiously on a distant reef. Our instructor Becky reassured us that today, at least, we would stick to friendlier inshore waters. After zipping into unflatteringly tight neoprene babygrows, we ran through some basic skills on terra firma. Learning to spring from the initial bellydown position into a low-balanced crouch is the key, but in the water it was easier said than done.
Brawling my way out through the uncompromising waves was the toughest upper body work-out I’ve had in ages. None of us were winning points for technique, but the excited whoops of my fellow novices said it all.
Today, with Becky’s help, all my previous attempts seemed to click into place. Soon I’d mastered the springing-up bit, achieving the hallowed surfer’s crouch for a few seconds at a time, and even attempted some abortive turns. These invariably ended in spectacular failure. The great beauty of surfing though, is that tumbles rarely hurt.
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After several hours’ hard surfing my arms hung heavy and useless; food was clearly called for. A patch of pale sand slung between parallel rock fins — Welcombe Mouth would make an ideal summer picnic spot. I noted the fact for future reference and stuffed a Cornish pasty into my mouth faster than my fingers could freeze.
As I munched, leaden cloud came scudding over the cliff tops, beams of stormy light spearing the water. Spume whipped off the boiling sea, where the swell had grown monstrous. The coast was giving me its wild best and it felt like striding the fringes of civilisation, along the line where this gentle landscape is torn into a ragged, crumbling edge.
Details: Flybe (www.flybe.com) flies daily from Edinburgh to Exeter from £75 return including taxes.
Big Blue Surf School, Welcombe, (01288 331764; www.bigbluesurfschool.co.uk), courses start at £20