Another night, another exciting pitched
tent campervan in an empty layby on the edge of a forest I’d never heard of before.
You can tell it’s Devon from the high hedges.
Ashclyst is lovely, best explored at first light after the sleep of the just.
If you want to sleep in pitch darkness, come here.
Baa Baa Toure loved it,
except when an acorn fell on his head in the night. Here’s the offending acorn.
By the way, Baa Baa Toure wishes to publicly disassociate himself from the once good footballer of a similar name (no relation), but if Ya Ya needs any “product” for his party he could do worse than the Gents at the lovely New Inn in Broadclyst.
Isolated but thriving, the Landlord had seem bemused by my phone call asking if they were open. “Probably not till midnight” was the reply.
Informal, unpretentious, boisterous; like a Surrey pub inside the M25 on a Sunday afternoon, but without the Chelsea shirts.
“Oi, he’s not having the Otter, is he ?” asked the bloke 1.9m to my right, after he’d graciously let me in before his more complex order.
I hadn’t realised Otter was rationed during Covid. Or perhaps the van coming from Luppit had got stuck trying to edge past an Ocado van in the lanes.
Luckily, he seemed to be joking.
I (voluntarily) went outside and drank a gorgeously cool pint in a chunky glass in the setting sun.
Sometimes, you know, this ticking lark is almost worth the effort.