Plymouth Hoe - a sight to gladden the heart of any true Westcountryman
The Bay of Biscay entirely lived up to its reputation for the journey home. The Pont Aven is a big ship, with everything that modern maritime design can provide in the way of stabilisation. But by mid-evening, she was rolling and juddering in the swell like the Balmoral on a rough crossing from Ilfracombe to Lundy. A clear majority of passengers took refuge in their en suite facilities. The smug brigade, of which I was happy to be part, had the run of the bars and restaurants. There were some very sorry sights the following morning.
I set the alarm for 4.00, reckoning that that would be about the time that we passed Ushant, so that I could see the great lighthouse of An Creac’h in action. It was a good guess. When I got up on deck, the very first thing I saw was the great white beam piercing the night sky, flanked by the red lights of La Jument to the south and Le Stiff (I kid you not!) on the north end of the island. It was a memorable sight. Sadly, the ship was being tossed around too violently to get much of a photograph, but I did my best. I barely slept a wink after
that. The beds on the Pont Aven are excruciatingly uncomfortable, even by ferry standards.
I set the alarm for 4.00, reckoning that that would be about the time that we passed Ushant, so that I could see the great lighthouse of An Creac’h in action. It was a good guess. When I got up on deck, the very first thing I saw was the great white beam piercing the night sky, flanked by the red lights of La Jument to the south and Le Stiff (I kid you not!) on the north end of the island. It was a memorable sight. Sadly, the ship was being tossed around too violently to get much of a photograph, but I did my best. I barely slept a wink after
that. The beds on the Pont Aven are excruciatingly uncomfortable, even by ferry standards. An Creac'h from the Pont Aven
We were an hour or so late arriving at Plymouth, but at least the sun was shining. It had been pouring with rain when we’d left Santander, which made me feel happier about the decision to cut short the trip than has been the case subsequently. Jammed door and dodgy number plate notwithstanding, I should have soldiered on through Galicia.
However, what’s done is done, and it has still been a fascinating trip. All told, I’ve driven just over 5,000 miles through Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, Brittany and Asturias, staying at 37 campsites. In an idle moment (and there were plenty of them) at San Vicente, I decided to rank the campsites, according to setting/view, facilities, proximity to beaches/golf courses/good pubs and value for money. The joint winners were Trevedra Farm at Sennen, and Tully Beach Camping and Caravans, on the Renvyle Peninsula in the far west of Ireland, but several others, including Kersigny Plage, Trevignon, Durness, Ca
musdarach, Gairloch, Tramore Beach and Achill Island were only a point or two behind.
We were an hour or so late arriving at Plymouth, but at least the sun was shining. It had been pouring with rain when we’d left Santander, which made me feel happier about the decision to cut short the trip than has been the case subsequently. Jammed door and dodgy number plate notwithstanding, I should have soldiered on through Galicia.
However, what’s done is done, and it has still been a fascinating trip. All told, I’ve driven just over 5,000 miles through Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, Brittany and Asturias, staying at 37 campsites. In an idle moment (and there were plenty of them) at San Vicente, I decided to rank the campsites, according to setting/view, facilities, proximity to beaches/golf courses/good pubs and value for money. The joint winners were Trevedra Farm at Sennen, and Tully Beach Camping and Caravans, on the Renvyle Peninsula in the far west of Ireland, but several others, including Kersigny Plage, Trevignon, Durness, Ca
musdarach, Gairloch, Tramore Beach and Achill Island were only a point or two behind. Sunset at Tully Beach
From best campsite, it was but a short step to best days, best meals and best moments.
Among the former, it was a dead heat between my visit to the Isles of Scilly, on a glorious July day, and the day I spent in West Wales, travelling on the Tallylln Railway and golfing at Borth and Ynyslas, also under cloudless skies. Honourable mentions also for St. David’s, golf at Machrihanish, my trip to the pub with no beer at Inverie and a swim from the silver sands of Camusdarach, the visits to Ushant and to Inishmore in the Aran Islands, and the first proper day of the entire trip, when I travelled by ferry and minibus to Cape Wrath and played g
olf in the evening sunshine looking out across the stunningly beautiful sands of Balnikeel Bay.
From best campsite, it was but a short step to best days, best meals and best moments.
Among the former, it was a dead heat between my visit to the Isles of Scilly, on a glorious July day, and the day I spent in West Wales, travelling on the Tallylln Railway and golfing at Borth and Ynyslas, also under cloudless skies. Honourable mentions also for St. David’s, golf at Machrihanish, my trip to the pub with no beer at Inverie and a swim from the silver sands of Camusdarach, the visits to Ushant and to Inishmore in the Aran Islands, and the first proper day of the entire trip, when I travelled by ferry and minibus to Cape Wrath and played g
olf in the evening sunshine looking out across the stunningly beautiful sands of Balnikeel Bay. Balnikeel Bay
My best meals were probably those I cooked, or prepared, for myself: the fried plaice at Caheerviseen, the oysters and Muscadet at Les Abers and that magnificent veal chop at Le Conquet. My crab at the Turk’s Head on St. Agnes was unquestionably my best meal out.
