Torcross to Brixham

Farmer John Tucker, my walking pal from 11 years ago, turned up at our tent. Several times. He was excited to renew our friendship and to plan a further final stretch of the coast path together.

It was great to see the old lad. At 80 he outstripped me by ten years.

That morning we bade farewell to David and Chantal, after a wonderful walk with them both. Flo was sorry to see them go and so were me and Debs. They’re great company. Bye bye my lovelies.

I helped Che take down the tent, pack the van and then we drove over to Treacle Valley Camping, just north of Torquay.

It was a welcome rest day for me and the site was a peach. Nestled into a south facing bowl with the sun drifting slowly to our right. Lovely place, another great meal cooked by my sister and a good night’s sleep. Then back into the fray.

Che drove me back to Torcross, where I’d ended up two days ago with the Killers. I had a full English in a great, period cafe there. This area is where the villagers were moved out in 1944 and the Yanks moved in.

They were preparing for D Day and carried out landing exercises off the beach. They were unaware that there were two German U Boats out in the bay, which swooped and created mayhem. At the end of the day 639 young American lads were dead. Poor little buggers. It makes me cry sometimes when I read the memorial stones. Can’t help it. Not manly I know.

This tank, which had sunk out in the bay, was dragged back to land in the 1980s.

However much (at the time of writing) the stupidity and arrogance of Trump and his acolyte idiots Vance and Musk get up our noses. However much the role of Britain and its Commonwealth, who stood alone against Germany and fascism for nearly two years, gets relegated by these people. However much the American refusal to fight Nazism, injustice and mass extermination brasses us off, until Germany pushed them off the fence by declaring war on the US. However much they overemphasise their own role in winning the Second World War. We should never forget the sacrifice of the lives of their lads. Brave, young lads.

The coast path runs along Slapton Sands by the side of the biggest freshwater lagoon in South Devon.

Then the coast produces gentle beauty again.

It was harder to keep going without company. The first time I’ve felt this. I’m old, but I’m also putting on weight. Breakfasts, beer and Che’s dinners and I’m acquiring more than I’m divesting.

Simple inland views like this are gorgeous.

Then Dartmouth, with its famous naval college, appeared.

And my own street revealed itself.

On my way to the ferry across the Dart.

It’s a great estuary and I liked it.

Then I had to get my head down and cover some ground to meet Che in Brixham.

Where it was Pirate weekend. Bloody hell. Everybody was dressed as a pirate. The place was pumping! Brilliant bouncing folk bands and a brilliant vibe. Hooray!

Che met me on the quay, drove me to the tent and fed me. She’s atoning for juvenile delinquency! Selling my albums and nicking my clothes. She’s approaching break evenpoint.

Night night.