Teignmouth: A September Sunday

Written by Nigel Philpot

It wasn't a very inviting day, overcast and grey. But it was warm and there were quite a few people milling around, on the green and along the front. The pier was busy too, with families ferverently working the machines. Vast fortunes of coppers, 10p and 20p pieces tittered, tantalising on the edge - one more coin and its jackpot? Come on give it a go.

My friend, Ian, and I walked through the arcade and to the end of the pier. We turned and looked back at the sea front. The tide was in and a choppy sea crashed its waves against the sea wall. Behind that, the sleepy but elegant town of  Teignmouth, hotels and flats looking out to sea with façades that looked freshly painted for the season; carefully chosen shades of white, beige and yellow. The church tower stood in the background, rising above them all with an air of superiority and disdain. We took photos, hoping they would capture the atmosphere

Coming off the pier we dropped down to a stretch of beach that was still exposed. Fine grains of wet red sand, mixed with small pebbles. There was something about the sea that puzzled Ian. “What colour would you call that?” he asked. It was a far remove from the crystal clear blue waters often found along this coast – more like a dirty bluish-brown. Ian came up with a more stark description “scummy brown”. The colour was still with him when some time later he recalled how it reminded him of water draining from a septic tank – a distant memory had been invoked.

We took off our shoes and socks, feeling our feet sink in the sand. “Lets do twenty minutes earthing” suggested Ian : allowing the earth's energy to enter our feet and work its way up through our body, connecting more fully with the marine landscape.

And so we walked along the beach and through the incoming water until our way was blocked by by larger waves. We turned back towards the pier, passing a large Labrador frantically digging a hole in the sand and a boy in swimmers and bare chest who had braved the waters. I was reminded of Tagore's lines “ On the seashores of the world, the children play.”    

Back on land we sat on a wall and went through that awkward process of putting shoes and socks back on. Ian said he liked the feeling of the sand between his toes. I couldn't imagine why. We took posy photos of each other looking out to sea and of me trying to climb what appeared to be a miniature, mock lighthouse. A tourist plaque in formed us that it had indeed been a fully operational lighthouse. In the background was the inevitablecrazy golf across the Green and a café selling teas, hot dogs and ice creams. It reminded me of holidays spent in places like these as a child.

Then, looking up, we saw an enormous bird, high up in the sky, winging its way over the headland towards us. As the image came closer, it transformed into a para glider, arms held high, clutching two sets of strings attached to his wings. He sat there comfortably, in his cradle, as if in an armchair at home and glided gracefully towards the green, circling this way and then that, to break his speed, finally coming to ground on the green itself, as any bird would. We marvelled at his skill.  

We walked on and followed the shoreline to the end where it met the mouth of the Teign river estuary and then turned inland following the rivers edge. The locals call this the “back beach” As we looped round we were now at the back of some sea huts that looked out to sea. Here, away from the noise of the crashing sea it was much quieter ; a unexpected peacefulness descended. A long, sleek, ferry chugged its way to the other side of the estuary and we picked our way through boats pitched on the sand, back towards the town. There were still signs of life; pubs and one or two takeaways open, a few people walking the pedestrianised streets.

It was the end of a Sunday and the end of a season. 

_____________________________

I would welcome comments about my blogs