Day 12 -- Buggy-eyed
Nobody's fault but mine own that this was a very long day, spent mostly in the car. Went down to Salcombe to Overbeck's - lovely garden with every sort of plant in the world, thanks to a protected marine climate. Drive in absolutely horrifying - steep, narrow, winding. A little light rain on the road, but stopped before I arrived at Overbeck's.
While I'm in the staircase hall, they crank up the Polyphon -- Ave Marie as done for calliope. And of course the Rejuvenator -- "easier than monkey glands," as the promotional literature so rightly observes. What it looks like is a dog grooming kit with electrical leads -- it promises to render you sprightly as a muntjac. (Check out this video from the Norwegian Technical Museum which includes vintage photos of people rejuvenating themselves -- it does not appear to be an especially joyous process.)
Overbeck's is another one of those "museums" of whatever stuff they've been given. Overbeck's teetotal beer. Scary dolls of the world collection. Beetle mosaic. Fossils, shells, bird's eggs, stuffed birds, stuffed otter and badger. Love 'em!
Span from south coast to north coast to get to Arlington Court. No lunch -- pretty cranky by the time I get there. Seems like just another over-done house, as I shamble listlessly through the interior. (This often the first sign that it's time to turn homeward.) Decoupage screen. Evidence of some serious issues about decorative molding among previous inhabitants. More feather pictures! More seashells! Miniature ships all over the place, like a rash.
I perk up considerably when I head up to the carriage collection. Amazing and wonderful -- finally learn the difference between a phaeton and a dog cart and a wagonette and a brougham. What strikes me is how incredibly tiny the interior spaces are. Iron work too beautiful to describe. (State carriages have silver.) Horsehair plumes on hearse. Ohhhh, so that's what a hammercloth looks like... Outside in the courtyard is an interminable harnessing demonstration. Horse does not look best pleased, and threatens to tread on peacock imprudently bent on assisting the festivities. I wander off to visit the other horses inside the stable -- pat Magnus, 19 years old and soon to retire -- on the nose. Remaining horses all Dickensian -- Tiny Tim and Jacob Marley are half-brothers, Percherons.
Hate to think about the founding event for village of Crapstone.
Head for dinner at pub, then night's lodging at Exmoor Falconcry and Stable. Find appropriate venue for first at the Blue Ball Inn, just outside of Lynmouth. (Drive is through drippy, heavily forested gorge -- pretty, despite me being pretty done with England's Green and Pleasant Land.) Inhale traditional Sunday roast beef with gravy, potatoes and vege. English genius for long cooking potatoes very considerable.
Then scariest drive ever, in heaviest fog I've ever seen. Creep along in a caravan of other frightened motorists, keeping each other's tail lights in view, but not too close... god knows how high up over the coast we are. As we come down into clearer climes, see procession of very ancient carts -- Model A's and Model T's -- heading into the fog belt. Vaya con dios, friends!
Follow horse trailer down ridiculously tiny lane through ridiculously adorable village of Allerford, and find journey's end. Even better, was able to ditch Middlemarch for Watership Down in hotel book shelf -- much more suitable airplane reading. Tomorrow will be delivering car back.