Part 6: "Sweet Swan of Avon." (Johnson)

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones,

The labour of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallow’d relics should be hid

Under a star-y-pointing pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,

What need’st thou such weak witness of thy name?

John Milton (1608-1674), Epitaph on Shakespeare.

I first saw these gardens behind Shakespeare's Birthplace when I was 16. I had hiked from Ireland to the village of Charwelton to visit "Auntie Jeannie", my mother's stepmother. She was summering in Brighton, but her family offered to put me up for the night and took me here, to Stratford-upon-Avon, before driving me to London. The trouble is, as I visit again, forty-three years later, I seem to have no recollection of what I had seen here! Strange, considering that William Shakespeare became a primary focus of my teaching career for thirty-six years. Still, whatever the inadequacies of my memory, there is nothing inadequate in visiting some of the key places in William Shakespeare's life.





We are early as is our touring custom, so the bigger crowds of companion tourists are not yet cluttering the sites. We tour the house, after skipping through the Shakespeare exhibit at the Shakespeare Centre, through which we enter. (I feel guilty about not reading every panel of every exhibit, but I know all the information, and Sammy is less patient that some: he likes to see things first-hand.)



I am struck by the incongruity we see everywhere in England: we stand in an Elizabethan timber-frame building while meters away are modern shops, vehicles, electronic gadgets and people from across the globe. I start to notice the subtle intrusion of modernity into this world of 400 years ago: discreet switches, fire alarms and extinguishers, security systems, displays. Still, it is fascinating to walk through the rooms in which young William lived, to see where he was born, and started his married life. As for the decor, it is described as being authentic and contains some originals. I love the painted wall-coverings that set the family apart as being of a relatively affluent class.

(The official photo of Grampy, taken by Sam, in front of the Birthplace, on Henley Street. Above is Henley Street, towards the Birthplace, up the street to the right.)



We visit Hall's Croft, the home of Dr. John Croft and his wife, Susanna Shakespeare, the oldest daughter. Built in 1613, it is reasoned that this building is the authentic dwelling and consulting-room where Dr. Hall practised medicine, such as it was in the 1600s.



In the garden behind, we see the first of the Greg Wyatt sculptures, of which several others are in the New Place Great Garden. I assume it represents A Midsummer Night's Dream, but forget to read the plaque carefully!







We find Nash's House and the site of New Place on Chapel Street. New Place was the finest home in Stratford and Shakespeare owned it for the last eighteen years of his life. He died here, having returned from London, likely ill, at the end of his career in the theatre. It was demolished in 1759 by its owner, protesting the taxes. Here, I photograph Mary, against the wall of Nash's House, which would have been the wall against which New Place stood. Nash's House was owned by Thomas Nash, who married Shakespeare's granddaughter Elizabeth Hall in 1626. They actually lived in New Place, which Shakespeare had bequeathed to his daughter, Susannah, following Shakespeare's death. Elizabeth Hall was the last direct descendant of the great playwright, and those who claim relationship to Shakespeare, do so through Elizabeth.






New Place stood on extensive grounds. Fragmentary remains of the foundation are still here and the two gardens mentioned in the property deeds have been restored. Below, Steve and Sammy stand in the Elizabeth-style knot garden created in 1919-20, with the Guild Chapel on the left and Nash's House on the right.
Through the pergola--a trellis-work tunnel--we enter the Great Garden. It is contained within box and yew hedges, and contains an old mulberry said to have been grown from a cutting taken from a mulberry planted by Shakespeare. I am more intrigued by the Greg Wyatt sculptures that ring the expanse of lawn. I photograph them and have my picture taken with his sculpture representing Hamlet, the greatest Shakspearean tragedy.




Meanwhile, Sammy reads me the inscription on the great monument at the side of the Great Garden:

This Alto Relievo

Shakespeare seated between the dramatic muse and the genius of painting.

Formerly in front of the Shakespeare Gallery, Pall Mall, London,

Was presented to this town by Charles Holt Bracebridge, Esq.

