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 B and B 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.

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.
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.

- Image borrowed from Tatler

Holidays in England meant stopping in London at the Foreign Missions Club,Aberdeen Park, London N5. It was a boarding house for missionaries and bible college students. It was made up of four or five connected houses each three to four stories high with full basements. Hours of exploration and skullduggery!

Front View

The gardens and back of the building London meant long rides on double decker busses, the Underground and in taxis. So much to see and wonder about! Kew Gardens, and Hyde Park, museums and the zoo.
Kew Gardens, The Palm House London also meant visiting with cousins. My favorite times were when we went to see Granny and I got to play with Christine if she was home from school.

I loved visiting Uncle Derek’s farm near Weston-Super-Mere and Cheddar Gorge, Gloucestershire.
he farm was so old that it was listed in the Doomsday Book. And the road that passed the lane was an old cobbled Roman road which had been paved as far as the lane. The cobbled road continued over the hills and once went all the way down to Weston-Super-Mare. Now I know that it was one of the roads that connected London to all parts of England, Scotland and Wales.
(These aren't the actual pictures of the farm, but are very similar to how I remember it.) The house was built of fieldstone at least a foot thick. The best room was the kitchen which had a massive fireplace with a back boiler behind it used in the heating system as well as the faucets. The dairy barn was also built of fieldstone but had been updated with concrete floors and modern milking machines. The hay loft was a wonderful playhouse on rainy days. I remember the farm in perpetual spring when yellow primroses flocked the roadsides and bluebells carpeted the forests. Skylarks sang from high above and Cuckoo’s called mournfully from the treetops. I discovered a cavity in a hedgerow just big enough for a little room and spent many hours there, collecting things that interested me and making up adventures of all sorts.

We met an elderly man while we were in Ilfracombe who was an absolute delight to visit with. He insisted we visit him at his home in Milbourne Port. To our delight, he owned a bakery. While all the other children were away at boarding school, I got watch the bakers create the breads, cakes and confections, and I even got to ride in one of the delivery vans and help distribute the goods all over the county. My favorite confection was two large maranges stuffed with whiped clotted cream. Never have found anything better in all my years!
(This may be where the bakery was. The building and gate and yard behind look about how I remember it. The bakery was on the left with racks of baked goods in the windows.)