Best moments? Well, my first sight of “the most beautiful beach in Scotland”, Sandwood Bay, after a four mile hike, has got to be up there, as has a four iron across a wave-lashed chasm to the final green at Durness, walking out onto Tramore beach on a sparklingly blue and silver Sunday afternoon and the warmest of Welsh welcomes that I received from Ann and John Lloyd Jones on arriving at Hendy. But I guess the pick of the bunch has to be that moment, near Kynance Cove, when I realised that the noisy birds I’d happened across weren’t jackdaws, but were choughs: rare, precious, quintessentially Celtic choughs. If I’d encountered the ghost of King Arthur, I could hardly have been more pleased. (And then again, perhaps that’s precisely what I had done?)
And the worst? I suppose that would have to be crunching Carmen against the railway sleeper, precipitating as it did the abandonment of the last stage of the trip. Apart from that, my blackest moment was when I reached my first peage on the A10, just south of Nantes. It was pouring with rain and there were long queues of cars and lorries, all simmering with Gallic impatience. But I’d watched the couple in front carefully, and leant confidently across the cab, to pluck my card from the slot in the machine. Except that when I looked, it wasn’t there! The bloody machine had broken down! With half of France waiting and hooting behind me! In a state of flat panic, I climbed out of the cab, to give the machine a good kicking. It was then that – thank God! – I spotted that there was a second dispensing slot, at lorry driver height, and poking out of it was the ticket I so craved. Rarely in my life have I been quite so relieved!
But what, you may well ask, of the avowed purpose of the journey which was, as I recall, “to explore the links between the peoples of Europe’s western seaboard”?
That there are such links – at least between the “British” Celts – is obvious, in language, religion, culture, climate and geography. But that certainly does not mean that all Celts are the same. The various tribes are as different from one another as they are from other so-called “races”, like the Anglo-Saxons, Franks or Vikings. The most obvious example of this is the North and South Waleians. This came home to me most vividly when I was talking to a short, dark, swarthy Pembrokeshire farmer, who prides himself on his Celtic ancestry. “Celtic Odyssey, is it”, he said, with a note of disbelief in his voice. “I never realised you were a Celt”.
“Oh yes”, I replied. “More than 50 per cent. All my mother’s family were from Anglesey”.
“Ah”, he said, the light dawning. “Anglesey. That explains it.”
Having said that, it is possible to argue that the generality of Celts do share some characteristics, chief among them probably being a fundamentally passionate nature. They are instinctive, rather than necessarily rational, in how they think and act. They are driven by spirit and soul as much as by logic and analysis. They also all have something of a chip on their shoulders: Irish, Welsh and Scots about the English; Bretons in relation to the French; and Asturians when it comes to the Spanish.
One thing they do all share is the glorious Atlantic seaboard, and its rather less than glorious climate. It would be surprising if this had not produced both a deep sense of man’s insignificance in comparison with the immensity of sea, mountains and sky and a certain fatalism in the face of the unrelenting elements. Against that background, it is not to be wondered at that religion, both pagan and Christian, has always played so strong a part in the life of the Celts. If there is one thing more than any other that united the British Celts it was Celtic Christianity.
As for what the trip has taught me about myself – my “voyage of self-discovery”, as my son George called it – I think it is probably that, for all my Welsh ancestry, I’m not really Celtic at all! I’m as much of a typical tight-arsed, list-making, home-loving, beer-drinking Englishman, as I am a passionate, instinctive, soulful Celt. And besides, I really cannot stand that awful Irish/Breton folk music – “all that fidde-de-dee stuff”, as my wife Claire calls it. Not that I don’t have a well-developed emotional side. A Welsh or Cornish male voice choir can move me to tears. But I’d sooner go to the dentist than sit through a concert by the Dubliners.
My best meals were probably those I cooked, or prepared, for myself: the fried plaice at Caheerviseen, the oysters and Muscadet at Les Abers and that magnificent veal chop at Le Conquet. My crab at the Turk’s Head on St. Agnes was unquestionably my best meal out.
Best moments? Well, my first sight of “the most beautiful beach in Scotland”, Sandwood Bay, after a four mile hike, has got to be up there, as has a four iron across a wave-lashed chasm to the final green at Durness, walking out onto Tramore beach on a sparklingly blue and silver Sunday afternoon and the warmest of Welsh welcomes that I received from Ann and John Lloyd Jones on arriving at Hendy. But I guess the pick of the bunch has to be that moment, near Kynance Cove, when I realised that the noisy birds I’d happened across weren’t jackdaws, but were choughs: rare, precious, quintessentially Celtic choughs. If I’d encountered the ghost of King Arthur, I could hardly have been more pleased. (And then again, perhaps that’s precisely what I had done?)