Atherston Hall 1871

In Trinity Church we find the grave of William Shakespeare and his family. I do remember this from 1965. Unlike other sites it has not changed at all. We are piqued that we must pay to get to the chancel to see the grave and bust, but money was not going to prevent me from visiting. Shakespeare was buried here in 1616, a privilege bestowed upon him because he had become a "lay rector" in 1605. Alongside him are his wife, Anne, and other family members. The bust was erected a few years after his death. Despite the fact that it was placed when his widow and friends were still alive, its authenticity as a good likeness is disputed.

Good friend for Jesus Sake Forebeare,

To digg the dust encloased heare.

Blese be the Man that Spares these Stones,

And Curst be he that Moves my Bones.

We found a restaurant on Henley Street, called Mistress Quickly's. The food was excellent. I enjoyed a robust lamb stew and a Stella; the others enjoyed their luncheon, too.

We cannot miss Anne Hathaway's cottage. I have been here before and often told my students the stories of William's marriage to the pregnant Anne, who was eight-years-older than Shakespeare. Anthony Burgess (and others) explain that the marriage was likely a "pitch-fork-wedding" with Anne's family and their farmer friends using "bribes" to force young Will to do the right thing after his May Days frolic with the older Miss Hathaway!

I ask the guide about the 1969 fire that nearly destroyed the cottage in Shottery. He explains that a young man had a quarrel with his girlfriend. Angered, he had gone downtown and gotten drunk at the pub. He bought a gallon of petrol and came to the cottage and set the end wall ablaze, seeking some dramatic way to show how upset he was. He was eventually arrested, put in gaol, and later released to marry the young woman. He still lives in Stratford. I get the impression his life has not turned out well: divorce, crippling arthritis. . . . Mary mutters something about karma.

It is a wonderful place to visit, full of original furnishings and reproductions. My guidebook says: "despite its romantic associations, as the place where the teenage Shakespeare courted his future wife"--I laugh and doubt there was much courting--maybe a hay mow somewhere!

The Hathaway Cottage is considered "the quintessential country cottage." The guidebook says that "the view of the house from across the garden has inspired countless paintings and photographs, and represents one of the most familiar images of 'old England'. " The house is built from timber, stone and brick, with a thatched roof that partly conceals its diamond-paned dormer windows. Some evidence of the fire remains, and there isn't a right-angle in the building, but it is remarkable how it has survived so well, considering that countless visitors have walked through here, even before 1892, when it was purchased by the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust.

It starts to rain so the Millers go to the nearby giftshop while I hurry through the Shakespeare Tree Garden, created in 1988. Recently, unusual sculptures have been placed here, the works of young American and British artists inspired by The Bard. My favourite is this one, representing Hamlet, by Michelle Firpo Capiello.

The gardens here are as beautiful as any, and before we leave, I notice a perfect pink rose.

Shakespeare, himself, used the rose often, as image and metaphor.

Ophelia had said of her lover: "He is the rose and expectancy of the whole state." Later, after she becomes mad, her brother speaks sadly of what has become of her:

Laertes: O heat, dry up my brains! tears seven times salt,
Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!
By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight,
Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May!
Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!
O heavens! is't possible, a young maid's wits
Should be as mortal as an old man's life?
Nature is fine in love, and where 'tis fine,
It sends some precious instance of itself
After the thing it loves.

Sonnet 54



O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

Part 5: Dorset, The Downs & Channel Coast

I awake at my usual time, between 4:00 and 5:00 and it is already light. I want to finish Ian McEwan's novel; it is so engrossing, and so sad, because the principal characters could have saved so much just by listening to what each was saying to the other. The denouement is approaching, and I read:



She watched him coming along the strand, his form at first no more than an indigo stain against the darkening shingle, sometimes appearing motionless, flickering and dissolving at its outlines, and at others suddenly closer, as though moved like a chess piece a few squares towards her. The last glow of daylight lay along the shore, and behind her, away to the east, there were points of light on Portland, and the cloud base reflected dully a yellowish glow of street lamps from a distant town. . . . Now she could hear the sound of his footfalls on the pebbles, which meant he would hear hers. He would have known to come in this direction because it was what they had decided, their after-dinner plan, a stroll on the famous shingle spit with a bottle of wine. They were going to collect stones along the way and compare their sizes to see if storms really had brought order to the beach.

