Stairway to Devon

DARTMOOR. Spooky, empty, awe-inspiring, bleak, beautiful. Wandering along its meandering paths – even on a summer's day with larks singing overhead – tales of slavering black dogs, dark spirits, headless horsemen and lost souls flit hither and thither. 

But the wild Dartmoor ponies help to cheer the place up. Even though they’re wild, they’ll demand apples, affection, more apples – momentarily distracting you from the breathtaking view of south west England unfolding before you.

A central tenet of science is that nature uses as little as possible of anything. But here in Dartmoor it seems to have used a staggering amount of flowers – everywhere wild orchids, harebells and bog cotton dance ceaselessly in the breeze. But presumably that’s the number of flowers required by the prolific amount of wildlife the area supports. There's no free lunch in an ecosystem.

Archeologists, too, are attracted to Dartmoor, like bees to a snake’s head fritillary. Because this is prime prehistoric cairn territory – hereabouts, Neolithic affluence was going strong until a few thousand years ago. Copious woodland provided shelter, fuel and game. The sea wasn’t far away if you wanted a second course – the livin’ was easy. Then some self-appointed busybody must have announced the game was up. Work to be done. The lazing about was over; farming would begin.

Not only that, but huge stone doo-das had to be built, in some pebble-related attempt to communicate with the we-know-not-what.

One of the most impressive of these stony sites is the Upper Erme Stone Row. Stretching in a line for nearly two miles, this is one of the longest stone rows in the world. Surely a record to cherish. 

Towards its southern end is a stone circle of 26 rocks. Known locally as the Dancers, you won’t be surprised to hear a legend attaches to them: the stones were once local girls. They made the mistake of coming up to the moor on a Sunday to dance – and were duly punished in biblical, and indeed geological, fashion.

Having pondered on the stones and their sub-text, it’s time to head south. If you follow the Erme River – along narrow, twisting laneways towered over by centuries-old stone walls and hedgerows – you come to Modbury. This is the gateway to the Erme Estuary; although to be fair it’s something of a hidden gateway; indeed a gateway that barely takes its gateway duties seriously at all. There’s a few straggling visitors, certainly, but Modbury and the surrounding countryside could easily be cross-referenced, ‘England, secret’.

Still going strong after its first mention in the Domesday Book in 1068, Modbury has everything you might require in a Devon village– an ancient church (built 1300), a couple of fine old hostelries, architecture reflecting its 1000 year history, and a not half-bad Indian restaurant. 

Hat history, too. John Batterson Stetson, founder of the eponymous cowboy hat company in the US, is descended from Modbury natives Robert Stetson and Honour Tucker who emigrated to Massachusetts c. 1634. History – local and international – abounds round these parts.

From Modbury it’s just a few miles to Mothecombe Bay, an impossibly beautiful cove used as a film set more times than it cares to remember. Credits include Sense and Sensibility, International Velvet, Hornblower, Poirot, Jonathan Creek and Rebecca.

As you stand on the rocks with the wind tossing your hair you’ll not be able to stop yourself murmuring, “Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

Down by the beach an old boathouse seems specifically built, not for boating, but intrigue and unwholesome trysts. Right beside it, almost incongruously, stands a beefy fortification – a Pill Box from the First World War. This was to have been the first line of defence against the Germans should they have mounted an attack from the south.

In the end, of course, the Germans didn’t come (finding themselves a tad busy in Russia) and this corner of Devon slumbered on, as it does today, largely untouched by intrusions — either by mass tourism or industrialisation.

From Mothecombe Bay the South West Coast Path winds along the cliff top, through meadows and woodland, and past great inlets of the sea. Some ten miles or so down the coast Bigbury-on-Sea is your standard bucket-and-spade Devonshire beach village. Except for one thing: off the mainland lies an island, on which stands a glittering white modernist building: Burgh Island.

Burgh Island

To say that Burgh Island is a cut above your average hotel is like saying that St Paul’s Cathedral is rather a nice church. It’s impossible to appreciate just how special this place really is until you’re actually standing on the island, cut off at high tide, with gulls and cormorants wheeling above you.

