I believe that the West Country really is very different to the rest of England. Greener, slower, healthier; the pace of life shifts down a couple of gears when you cross into the boot-shaped corner of Britain. This region of England is unspoilt, far less industrial and brings you a snippet of simpler times. For my girlfriend Tania’s birthday in late August, we ventured from the clockwork grime of London to mystical Exmoor for the first time.

Exmoor, straddling both Somerset and North Devon, is 267 square miles of hills, moorland and coastline named after the River Exe that flows through the middle. Once a Royal Forest for hunting, the area is well protected due to its huge array of wildlife and natural beauty. It is also is an area of rich English folklore with the ‘Beast of Exmoor’, a phantom puma-like cat supposedly responsible for killing hundreds of farmer’s sheep, one of the area’s most infamous legends.

We entered Exmoor through the wonderful medieval village of Dunster, which immediately justified the 200-mile journey from South London. We parked up next to the 400 year-old wooden yarn market and, just as we began strolling in the late afternoon sun, one thought came hurtling to the forefront of my mind – “is there a more comforting and pretty street scene than an English village during the summer?!”.

The flowers, blossoming from all angles throughout the town, were only matched in their colourful vibrancy by the quaint rows of houses that lined the narrow winding roads. The sound of church bells rang through the warm cobbled streets, as a mixture of old regulars and young cyclists drank cider and ale outside the local pub.

An elderly woman, with permed white hair wearing a light blue cardigan tending to her front garden shrubs, glanced up with a smile: “Lovely evening isn’t it?! I think I’ll pop across to the Stags Head this evening! See you later!”, she laughed in her stodgy, Somerset accent. Her inherent friendliness and presumption that we were fellow locals confirmed further that we were in a region far away from London.

 

Back in the car, we ventured on into the rural heart of Exmoor as darkness fell. Tearing through the pitch-black country roads, full beams on, our inn for the next two nights burst into view. Pushing open the heavy oak door of the enormous Exmoor Forest Inn, an immediate feeling of comfort settled within me. The silence of the old Victorian building and its strong wooden beams gave it a great authority; with the wonky, creaky floor, floral carpet and corridors lined with old photos exuding a homely charm from bygone era – like visiting your grandparent’s house. I rang the little bell and we were greeted by the softly spoken lady owner who led us to our room, which was clean and cosy, and we rested before our Exmoor explorations.

Exmoor’s coastal character of pleasant ruggedness

Morning broke; we opened the curtains to reveal the most charmingly stereotypical scene of the English countryside, then drove up into the sun-soaked hills, and, like a peacock showing off its impressive plumage, Exmoor dazzled us with its natural beauty.

The vast open moorland was decorated with pink, purple and blue flowers that bobbed and flowed like a choppy sea, cows watched from their fields as sheep wandered as they pleased across the thin ribbon of tarmac that snaked through the heathy moors. Reaching the sheer-drop coastline, we rolled and climbed along adrenaline-inducing roads with magnificent views of the grassy cliffs and blue Bristol Channel (that combination of English green grass alongside Mediterranean-style blue sea a scene I’ve always found pleasing, like the best of both worlds). This area is known as the Valley of Rocks.

 

North Devon’s coastal towns of Lynton and Lynmouth were the reward for our journey. We enjoyed cream tea and scones at sea-level Lynmouth then used the Victorian steam-powered cliff-train to reach the quieter Lynton. St Mary’s Parish Church here is perched right on the edge of the cliff with spectacular views across Lynmouth Bay. Delicately detailed both inside and out, the church tower dates back around 1000 years to Norman times. Religious or not, whilst sat in the churchyard it was difficult to not feel a sense of peace whilst taking in the rugged surroundings and humble local history of this clifftop community.

The beauty of Lynton and Lynmouth and the sheer magnitude of the Valley of Rocks had surprised me; to use a cliché – it was actually breath-taking. However, as we began our descent down the steep path to Lynmouth, I discovered that I wasn’t the only one taken aback by this area. The path we were on was named Poet’s Walk and pinned on numerous trees were poems from England’s famous collection of Romantic poets. Indeed, we were walking in the footsteps of the likes Samuel Coleridge, William Wordsworth and Robert Southey who had been inspired by this region – it was Southey in 1799 who created the still-used nickname for Lynton and Lynmouth, ‘Little Switzerland’.

Below is the letter Robert Southey sent to his friend John May in 1799 after also being pleasantly shocked by this region exactly 220 years before I was:

“My dear Friend,

“. . . . . My walk to Ilfracombe led me through Lynmouth, the finest spot, except Cintra and the Arrabida, that I ever saw. Two rivers join at Lynmouth, You probably know the hill streams of Devonshire: each of these flows down a coombe, rolling down over huge stones like a long waterfall; immediately at their junction they enter the sea, and the rivers and the sea make but one sound of uproar.

Of these coombes the one is richly wooded, the other runs between two high, bare, stony hills. From the hill between the two is a prospect most magnificent; on either hand, the coombes and the river before the little village. The beautiful little village, which, I am assured by one who is familiar with Switzerland, resembles a Swiss village,—this alone would constitute a view beautiful enough to repay the weariness of a long journey; but, to complete it, there is the blue and boundless sea, for the faint and feeble line of the Welsh coast is only to be seen on the right hand if the day be perfectly clear”.

Arriving back down in Lynmouth, we enjoyed a beer whilst sat on the stone wall outside a thatched-roofed pub called The Rising Sun as, ironically, the sun began to set on. Our up-and-down of Little Switzerland was complete but it had only whetted our appetite. We’d only dipped our toes into Exmoor and wanted to see more before the summer sun disappeared. We finished off our pints of Exmoor Gold (great beer) and headed back into Exmoor’s mysterious, spooky moors…