I finish the book and put it down. I let my eyes follow the blurbs:



"Wonderful . . . Exquisite . . . Devastating . . . "
"It is a masterpiece."
"McEwan is the kind of a writer who can say more in a sentence than most can say in a chapter."

I agree with all of these positive comments. On Chesil Beach is beautiful, and I recall seeing the actual beach when flying in from Canada. Plus, one of my travel magazines has a wonderful photo of the Chesil Bank and the Fleet Lagoon. I know about the natural mystery of the pebbles: they increase in size from northeast to southeast due to varying strengths of coastal currents. And then it dawns on me: we are driving along the coast this morning, so why not visit? At breakfast I ask Steve and he agrees.





Sam, Steve and I climb up to the ridge and down to the water. We stand by the water looking back at Mary, who remains on the middle bank. I confirm that walking on these pebbles is difficult--and noisy. I do not take time to check whether or not the size of the pebbles change--I believe it to be true. I do pick up a few pebbles for my "collection" back home. I am just happy to stand here where this fine novel culminates, and enjoy the experience.

Nearby is Dorchester, the town in which Thomas Hardy based his novel The Mayor of Casterbridge. We don't take time to stop at Hardy's Cottage, the birthplace of one of my favourite writers, nor at Bere Regis, the Kingsbere of one of my most-loved novels, Tess of the D'Urbervilles, the book for whom I named my daughter, Sarah Tessa. Hardy has been praised for his powerful visual style, and I seek out a passage from Tess, early in the novel, as Hardy sets the scene:

This fertile and sheltered tract of country, in which the fields are never brown and the springs never dry, is bounded on the south by the bold chalk ridge that embraces the prominences of Hambledon Hill, Bulbarrow, Nettlecombe-Tout, Dogbury, High Stoy, and Bubb Down. The traveller from the coast, who, after plodding northward for a score of miles over calcareous downs and corn-lands, suddenly reaches the verge of one of these escarpments, is surprised and delighted to behold, extended like a map beneath him, a country differing absolutely from that which he has passed through. Behind him the hills are open, the sun blazes down upon fields so large as to give an unenclosed character to the landscape, the lanes are white, the hedges low and plashed, the atmosphere colourless. Here, in the valley, the world seems to be constructed upon a smaller and more delicate scale; the fields are mere paddocks, so reduced that from this height their hedgerows appear a network of dark green threads overspreading the paler green of the grass. The atmosphere beneath is languorous, and is so tinged with azure that what artists call the middle distance partakes also of that hue, while the horizon beyond is of the deepest ultramarine. Arable lands are few and limited; with but slight exceptions the prospect is a broad rich mass of grass and trees, mantling minor hills and dales within the major. Such is the Vale of Blackmoor.

We make one final stop in this beautiful countryside, near Dorchester, at Cerne Abbas, to see the 180- foot giant carved in the chalk hillside. I am sure Sam will find it amusing: it is a graphic fertility symbol thought to represent either the Roman god Hercules or an Iron Age Warrior. But my photo reveals that the giant has "lost his head." We are told that when the sheep go in September, the outline will be cleaned so as to reveal the full sight. Sammy laughs out loud that "a sheep is standing on the giant's wiener!"

Onwards to New Forest, a unique expanse of heath and woodlands covering 375 square miles. Named by William the Conqueror, it is one of the few surviving primeval oak forests. The guidebook says "it was the popular hunting ground of Norman Kings and in 1100 William II was fatally wounded here in a hunting accident." (We miss the Rufus Stone, memorialising his death.)

I have a more personal reason to visit here: my old friend, and subject of my book, Henry John Burton Marriott, used to visit here at Brockenhurst; his mother's family lived in West Moors, just eight miles from the Isle of Wight. Also, my step-mother Dianne strongly suggested I stop here, as she had toured New Forest from Southampton on her Cunard cruise last year.

We don't know where to drive, so we opt for the open double-decker bus tour from Lyndhurst, a town that offers an additional note of interest for me, as a fan of Lewis Carroll: Alice Lydell (Alice in Wonderland) lived here all her life and is buried in St Michael's graveyard, a church that also shows the influence of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, my favourite group of artists!




