Norwich to Torquay

A gleaming classic Daimler arrived to pick me up this morning. Being chauffeured to Norwich Railway Station rather beats taking the bus!

It’s somewhat ironic that, in the week I will attend the 40^th anniversary of joining the Royal Navy, the first leg of my journey will be on rolling stock that impressed me on the west coast main line on my inaugural trip to the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth in 1970.

Now of course, there is no restaurant car in which to enjoy breakfast and, at times, it’s rather a bumpy ride. Two toffs get on at Diss. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard such passionate discussion about hunting. The west Norfolk is highly rated in their view.

The conductor is not quite sure what to do with my InterRail Global Pass, so hands it back to concentrate on extracting eye watering sums of cash from the gentlemen travellers, neither of whom had bought a ticket in advance.

We arrive at Liverpool Street on time and I am faced with their very unfriendly access arrangements for those with heavy luggage or limited mobility. I find it staggering that such facilities can still exist at a mainline railway station in 2010.

I proffer my InterRail pass at the gate, only to be told that it is not valid for the underground. Some 24 hours after I query the issue with Transport for London’s press office, they still have not told me whether the official’s ruling is correct.

So I buy a four pound single ticket to Paddington and, after hopping my bag down many more steps, manage to catch a train an hour earlier than that which I had planned.

At Norwich, I became frustrated with my state of the art Live Luggage, which kept banging into my heels. Now I discover that the handle extends rather further than I had realised. I’ve also discovered that the bag includes a secret umbrella, concealed in the handle. Damned clever, but it’s the only bag I have ever used that needs an instruction manual.

The First Great Western High speed train is extremely comfortable. I am in the First Class Quiet coach, which is exactly that. Leather seats, free coffee, papers and snacks. It’s the most enjoyable rail journey I have had in the UK for many a long year.

The Welsh train manager is about the best at customer relations I have experienced. He actually reads my name on my InterRail pass, and says ‘Mr. Souter, you are very welcome’. A small thing, but it impressed me. He takes the time to point out items of interest along the route including, at Taunton, a lovely old  steam train, ‘Tornado’ about to set off.

The stretch if line around Dawlish and Teignmouth is one of the loveliest I am likely to see on the whole trip. Brunel built it right next to the water. People on the beaches still wave at the train as it charges past.

At Newton Abbot, I have an hour to kill, so I repair to the old railway hotel where, as a 17 year old in a similar circumstance, I bought a pint of scrumpy which led to me arriving at the Royal Naval College slightly giddy! Sadly, owing to a cider bar now being in the town, there is only factory manufactured cider available, so I opt for a half of bitter.

The contrast between the luxury of my Quiet Coach from London and the crush on the local train to Torquay is extreme. No space for luggage, loads of people standing. Not pleasant at all. The rolling stock is more akin to a big bus than a railway coach.

Linda Goss from the English Riviera Tourist Board meets me and whisks me to the nearby Torre Abbey. I am dying for a cup of tea, but that’s not on the programme and, within minutes, I am chatting to head gardener Ali Marshall about her newly created Agatha Christie Potent Plants Garden. The hugely enthusiastic and delightful Ali, who used to run a pub in Paris, tells me that six heads of the castor oil plant would kill. We muse why our mothers dosed us with the substance as kids. Cyanide, morphine, deadly nightshade, they are all here. I am slightly anxious that I shook Ali’s hand. The beautiful red Ricin plant produces the poison that killed Georgi Markov when he was jabbed on the leg at a bus stop with an umbrella.

The gardens at Torre Abbey are a delight and I am thrilled that, in these difficult times, the local council is finding funding to keep it going.

Along the Agatha Christie mile to my guest house. Thee ten bedroom Cary Court hotel is set in some splendid tropical gardens. Owner Paul Garwood interrupts his ironing to carry my case upstairs while wife Linda does the guided tour.

At long last I have a cup of tea, followed by a refreshing swim in the hotel’s heated pool.

The tourist board has booked me into Hanbury’s at Babbacombe, but nobody appears to know I am coming. But owner David Hanbury appears from behind his 35,000 pound Dutch made fish fryer to be a charming host. Dave started a takeaway 28 years ago and now runs both that and the hugely popular adjacent restaurant. Dave has commissioned some art from Plymouth artist Liz Jones, which really adds to the excellent ambience. My locally caught skate is superb and I query the secret batter recipe that has brought Dave award after award. All he will say is that he fries at 188 degrees Celsius, some 10 degrees higher than a lot of folk and regularly filters his oil. His technique is to ‘poach the fish in a batter envelope which he mixes from two different batters’.

My programme sends me to the nearby Babbacombe Theatre, but they are not expecting me either. It’s been a long day. I don’t want the hassle, so I agree to try and return tomorrow night.

One the way back to the Cary Court, the taxi driver tells me it’s a really good show.