And the worst? I suppose that would have to be crunching Carmen against the railway sleeper, precipitating as it did the abandonment of the last stage of the trip. Apart from that, my blackest moment was when I reached my first peage on the A10, just south of Nantes. It was pouring with rain and there were long queues of cars and lorries, all simmering with Gallic impatience. But I’d watched the couple in front carefully, and leant confidently across the cab, to pluck my card from the slot in the machine. Except that when I looked, it wasn’t there! The bloody machine had broken down! With half of France waiting and hooting behind me! In a state of flat panic, I climbed out of the cab, to give the machine a good kicking. It was then that – thank God! – I spotted that there was a second dispensing slot, at lorry driver height, and poking out of it was the ticket I so craved. Rarely in my life have I been quite so relieved!
But what, you may well ask, of the avowed purpose of the journey which was, as I recall, “to explore the links between the peoples of Europe’s western seaboard”?
That there are such links – at least between the “British” Celts – is obvious, in language, religion, culture, climate and geography. But that certainly does not mean that all Celts are the same. The various tribes are as different from one another as they are from other so-called “races”, like the Anglo-Saxons, Franks or Vikings. The most obvious example of this is the North and South Waleians. This came home to me most vividly when I was talking to a short, dark, swarthy Pembrokeshire farmer, who prides himself on his Celtic ancestry. “Celtic Odyssey, is it”, he said, with a note of disbelief in his voice. “I never realised you were a Celt”.
“Oh yes”, I replied. “More than 50 per cent. All my mother’s family were from Anglesey”.
“Ah”, he said, the light dawning. “Anglesey. That explains it.”
Having said that, it is possible to argue that the generality of Celts do share some characteristics, chief among them probably being a fundamentally passionate nature. They are instinctive, rather than necessarily rational, in how they think and act. They are driven by spirit and soul as much as by logic and analysis. They also all have something of a chip on their shoulders: Irish, Welsh and Scots about the English; Bretons in relation to the French; and Asturians when it comes to the Spanish.
One thing they do all share is the glorious Atlantic seaboard, and its rather less than glorious climate. It would be surprising if this had not produced both a deep sense of man’s insignificance in comparison with the immensity of sea, mountains and sky and a certain fatalism in the face of the unrelenting elements. Against that background, it is not to be wondered at that religion, both pagan and Christian, has always played so strong a part in the life of the Celts. If there is one thing more than any other that united the British Celts it was Celtic Christianity.
As for what the trip has taught me about myself – my “voyage of self-discovery”, as my son George called it – I think it is probably that, for all my Welsh ancestry, I’m not really Celtic at all! I’m as much of a typical tight-arsed, list-making, home-loving, beer-drinking Englishman, as I am a passionate, instinctive, soulful Celt. And besides, I really cannot stand that awful Irish/Breton folk music – “all that fidde-de-dee stuff”, as my wife Claire calls it. Not that I don’t have a well-developed emotional side. A Welsh or Cornish male voice choir can move me to tears. But I’d sooner go to the dentist than sit through a concert by the Dubliners.
What I am is a Westcountryman. There is no finer sight in all the world than sighting the tors of Dartmoor as the ferry nears Plymouth. The more I travel, the more I appreciate how deeply fortunate I am to have been born and lived most of my life in the South-West of England.
But it’s been what I’ve experienced, more than what I’ve learned, which has made the trip so wonderful. The mountains, the cliffs, the seascapes, the moors, the beaches, the crosses, the dolmens – and just the occasional pub or golf-course!
Carmen was a reliable and comforting companion, ultimately betrayed by the incompetence of her driver. Once she’s been repaired, she’ll be sent into hibernation for the winter and we’ll be back on the road next summer.
So that’s it for the Celtic Odyssey blog. I am toying with the idea of starting a new one in a couple of weeks’ time, relating my experiences as a newly freelance farming journalist and commentator. In the meantime, thank you for your company. I’m not entirely sure how many readers I’ve had, but however many or few, I can assure you that you’re all hugely appreciated.
But it’s been what I’ve experienced, more than what I’ve learned, which has made the trip so wonderful. The mountains, the cliffs, the seascapes, the moors, the beaches, the crosses, the dolmens – and just the occasional pub or golf-course!
Carmen was a reliable and comforting companion, ultimately betrayed by the incompetence of her driver. Once she’s been repaired, she’ll be sent into hibernation for the winter and we’ll be back on the road next summer.
So that’s it for the Celtic Odyssey blog. I am toying with the idea of starting a new one in a couple of weeks’ time, relating my experiences as a newly freelance farming journalist and commentator. In the meantime, thank you for your company. I’m not entirely sure how many readers I’ve had, but however many or few, I can assure you that you’re all hugely appreciated.
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