As we enjoy the sunshine and breeze on the two-hour tour, we see again and again the famous New Forest ponies, roaming free and sometimes even blocking the roads. We drive through Brockenhurst to Lymington, where we see the ferry to the Isle of Wight and so many sailboats moored that I am sure my sailing brother, Scurvy Pete, would feel right at home--or overwhelmed. We also visit Beaulieu and Exbury. It is a worthwhile journey, but it is time to move on, and our hotel is in Brighton.


I know of Brighton: its Pier and Royal Pavilion are iconic. I know that Jack Marriott and Leila Talbot were married at the Registrar's Office here in 1912, the very marriage--"beneath his station"--that would cost him the support of his family and precipitate his emigration to Canada a few years later. It was also here that Jack purchased the print of Beethoven that he valued all his life, which is featured predominantly in my David MacNeil portrait of Jack, and symbolised his life-long adoration of Beethoven's Ninth.


Our hotel is on North Street, just a block away from the entrance to the gardens of The Royal Pavilion. It is a balmy evening when we arrive, so we walk along Old Steine and choose to visit Brighton Pier, brightly lit for the night but not crowded. Sam rides the carousel and jumps on the giant trampoline.






We find a very good restaurant called Pinnochio's on New Street and enjoy an excellent, late supper.

In the morning we arrive at the Royal Pavilion only to be told that the workers are having a meeting then and there to decide if they will open for the day. I am puzzled until I see a man with a stack of pickets, and remember that some British workers are staging a one-day strike for more pay. Meanwhile, we visit the Sea Life Centre, the waterfront aquarium built in 1872 as a menagerie and converted to an aquarium in 1929. It was great fun, but does not compensate for our disappointment learning that the Royal Pavilion remains closed for the day. I am left with a few exterior photos and the facts: "As sea bathing became more fashionable in the mid-18th century, Brighton was transformed into England's first seaside resort." The Prince of Wales, who became George IV in 1820, had employed John Nash in 1815 to transform his farmhouse into a lavish Oriental palace. Completed in 1823, the exterior has remained largely unaltered. As for the interior, we shall have to come back to Brighton someday to see that!

We visit Brighton Beach, just off the Pier. Sam and his grampy love beaches, and rocky Brighton is no exception. No bathing houses, or in fact, anyone swimming at all!

We now have a few extra hours, so we surprise Sam by taking him to Pooh Corner, in and around Hartsfield, in the Ashdown Forest in East Sussex. We find the most famous of all the "Enchanted Places," the actual Poohsticks Bridge where author A. A. Milne first played Poohsticks with his son, Christopher Robin.


It is a long trek through the woods but we arrive to find the bridge very much as illustrated by E. H. Shepard, immortalised in the second of the two Pooh storybooks, The House at Pooh Corner. We all join for a few rounds of Poohsticks.


"Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over and watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known." -Pooh


Our heads are full of images of Pooh, and Eeyore, and Piglet, and Roo. And the forest rings with the sounds of Heffalumps! All great fun!


We also take time to eat, but no honey pot for us. Instead we opt for a meal at one of the local Hartsfield eateries, The Haywagon. What a wonderful place, full of local characters, tourists, and even a "proper Jack Russell" terrier on his own stool at the end of the bar, his owner feeding him crisps.
We half-expect Christopher Robin, Pooh and their friends to wander in!

We decide we could live in Hartsfield and visit this pub every day. The food is excellent, the ambiance traditional and comfortable, and the visit a pleasure.

We leave East Sussex for home, a respite from Premier Inns, before our day with Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon tomorrow. Besides, I am feeling "just a little eleven o'clockish!" and need to sleep in my own bed!

Part 4: Cornwall

Henry James wrote, "I have interviewed the genius of pastoral Britain."

I, too, witness that genius, driving through Devon and Cornwall. The colours really are verdant and the hills do roll by like patchwork, each irregular field stitched with hedgerows.

Flying into Heathrow, Air Canada flew just north of Cornwall and I saw it clearly. I knew it was beautiful then, and I see it is beautiful now. There are few places on the A30 where we can pull off, however, so I try to snap a few shots from the moving car.