Arriving is half the fun. The legendary 'Fruity' Metcalfe, pal and equerry to Edward VIII, once remarked that 'it is essential to change one's goggles for a clean pair before the drive down to Bigbury - the view commands it . . .’  and the least you can do today is polish up your sunnies in preparation for your first glimpse of the Deco hotel,  across its 200 metres or so of silvery sand.

If you’re clever, you’ll arrange to turn up at high tide so that you get to ride over to the island by sea tractor. At low tide you can simply walk across the sand, but what’s the fun in that when you can clamber up the steps of this ridiculous-looking, utterly unique little vehicle, which will then trundle through the water over to the landing jetty? It runs every 15 minutes, but as a hotel guest you can command it at will; we ended up racking our brains for increasingly slim excuses to return to the mainland.

Having arrived, the glamour factor kicks in from the moment you cross the threshold, and doesn’t desert you for a minute of your stay. Once you’ve marvelled at the glittering foyer and the stained-glass peacock dome, you’ll emerge into the gardens; at the base of the cliff are loungers and tables, where waiters will bring you tea – as generations of waiters have here for nearly a century.

Burgh Island Hotel was first built in Deco style during the ’20s, and remodelled in the ‘30s. Today, its 25 rooms and suites go by such names as ‘Noel Coward’,  ‘Agatha Christie’ and ‘Gertie Lawrence’, not merely as a short-cut to referencing the Jazz Age, but because these luminaries all stayed here, partying like it was 1929 in the Palm Court and down at the Mermaid Pool, where Harry Roy’s jazz band was rowed out to the bathing platform so that the music could float across the water.

The hotel became a hedonistic playground for the inter-war rich and famous. Where better, after all, to conduct secret liaisons than an island, safe from prying eyes and tiresome interruptions? Burnt-out London flappers flocked here to refresh their jaded spirits, others came to write (Coward and Christie), and to openly flirt with the waiters (that would be Coward again). 

The hotel fell into disrepair after the war, but since its 1980s labour-of-love refurbishment the interior has been made to gleam anew with chrome, mirrors and glass; seen across the sea from the mainland, its immaculate white exterior gleams like a beacon.

The ambience of the place carefully evokes the smart informality of the ‘30s; if Noel and Gertie, or indeed Fruity, were to bowl up today, they’d find very little changed. Guests, on the whole, tend to dress for dinner – you can go all-out flapper-and-fascinator style if you like, otherwise it’s black ties and best frocks all round; the staff won’t refuse to serve you if you turn up in casual attire, but it seems churlish to come all this way and not enter the spirit of the thing.

Anyway, it’s great fun – how often do you get the chance to glam up to the nines just to dine with your partner? You’ll find yourself casting covert glances at other guests — your fellow Bunnys and Binkys — who you’ll encounter beneath the peacock dome of the Palm Court for pre-prandial ‘snifters’ — expect cocktails with such witty, Cowardesque names such as ‘Mad About the Buoy’ and ‘Pour, Little Rich Girl’. 

If this all gives the impression that Burgh is like a rather arch theme-park, a kind of Hercule Poirot murder mystery without the murder, then think again. It’s all very laid-back and relaxed. And while you can spend a rainy afternoon playing Cluedo in the drawing room, no-one’s going to force you to be Colonel Mustard; indeed, if you’d rather spend your time in front of the roaring fire of the neighbouring Pilchard Inn – seven centuries old, and the former haunt of pirates and smugglers – then so be it. What’s almost definite is that you’ll find very little motivation to leave the island. You can picnic in the camomile lawns, visit the spa, drink pink gins, take cream teas, play croquet – or just simply wander the grounds. If these look strangely familiar, it’s down to endless TV Agatha Christie adaptations; the grande dame of the murder mystery was a frequent guest here, and wrote Evil Under the Sun during her stay. Her favourite quarters have now been transformed into the Beach Hut, a luxurious, discrete contemporary refuge, all clean lines, timber cladding, glass-walled balconies and luxurious modern bathrooms; exclusive and romantic, it’s also self-contained, having its own little kitchen. You could live here quite happily for months.

