I am walking directly into a bright westering sun which has the effect of dimming my vision. I approach silhouettes with glowing outlines, the details shadowed. People carry plastic bags that glow with an eerie transparent white. And, on the path ahead of me, I see a male figure on his hands and knees, facing into the dense hedge that borders the street side of the path. A bulky female figure leans against the fence post on the other side of the path, watching but not saying anything. I hear a tenor voice; it seems to be saying "Bramble....BRAMBLE!" I wonder: is he talking about the hedge, or to it? As I draw level with him, I see that he has thick white hair, and he is wearing a burnt-orange corduroy shirt with rough pants and shoes. I look where he is looking. There is nothing but thickly entwined stickery branches and leaves, but he says again, "Bramble!" Then he says, "He's moved. Cheeky thing," and the woman says, "Where is he?" She doesn't move though.
Late afternoon is the time for walks, and 90 percent of the walkers are attached to dogs. So, I'm assuming that these folks are dealing with a dog in hiding. It solidifies my satisfaction: I don't have to walk a dog right now. I can go outside on my own terms and not worry about losing someones beloved fur babies. While I love the companionship of a dog, it is restful to be on my own. I've just completed a 4-hour loop, where a dog would have been in the way, even in this dog-friendly country. First I walked south down Rea Barn Road. It's a very steep street, and I was not looking forward to the return trip, so I decided to try for a circuit. At the bottom of the street, I turned right into the town and found the pedestrian mall leading to the harbor. It was lined with coffee shops, green grocers, butchers, and thrift shops (the British call them "charity shops.") Where the mall empties into the harbor, I found Simply Fish, the bistro that my host had recommended. I'd been wracking my brains trying to remember the name, but the visual solved it for me.
I stopped in, thinking to get take away and watch the harbor while I ate. They directed me to their take-out shop, two doors down, but when I got there I saw the hand-lettered sign on the cash register: "Sorry, cash only." I've been out of cash for weeks now, depending on my credit card and the largess of hosts, with the occasional handout from the cousins (they're keeping track I hope). So, I returned to the bistro and snagged an outdoor table where I could listen to the gulls and enjoy the unseasonably warm weather. I had Brixham plaice, grilled with leeks and garlic butter, and double fried chips that were yellow, crisp, and light. The wine came from nearby Lyme, and was a citrus blast that went very well with the fish. Although I was comfortably full, I decided to go for dessert, which was a mouth-watering lemon posset (a sort of mousse) garnished with 3 raspberries and a mysterious small orange fruit that looked like a tiny tomato but had an unfamiliar tart fruity taste. It was attached to thick dried leaves. (Later, a Facebook friend identified it as a Golden Berry.) I believe it contributed to the bright orange syrup swirled on top. There were also three sugar crusted butter cookies, crisp and melting on the tongue.
I was quite happy.
The cook asked me how I liked the meal, and we got into a conversation about his recent 27-day trip on the West Coast. Although I said the UK was a great place for traveling, he liked the sheer size of the U.S., not to mention "the nature! I was swimming and an otter came and brushed up against me. AN OTTER! and everyone was, like, oh yeah, it's an otter." He was 20-something, with rough flyaway blonde hair and big holes in his ears, but no plugs. I wondered if the restaurant forbade them.
They treated me to some white chocolate, and I walked to the harbor. There were two memorials to William of Orange, who apparently came ashore at Brixham before going up to London to take over the kingship. Brixham's other claim to fame is the invention of the trawler, but apparently the big trawling days are over. My host has a fishing boat, but most folks here work in the tourist industry now, I think. The harbor was full of tourists. Many were family groups and most were lined up along the harbor wall, crabbing. A gent showed me the process: fill a small mesh bag with bacon or squid and put it in the bottom of a net bag. Drop the bag into the water and wait. Then pull up the net, and voila! There are small brown-orange crabs scuttling around the bottom of the bag. My new friend said that they'd pulled out 50 crabs and were through for the day. I asked if he'd be cooking them for dinner and he said, no, they were throwing them back: it was just sport fishing, and besides, crabs from the harbor would be polluted with oil and other gunk in the water.
I walked around the harbor and started climbing the hill to Berry Head Nature Reserve. Deeno had driven me up on my previous visit to Brixham, but I found the coast foot path, which wound through a small wood until I reached the cliff top and the north Napoleonic fort. I had seen the south fort the previous afternoon. This one had more structures, including a very short lighthouse and a powder magazine. Just outside was a huge circular rock-lined space, with shallow pools of water at the bottom. I saw people walking down the a path on the other side of the space, shouting "echo! echo!" I deduced it was an old quarry.
I circled the grass-covered walls, looking out at the sailboat with orange sails that had seemed to follow me along the coast. On the seaward side, there were no walls, only cliff edges. I approached cautiously, remembering that cliffs can be undercut, but also thinking that the people in charge would have put up a fence if there was a danger of that. A nearby father was not so trusting: as his young son walked to the edge, he said, "Careful! Don't go any further, this is a proper cliff."
As I left the fort, two police cars, lights flashing, came over the cattle grid and into the enclosure. I paused, wondering what was happening. Everyone had seemed serene, walking dogs, exploring, pointing out to sea, sitting on benches, talking quietly. The police approached a man and a woman who pointed to the nearby north-facing wall. Everyone walked to the wall, standing on a bench and looking over, walking along the cliff edge, looking over again. I decided it wasn't my business, and I'd look it up later, and then walked towards the south fort car park and the footpath home. I saw another police car in that car park and asked if there was something wrong. They said, nothing to worry about, and then admitted that there was a woman on the cliff edge and they were trying to get her back on the proper side of the fence. I said, "so she's only a danger to herself" and they agreed that was the case. I said, "it's nice that people cared about her." They nodded and I left, my curiosity satisfied. A quarter mile later, by the caravan park, I was passed by an ambulance with flashing lights.
I hope she's okay. It was indeed a proper cliff.
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