Our first destination is The Lizard, and part of our drive is enshrouded in thick fog, so we fear we will see nothing. But the sky clears, we explore the edges of the cliffs and the great lighthouse and I feel like I could be back in Nova Scotia. Unfortunately, I recommend driving as close as possible and again the narrow roadway is a menace: Steve yields to an on-coming car and backs up to let them pass. He does not realise the clump of vegetation he backs into is actually a stone post and crunches in the back panel on his Toyota. He is remarkably accepting of the mishap.

In fact, narrow roads--lanes, if that--cause anxiety because there are so many blind turns, and almost every road is bounded by such high hedges that at times we can't see anything--scenery or approaching vehicles. The RAV 4 is a big vehicle by British standards, but we see plenty of SUVs and a few full-sized cars. At one point, Steve leaps out to show us that he can almost touch the shrubbery on both sides with out-stretched arms.

For years, Steve and Mary spoke of the scrumptious Cornish Pasties they had found at The Lizard when they visited here soon after their marriage. We hope "Ann's Famous Pasties" is still here: we find it and their memory proves correct--incredible, huge, and delicious pasties.

We next drive to the much-touted--and over-rated tourist mecca--Land's End. The cliffs are beautiful, but to enjoy them we must "experience" the amusement park or "attraction" that sucks coins from hundreds of visitors. I love the Dr. Who science-fiction television series, but the incongruity of Dr. Who rides and displays at the western edge of Britain is disconcerting!

The operators even want us to pay for every photo taken with the famous signpost, but we sneak one from outside the barrier whilst they try to sucker another tourist.


Mary gave me a wonderful book of scenic British villages, and highly recommended was Mevagissey. We go there, searching for two acclaimed attractions: The Lost Gardens of Heligan and The Eden Project. But we arrive at Pentewan to see Heligan at 4:40 and the last tickets were sold at 4:30! (In fact, everything in the UK closes at 5:00, and it will be light for four more hours!) Nevertheless, I visit the very fine gift shop and know that this is a place to which we must return. The guidebook says that The Lost Gardens are "an amazing restoration project to recreate the extraordinary gardens created by the Tremayne family from the 16th century to World War 1." From what I can see, it is worth a visit. Likewise, the nearby Eden Project in St Austell: two futuristic conservatories called Biomes--they look like domes made from giant bubble-wrap!--have been designed to mimic the environments of warmer climates. Plants from South America, West Africa, Malaysia, and the Tropical Islands thrive here. The Biomes are built into an abandoned Cornish clay pit. We must come another day.

We drive into the village of Mevagissey, despite warnings to park the car outside, and at first the streets are one-way. But not the main street. We must fold in both side mirrors to get through, and once-committed there is no turning back! Here we were stuck waiting for some movement behind a taxi, as another car finds a slightly wider spot to get through. I photographed the hill-side village overlooking the harbour, and then realised that the only way out was to drive back through the narrow streets. Oh, for a Vespa!

We spend the night at a quite inadequate Premier Inn near Newquay, and it is only later that I discover two things: first, I left behind my expensive and annotated atlas of the UK, and, much worse, I was only minutes away from the birthplace of my old dinner guest, Sir William Golding: he was born at St Colomb Minor. (It gets worse: the next day we drive past the village of Perranarworthal near Truro where he lived for many years and where he died, and also within a few miles of Bowerchalke, where he is buried.) The next time I shall do my research first, before we visit places.

Tomorrow we head for New Forest.

Part 3: Wessex

Who doesn't come to Britain and see the most famous wonder of all?

We arrive at Stonehenge early on a gorgeous Monday. I know it is a World Heritage Site, that it was the centre of one of the world's earliest cultures, built at least 4,500 years ago, and that the bringing and the placing of the Sarsen Stones were remarkable feats of engineering. Knowing about Stonehenge does not really prepare me for actually seeing what the facts tell me. When we see it first, from the roadway, Mary comments that she thought it would be bigger! Our first view on the ground, however, convinces her that the size of Stonehenge is not what matters: it is the intricacy of the design and the mystery of its being there that impresses anyone who stands facing it. This photo across the Slaughter Stone shows the Circle of Sarsen Stones with connecting lintels.

