Weekend fun, frolics and follies ...

Set off fashionably late for the West Country, and fought our way
through Central London Traffic to the M3.

Thinking the worst was over, we "dined" at the Little Chef at Popham.

We were wrong.

The A303 to Stonehenge was awful (stationary) from before Amesbury,
but did improve after right up until the Devon border, where we
confronted with stationar, or near stationary, traffic again to the
end of the 303.

Through Exeter, and off to Torquay, where we had a play on an old
cliff railway. A wander along the beach, then it was off to Newquay
for the night.

Newquay's further from Torquay than I had envisioned, and, after
beying detoured off the A 30 to a non-existent petrol station by the
Zumo, we rolled into the BP station in Newquay after 229 miles, 42 of
which had been completed with the fuel light on.

Arrived at the hotel at eight, got changed, and fed, and retired
early, knackered.

Woke up at 6:30, as madam hadn't checked the time on the room's radio
alarm before setting it.

Breakfasted, and off into the gloom of a foggy Sunday morning by nine
o'clock.

Headedsouth on the A30 and out to the coast at the end of Cornwall to
visit a tin mine. Which was shut until eleven. We left at ten-twenty,
as the sea fret was making us cold and damp.

Back up the A30 to Indian Queens, then onto the A39, the "Atlantic
Highway". Grand title for a single carriageway road, that doesn't let
you see the sea very often.

Turned off onto a minor road, which became a very minor road, and then
a glorified track. Grass up the middle, tree debris on the tramac,
high hedges, steep hills, oh, and a ford. Deep joy. Linda got ooff,
and went over the footbridge, and I waddled the Wing through without a
problem. Linda then moaned cos I was too quick for her to take a
photo. Well, I wasn't turning round for another go.

Found the little church (with some connection to Thomas Hardy, judging
by the etched window), then set off up the lane again. The road opened
pretty quickly, but my hopes of a quick run were dashed as it had been
completely resurfaced with mile after mile of loose chippings.

Back on the A39, we head north into Bude for lunch, before resuming
our acquaintance withe A39. This is the sort of road the Wing works
well on: it's happy trundling along at 55, taking in the view, but the
motor has sufficient urge to dispense with serious trundlers with
ease.

Over the Torridge we then turned east towadrs the north Devon coast.

After some time, we reached Lynton, where we stopped to take a ride on
another cliff railway. This one was much higher, and is powered by
counterbalanced water tanks. Quite impressive, it was rebuilt with
lottery money about ten years ago.

Then we descended to the beach down a seriously steep hill, hada
wander around n the beach, and then ascended a similarly bonkers hill
to get out of town.

Eastbound through an increasingly foggy Exmoor NP, we then descended
into Watchet, where they were having some kind of drinking race,
involving a pair in fancydress wheeled each other from pub to pub in
wheelbarrows, drinking half a pint in each pub. We never did get a
clear explanation why it was happening.

On departing the town, we spotted a steam train departing Watchet
station. I was surprised to see it pulling eight carriages, most of
which were full.

From there, into Bridgewater, fill up, then M5/M4/home.

700 miles, 5 landmarks, one happy wife. Not a bad weekend.

I'm really beginning to appreciate the 1800 now, it's just marvellous.

The replacement panel has arrived at TOG's friend's house, so there's
some fun to look forward to.

 

An enjoyable read, as always. Will Linda be joining you again?

 

<snip>
Nice one. I tour the UK with you, vicariously.