South Devon Days

When we arrived, it was nearly dusk. We wandered through the town, but everything was closed. The locals, ghostly and grizzled, appeared here and there, emerging on Totnes High Street as if they had just stepped out of the forest. Totnes is a quiet riverside town in Devon, UK. We stayed at a bed & breakfast called 7 The Grove.

The owners, John and Bethan, are retired teachers. They have a 10 year old son, and the three of them occupy the third floor.

Our rooms were on the second floor—one cozy with just a bed and desk; the other with an adjoining sitting room. The bathroom was the type of place you could hang out in for awhile. It had an old tub, a large walk-in shower, and through the window, you could see the little garden we never visited.

Every afternoon, our hosts set out a tray of coconut cookies and tea. They set out milk in the morning, although I don’t think we ever woke up in time to have a coffee before breakfast. Downstairs, the odd chairs were situated around two small uneven tables pushed together. The owners swept in and out through a glass door, connecting the dining area with a large kitchen.

On our second day, we hitched a ride with Bethan to Sharpham Vineyard. It was October, and we enjoyed that autumn sway between a warm sun and crisp air. We paid for the “Trek & Taste” and sat down, opting to start with the latter. Elke, our guide, talked us through four of their wines. Both rain and light washed over the estate, changing the landscape from moody violet to lush green.

With a light buzz lingering, we headed off to explore the vineyard. We weaved our way around the vines, having a close look at the Phoenix and Dornfelder grapes. The clouds over the English countryside, forever in motion, darkened. During the downpour, we tried to take cover amid the vegetation by the River Dart.

We walked along the river and back up the hill to the visitor center. Then we continued over rambling green hills, complete with brown cows, to get back to town. We stopped for a little while to talk to a man and his dog.

Back at the Grove, we stripped out of our wet clothing and made tea. In one room, I noticed shelves of CDs. I pulled one out at random. Paul Lewis. A little shiver came over me. I had seen him perform twice—over a decade earlier—while I was in college in Vermont.

As we drifted to sleep that night, tucked away in our little inn, the piano playing softly, I thought: I wouldn’t return, but it was a perfect for the moment.