No, not Hadrians Wall. Don’t be daft, I haven’t gone all triathlete on you. This wall is however one of the most popular in England, running about two and a half miles from Dawlish to Dawlish Warren, with the sea on one side and the railway line on the other. There isn’t anywhere else quite like it in England, and if you want further recommendation, Terry Wogan would often wax lyrical about it over the years on his radio show.

The walk starts underneath the platform of Dawlish railway station

Social distancing is the current norm but when you’re walking this wall it’s sometimes difficult to stay two metres away from people coming the other way without either falling into the briny or getting run over by the 10.25 from Paddington to Torquay. The folk I met though generally tried to keep their distance anyway, and for the most part we all succeeded.

Train – socially distanced fellow walker – sea

As I ambled along I decided not to listen to the podcasts that usually accompany me and opted for the sound of the waves on the beach instead. A beautiful natural effect of nature, although it was occasionally interrupted by a train or the scream of a child being denied his or her tenth ice cream of the day.

I arrived at Dawlish Warren after about 40 minutes. The Warren sits around the headland and can’t be seen on the approach from Dawlish until it’s too late to avoid it. That’s just my opinion of course, as it presents the kind of holiday that I wouldn’t normally opt for, but there were plenty of holidaymakers there today who were really enjoying themselves.

There was a family of four at the go karts. Dad was racing his two boys, and losing, while Mum filmed it all on her phone so he can be embarrassed about his efforts for years to come. There was a smell of chips in the air, youngsters were wearing their ice cream faces with pride, the seagulls were trying it on with everyone in the hope of snatching a morsel of food and even the sun was trying to come out.

I wandered around the food stalls and managed to resist the delights on offer, although it was a close run thing with the baguette stall. I marvelled at the lads sitting down at the outside tables and cheerily necking their pints of Otter Ale or Devon Cider only fifteen minutes after Popmaster had finished. (That’s 11am, if you’re not a Radio 2 listener).

My resistance to the culinary attractions started to crumble so I hotfooted it back to Dawlish. The sea wall is only one of the routes as there is a bridle way too, which runs along the cliff top. Ooh, I thought, that’ll afford me some very fine views, and I won’t get pushed into the sea, which would be a bonus. So I headed off in that direction instead. I should’ve thought, as it’s a cliff top walk, that it would be going uphill. In my haste to get back I hadn’t registered that, and soon I was climbing up.

The cliff top route. Uphill! Who knew cliffs were so high?

The views were a bit limited as there was a hedge on both sides of the path but it was a lot quieter and there weren’t so many people about. They must all have been admiring the trains on the sea wall that was now below me. But the odd break in the hedge did give me the opportunity to see right across the English Channel to where there were seven or eight ships at anchor, waiting to get into Falmouth I suppose. Or perhaps, as one of them was a cruise liner, just waiting for the whole sorry pandemic saga to be over.

The cliff top route rejoins the sea wall via this bridge. Only trains go under it, not trolls

There then came a point where the weary walker (me) was presented with a choice. Either I could a) rejoin the sea wall by crossing a footbridge, or b) go back via the road. I took my chances with the bridge, and ended up back next to the sea.

A View from the Bridge, where Arthur Miller may have written his play of the same name. Or maybe not.

And so I headed back to dear old Dawlish. The sea was very quiet, not threatening to wash away any part of the railway line today like it did a few years ago. On an old boathouse, just before getting to the station, there was a surprisingly cheerful bit of graffiti on the door.

Not a Banksy.

Not for the citizens of Dawlish the usual messages on a wall. There was no “Kevin luvs Tracy,” “Palace for the cup” or “Mobbsy Woz ‘Ere.” This one actually supported the police, in a roundabout sort of way, by saying that they “ain’t all bad.” Still, graffiti is criminal damage and I feel I have to report it. I’ll tell the coppers that the suspect was seen running away, wearing a blue uniform.

…and back to Dawlish

I got back to my Mum’s house after a couple of hours, having swerved past Gay’s Creamery (Finest Ice Cream in England) and battled through the grockles who were congregating outside.

Next time, I may just have a go on those go karts. As long as no one films me.