Brixham is a jolly place in the holiday season and there was no doubt that the Westcountry's great visitor boom-time had begun in earnest in the port one sunny day last week.
So jolly that scores of people were grinning with great amusement as a huge black-backed gull strutted about on the bonnet of my dark-coloured car, having been for a visit to a freshly painted white trawler. The result, as I mentioned in my WMN column, was like something the American splash artist Jackson Pollack might do after taking hallucinogenic drugs, only with a webbed-foot kind of theme.
I managed to get the mess off days later with the help of some petroleum and a cloth – but I wasn't going to let the temporary new colour-scheme ruin my walk in the sunshine.
The hike in question was inspired by a boyhood recollection. I can remember queuing at one of those kiosks that clutter Brixham's quay with my dad when I was a little boy so we could get tickets for the cruise down to Dartmouth. It was my very first maritime adventure and, though the sea was as smooth and blue as the Cote d'Azure on a still day, I still managed to suffer a little mal-de-mer.
However, I regarded it as a wondrous journey – particularly the bit where we got to see all those lonely cliffs and coves that skirt the untouched peninsula between the two towns.
And, of course, there was Coleton Fishacre. It's one of the Westcountry's best attempts at emulating paradise. I seem to remember catching just a glimpse of the glorious pile, hidden high above among the trees of its hanging gardens, as we chugged by.
Back then it was still a rich man's country bolt-hole and a humble little toad like me could only wonder at the obvious wealth of it all. For a small boy from a council house estate, it seemed a lordly place indeed – a sort of untouchable pantheon to which I'd never aspire. Little did I know that, 40 years later, I'd be striding about this most lovely of demesnes as if I owned the place.
For that is what I was doing one fine day last week and the memory made me smile. Hats off to the National Trust, of course – for without that estimable organisation the likes of me would still be far from entering such hallowed acres.
And, talking of acres, why Fishacre? I'm afraid I have no idea and would welcome an answer to the puzzle. The fishy acre in question lies high above Pudcombe Cove, and so would seem to have had little to do with seafood.
Last week I'd been in Torbay interviewing a basket-maker for the WMN's traditional crafts series and needed to sit somewhere quiet to write my copy. Where better than the charming trust property, which is just a five-minute drive up out of Brixham to the south? Once the words of my story were written (under a shady apple tree in the orchard which doubles as a car park) I realised I had an hour or two to spare, and so took a walking tour around the fantastic house and grounds, then extended my stroll east along the coast to Downend Point and Scabbacombe Head.
But first the house. It was designed in 1925 for Rupert and Lady Dorothy D'Oyly Carte (of Gilbert and Sullivan fame) and reflects the Arts and Crafts tradition. It boasts strangely modern interiors, which suited my tastes down to the ground.
The whole time I was inside, I couldn't help but recall the splendid home occupied by either the evil villain of Richard Hannay's The 39 Steps or PG Wodehouse's Bertie Wooster. Indeed, Coleton Fishacre seems to typify both Hannay's world, and the world of Jeeves, which is hardly surprising seeing that such literature was contemporary with this sort of architecture. I like the style a lot, and would happily live out my days in such a place.
I'm told the terraces and walled Rill Garden beside the house provide a formal introduction to the wilder garden below.
The garden seems to fall away from the more open views around the house, descending through an increasingly jungle-like vegetation where you'll find dark groves of bamboo and all sorts of other exotics lurking by the stream.
And here is the reason to go to Coleton Fishacre at the moment – of course you will have to pay to get in if you are not a member of the National Trust (and I am reliably told a great percentage of this newspaper's readers are), but even without a visit to the house the entry fee is more than worthwhile at present because of the vast quantities of spring flowers which flood this heavenly vale.
Toward the bottom of the coombe where the garden ends there's a gate which opens on to the coast path. Suddenly you are above Pudcombe Cove, which really was doing its best to emulate the Cote d'Azure the day I was there. Huge Corsican pines give the place a definite Mediterranean air.
Turning to my left I climbed through the trees and then followed the path south east past up onto the sea-facing hillsides. Looking back from here you can see Kelly's Cove and Old Mill Bay as the coast proceeds south-west towards Outer Froward Point and there are fantastic views of the Mew Stone and its companions, the Shag Stone and Shooter Rock.
The Mew Stone is by far the largest of these rocky islets and it is covered by roosting birds and guano. Like all big seabird colonies, this one seems to emanate a strange, uneasy, melancholy sound that squawks across the water from the distant crags.
I'm told there's a large cormorant colony out there and that grey seals are often to be seen lolling about on the lower rocks.
Back on the mainland, so to speak, our walk east is coloured by vast swathes of violets at this time of year. The sheltered, south-facing hillsides are famous for other flora, such as the oddly named bastard balm and the celebrated saw-wort.
Ivy Cove is a great gash of a thing where a landslide has cut deep into the hill, and here the coast path does its usual trick: it simply ascends up and away to miss the goyal, and the descends back down again once it's crossed to the other side.
Eventually the coast path rounds Downend Point so that it can mount the heights of Scabbacombe Head – and here there is a conveniently placed track which is a right-of-way heading directly inland up the spur of hill. This we follow all the way to the top where it ends in a trust-owned car park.
From here it's simply a matter of following the lane west – along its brief length we are treated to distant views of the ever rising to the crags of Dartmoor – and soon we find ourselves back at the entrance of Coleton Fishacre.
All we have to do now is stroll back down the drive – in my case wondering how on earth I was going to remove the seagull's redecorating efforts on the bonnet of my car.