Rivalling it in splendour and sheer desirability is the huge Garden Suite, which is reached via its own private corridor and lift in the main part of the hotel. The rooms here have an authentic period charm – unlike the Beach Hut, it’s more Moderne than Modernist – but it shares the same velvety opulence. Everything from the wallpaper to the Bakelite phones to the furniture is utterly in keeping with the era; there are even compilation jazz age CDs to get you in the mood. And if that doesn’t leave you feeling superior enough, the suite has its own lavishly sized garden, with views across the sand to where the Bigbury hoi polloi dwell.

It’s not cheap, but even a one-night stay will be a memory you’ll cherish forever; when you visit Burgh, you don’t just travel geographically, but also in time, back to an age of elegant manners and effortless sophistication. Like the Riviera on a sunny day, like Rebecca when it’s stormy; never has the ‘Great Escape’ title of this feature been more appropriate. Jay Gatsby would have adored it, and so will you. 

Glazebrook House Hotel

An excellent base for touring the county’s many sights comes in the shape of Glazebrook House, South Brent. This Georgian hotel has been completely refurbished, and a very idiosyncratic dimension added.

All looks normal from the outside, the hotel set back in a wooded, secluded countryside on the edge of Dartmoor National Park. But on entering, the first thing you notice is a reception desk in the shape of a Spitfire wing. On the walls are bugles, bowler hats, drums, butterfly collections, illuminated magnifying glasses. Nearby is a stuffed flamingo and an emu skeleton. So, not your average hotel then.

The playful mix of quirk and cool works magnificently well, and has you wondering what might be in store as you ascend the tartan-rugged staircase to your room. The White Rabbit room, that’s what. Curiouser and curiouser.

A bust of Winston Churchill may have pride of place in the cosy whiskey den downstairs; upstairs Alice in Wonderland holds sway. Each bedroom, such as the Caterpillar room or Cheshire Cat has been designed by Mancunian designer Timothy Oulton. In ours, a massive bed was surrounded by fluffy wool frame. Two blown-up playing cards of the king and queen of hearts guarded over us, and chandeliers hanging from ropes added to the surreal air. Eclectic is probably too small a word for this hotel.

But looking glass or not, the practical side was well looked after— free wifi, an iPad, huge TV, complimentary minibar.

From the window, there are views over the 200-year-old garden — and to be honest, you wouldn’t be surprised to see a mad hatter presiding over a tea party.

Where to stay

Burgh Island

Bigbury-on-Sea,
South Devon TQ7 4BG

0044 1548 810514

www.burghisland.com

Room rates: from £310-£665 per night

Glazebrook House Hotel

South Brent, Devon

TQ10 9JE

00 44 1364 7332

www.glazebrookhouse.com

This is seriously boutiquery – handcrafted furniture, eye catching 3D effect marble tiles, each room has a distinct personality with serious quirk everywhere.

Room rates: £159-£239

The Flete Estate

Haye Farm, Holbeton, PL8 1JZ

00 44 1752 830234

www.flete.co.uk

At the Flete Estate there's a choice of eight properties. These include three coastguards’ cottages (sleeping six), Plamflete House – a Grade II-listed manor house sleeping 12, with room for a further six in the East Wing – the stately Efford House, also sleeping 12 (plus dogs), and the cosy, romantic Flete Mill Cottage. In other words there’s accommodation to suit everyone from cosy couple to small emerging nation.

The estate, on the Erme Estuary, has its own beach at Mothecombe Bay – and is surrounded by an unbeatable mix of salt marshes, smugglers’ caves, secluded beaches, woodland and pasture, secret coves, soaring cliffs, and of course the open sea.

Cottage rates: from £915- £1950 for 7 nights (high season)