An early and rather cold start awaited us on day two. Packing away the tent, laden with an almost frosty dew froze our hands. The campsite cafe opened at eight thirty and we decided to walk on to Lynmouth to find breakfast there. To our chagrin we discovered a short cut and were there in ten minutes! Nothing opened until nine but Victorian hotel that dominated the town stood magnificently.
‘My great-great grandfather built that,’ proclaimed a sturdy looking local with white whiskers and a string vest. ‘Then he lost it on the turn of a card.’
The walk was stunning; it really foretold the delights to come.
There were wild goats grazing on the cliff sides but less welcome were the bumble bees that continually saw our faces as wild flowers. There were craggy coves and blue seas but climbs that stretched us to the very limits. Moving down the cliff side faces bore terribly on the knees. At the end of the day Frank had several blisters, my shoulders ached severely.
But Frank’s persuasive tongue halved the site fees. The warm water soother the tired shoulders and my spirits were lifted. Frank‘s charms moved into full flow; he persuaded the warden to take our bags on to the next site. He agreed and thus we carried heavy bags no more. The right decision reached because we could enjoy the walk so very much more.
We ate a far better meal in the pub later on. At the bar stood a self-imposed expert who dominated the conversation for many a long minute with such interesting gems such as:
‘Mushrooms! Why are they called mushrooms? The French call them champignons, the Spanish call them champinola, so where do we get mushrooms from?’
The bar was awash with his lively repartee, so we slipped away for another eight pm early night. The field lay flatter and no brook disturbed us this time! Ah! Welcome sleep!
Verdict: Commendation for generosity! What a great campsite owner!
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