Our holiday cottage is in a back street three hundred down the hill from the West Somerset heritage steam railway line. It's like being transported back sixty years to hear the train whistle blow as it enters or leaves Watchet station, and then the perennial chuff-chuff sound as it makes builds up a head of steam to climb up the gradient on the side of Cleeve hill overlooking the sea. We heard but didn't see any trains yesterday, but today were in the vicinity of the station at the right time, first at noon to see a big diesel locomotive pulling a mix of half a dozen different style carriages towards Minehead, and then to see the last train of the day, being hauled by a big steam locomotive to Bishop's Lydeard.
The sound of old style carriage doors being shut with a satisfying clunk also took me back to my Grammar school days, when I travelled to Lewis School Pengam by steam train for everal years, until these were scrapped in favour of smelly new diesel railcars. It was marvellous when the trains were in the station to gaze through the windows of carriages some of which had corridors alongside their compartments, others of which didn't, or had open plan seating. A rolling exhibition of post war carriage design, fascinating to recall, having lived through that era.
I walked after breakfast to the port and photographed the west side which we'd only seen last night in the dark. The tide was still far out. On return in the afternoon the harbour was beginning to fill with water and the smaller boats starting float again. There was something different about the east side port wall, which I had not noticed yesterday afternoon - an inscription painted neatly in letters large enough to read across the marina. It's a quote from Coleridge's Ryme of the Ancient Mariner, who wrote this poem when living locally.
I overheard a conversation remarking on the fact that it had appeared since this morning. Later, when I looked at yesterday's photos I could confirm that it was true. A remarkable coincidence that we should be here now.
We walked up a long wooded lane parallel to the coast road, hearing the occasional sound of a pheasant croaking in the undergrowth, and at one stage a bird flew up and over us into a field which it ran across for cover. Quite a surprise. The path emerged on to the road where I suspected it would, just opposite the gate of Watchet's fine 13-15th century Parish church dedicated to St Decuman. He was a seventh century Celt who sailed over from Pembrokeshire and was martyred here. There's a holy well nearby bearing his name but we couldn't find it. The church and churchyard are beautiful and in excellent condition. Much to our delight we found the building was open. We'll be back there for tomorrows ten thirty service.
We went out for supper this evening at a small restaurant called 'The Cat's Whisker' just a few minutes walk from our cottage. We had a selection of half a dozen delicious tapas dishes to share between us, and ethos of the small room in which we sat was decidedly Spanish with a nice looking classical guitar on a shelf about our table and the music of Buena Vista Social Club playing quietly in the background while we ate. It was an enjoyable experience, and I think we'll be taking Ann there when she comes next week.
As I relaxed full this afternoon, I started to feel terribly weary, but didn't sleep for long. By the end of the day I found that I'd walked thirteen kilometres, a quarter more than normal, and feeling no worse for wear. Early bed in any case tonight.
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