What I do--and everyone else does it also--is take plenty of photographs. And yet I am aware that there is really nothing that ever changes here, that all our photos are the same. We photograph one another, of course, but the great stones have stood like this for centuries--or at least since the last restorative work; it bothers me to know that in the last century (1919) some of the stones were set in concrete! I photograph the Heel Stone which was once one of two Sarsens that stood at the entrance to the enclosure. I study my guide book to learn more: another major engineering project began in 1958, raising the entire trilithon that had fallen in 1797. After excavation and archaeological studies, the great stones were freed from the earth, later to be reset in concrete and to have the lintel replaced.

Here are the stones (right) set upright in 1919.

When I look at my photos, I am pleased that mostly I have avoided placing unknown people in them. And there are plenty of people here. I laugh when I first approach them because everyone has a cellphone-like audio gadget up to his or her ear, listening intently to the pre-recorded tour. It looks weird, because no one is talking, just listening. I depend on my guidebook, which tells me that the biggest problem at Stonehenge is not the people but the traffic. It "suffers from its surroundings," the book says. "It sits on a triangle of land, bordered on two sides by busy roads that cut it off from its surrounding landscape." Plans are to place the A303 road in a bored tunnel and to close the A344 road. The car park will be removed and the visitors' centre moved two miles to the east. "A land train would transport visitors to within walking distance of the stone," I read. We do not stay for a long time, but I have learned much and I am glad we have come to this iconic place, if only as four of this year's 850,000 visitors!

From one ancient, still mysterious, place of worship, to another: The great Salisbury Cathedral.

I photograph the spire from the Cloisters. The spire, at 404 feet, is the highest in England, and I recall that this is what inspired Sir William Golding's novel, The Spire. (I should have asked him about that the night we had dinner together, but I didn't think to do so!)

Salisbury was built 1220-1258 in Early English Gothic and surely is impressive. I notice a fully operation restoration yard behind the cathedral and evidence of on-going restorative work.

For me, the most inspiring moment is when I step into the Quire, with its full set of intricately carved seats, and look toward the High Altar. It features the 1980 Prisoners of Conscience Window, designed by M. Gabriel Loire, Chartres in France. The exquisite fan vaulted ceiling of the cathedral is also stunning.

My grandson, Sam, is himself angelic, and I am grateful for how patient he is to allow me to take my time and see such majestic sights as Stonehenge and Salisbury Cathedral. These are not sites designed for six-year-old boys, but he seems to enjoy them. We let him take photos and to explore. He chooses a spot against the wall of the cathedral that he feels certain is a good backdrop for his photo. He is right. The little man loves the details, as in this photo of a rainspout near the front entrance.

We are ready to leave before Mary remembers that we forgot to view the Magna Carta in the Chapter Room. We go back to see this document, described as "the finest of only four surviving (1215) Magna Carta."

We find a pleasant place for lunch in Salisbury, before driving to our inn in Taunton. The food is mediocre, one of the few times we don't rave about our fare. We arrive at Taunton early, and choose to look for a cider-making farm we see advertised. It turns out to be delightful, not only because it is called Sheppy's. The brochure says: "In the vale of Taunton the Sheppy family continues the nearly lost tradition of farmer/cider maker, farming 370 acres, including 47 acres of orchards. They have been making cider in the West Country since the early 1800s. Their quality ciders have earned over 200 awards and two gold medals." It all reminds us of home, of Stirlings and Elderkins and of Noggins Corner Farms. There is a delightful gift shop where I buy some postcards, a Sheppy's cider glass, and a bottle of Sheppy's Apple Juice. Mary is distraught to learn we cannot buy any cider, because here it is only alcoholic! We also tour the farm and see donkeys, very fat hogs, and, obviously, sheep!

For these trips as a family, we have opted to stay only in Premier Inns, a UK-based hotel chain. None has been a disappointment and this one in Taunton is a delight. We stay in an annex, brand-new, and eat at the carvery in the Blackbrook Tavern, associated with the Inn. If in this area we will stay here again.

In the morning, after a hearty breakfast we will drive through Devon to Cornwall.