Our week in Devon was sadly the wettest week I’ve ever suffered (and I’ve spent a lot of time in north Wales over the years).
However, one night, tired of the incessant rain I decided to explore beyond the cabin. There was a little play-park and a gate tangled in briar. Beyond the gate the rich, peaty earth had been churned up by horses.
There was an ancient stone bridge that seemed to lead to nowhere and have little use.
I crossed the bridge and was surrounded by luscious greenery. A canopy of oaks and sycamores and a tangle of hawthorn. Rain barely pierced the trees but it was falling hard on a clearing further up the path and gushing down the bridlepath carrying leaves and twigs and washing away soil.
Disused except for the odd curious walker or pony trot, this path once had real significance. It was lined with ancient stone walls and cut from the side of the hill.
The valley fell away sharply. A bushy-tailed fox chased magpies in a field far beneath. The path led to a disused coach park and a private beach. To avoid the splash and roar of the coast road I had to walk the same way back. I didn’t mind at all, despite the steep incline. For a few hours I could’ve been in another century.