Ilfracombe was another of my favorite places to go. We always managed to be there in the off-season, usually April to early May. That meant we had the beaches to ourselves and the sheep and cattle for company on our rambles.
I can remember waking to the cries of the seagulls as they followed the fishing boats into port, and the thrill of anticipation for the adventures to come that day.
The BnB would pack a lunch for us and we would head out on foot, sometimes over the Torrs.
The Torrs, also known as the Seven Hills lie along the southwestern coast of Devon. In the 1880’s, to encourage recreation, a set of zig-zagging coastal paths with spectacular views of hills and sea were laid out, linking Ilfracombe with Morthoe and Woolacombe beach.

The zig-zag path up the cliff from Illfracomb

The Tunnel Beach pool in the distance -
You can just see the man-made wall

A "Kissing Gate" leads to a field full of cattle,
sitting down - a sign of a fine day to come!
Joining the paved road above Mortehoe.

About half way along the route is a hamlet called Lee Bay. Among its charms is an ancient thatched cottage called The Old Maid’s Cottage. A vist to it took one back in time – way back – some three hundred years! It's now a BnB.

The "beach" of Lee Bay is floored with corrugated rocks covered with seaweed and filled with tidal pools. You had to step carefully to avoid slipping or stepping on something squiggly or prickly! Starfish and sea urchins and snails and shells of all shapes and colors, plus tiny fish filled the pools and could have made for hours of study.
Even though I was hungry by then, it was hard to leave the pools and eat the lunch prepared for us.
After lunch we continued our hike to Woolacombe Bay. By road it’s about a seven-and-a-half-mile trip, but over the torrs it was at least ten. By the time we reached the sweeping sands of the Bay, we were all ready for a dip in the ocean. The older kids loved this beach, dashing into the waves and body surfing.

I found it boring as it was sand, sun and wind. Being a redhead, I was soon miserable with sun and wind burn! But afternoon tea with lovely little cakes and the bus ride back to Ilfracombe made up for it. Plus, a lovely hot meal at the BnB. Sleep was no issue that night!

Another adventure during our stay at Ilfracombe took us north along country lanes barely wide enough for a car to traverse. The whole countryside was filled with history, mystery and skullduggery. One farm in particular drew my attention. It lay in a valley just below the cliffs that lined the sea. The cliffs were honeycombed with caves and tunnels which in the old days were used by the smugglers and the local people who would lure ships onto the rocks below.
This farm was haunted by the farmer’s wife. She had gone aboard a ship, her destination I don’t remember. But a storm blew up and the ship was lured onto those very rocks. The farmer discovered his wife’s body washed ashore and took her through the tunnels to the farm where she died. Because everyone knew she had left, he could not bury her in the church yard, so he put her in a small room and boarded it up. Years later, when the window tax was established, the tax collectors came to count his windows. One astute fellow noticed that the inner wall did not match up with the outer wall and went to investigate, assuming the farmer was trying to hide a window. The terrible secret was revealed.
Was the farmer punished? I don’t know. As a child it made little difference to me. But I found the story intriguing and often dreamed about it.

- Image borrowed from Tatler
Although this is not the farm, it reminds me very much of the house. It was white and had a garden where teas were served. This farm is reportedly the one that inspired Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s book Hounds of the Baskerville’s.

The FMC (pictures on the main page) was our home away from home. It was a row of four connected houses with doors opening from one house to the other. The basement was a labyrinth of halls that wound between the laundry room, the Dining Room, and the kitchens. In there somewhere was a room with a snooker table. Another room was a lounge, but we weren’t encouraged to go into it.
In one of the houses, the top two floors were flats for long-term guests. When Mum had to have surgery with complications, she and us children stayed in one of them. It was a dark time, although I didn’t fully understand why. Mum stayed in bed most of the time. I would bring her an apple which she pealed thinly and slice off bites. When she wasn’t looking, I’d snitch the peals and eat them. She caught me and I protested that I didn’t want the peal to go to waste. She began being generous with the thickness of the peal, although I continued to protest.
While we lived in the flat, we had milk and little bottles of the best tasting orange juice ever delivered. I’d hang out the window watching for that early morning delivery and run down the four flights of stairs to meet the milkman and get my bottle of OJ first.
The hallways of the two houses in the middle ran side by side, so the wall between them was taken out and they became the Grand Hall. (On the image of the building you can see the doors, although it appears they are no longer used.) In the Grand Hall was what appeared to me as a monstrously tall clock. I was afraid of it and it’s slow, unfaltering, stern tick until Miss Dawes (one of the sisters who managed to Club) asked me one Sunday morning to help her wind the clock. She opened the glass door, revealing the large pendulum winging slowly back and forth, and guided my hands high up behind that pendulum to the shorter of two heavy chains.
“Pull!” cried Miss Dawes. I pulled, and pulled, but to no avail, until she wrapped her hands around mine and pulled with me. As we pulled the short chain down, the longer piece slid up until it was way above my head, and the short chain was almost touching the floor of the clock.
“There now,” Miss Dawes said, dusting off her hands. “We just wound him up!”
I stroked the clocks smooth, dark wood. “Why’s it called a Grandfather Clock?”
“Well, that’s a funny one,” Miss Dawes replied. “There was song written by a man called Henry Clay Work in the last century about his grandfather’s clock. It became a favorite and was sung and played by groups and bands all over. And the tall hall clock was nicknamed the Grandfather's Clock.” She drew me to the foot of the stairs, and we sat. “Let me see if I can remember how it goes,” and she began to sing.

“My grandfather's clock was too tall for the shelf
So it stood ninety years on the floor
It was taller by half than the old man himself
But it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn
On the day that he was born
It was always his treasure and pride
But it stopped, short, never to go again
When the old man died.

Still the clock kept the time
With a soft and muffled chime
As we silently stood by his side
But it stopped, short - never to go gain
When the old man died."
The breakfast gong rang, and we joined others heading for the ding room in the basement. I kept humming the last two lines until I thought I’d go crazy. But I was cured of my fear of the clock and often snuggled in the shadows at its side, listening to the beat of the heart of a Grandfather I never knew.