In Plymouth: the elevator walk

September 9, 2022

Weather is bending our direction at the end of our stay in England. Tomorrow and the day after both look like they’ll be fine, giving us a chance to ride up north into southern Dartmoor. Today looks iffier, with the likelihood of a splat of moisture here and there. Rachael’s planning on a walk again but it looks good enough for me to take a chance on, and I’m staring at the map imagining a route I might map out when she pops in the door with the laundry she’s just brought up from the basement. She dumps it on the bed, starts sorting it out, and then startles me by uttering an unminced oath. Not all the items are dry - especially my underwear, always the slowest - and she’s not about to go downstairs a fourth (or fifth, I’ve lost count) time to pop them back in the drier again.

I look around our small studio apartment and see the obvious spot for them - the slats of the Venetian blind. Our one window has a southern exposure with a view off to the war memorial crowning the Hoe. Once the sun comes across this part of the building they’ll be fine.

There’s just one thing about me and my thoughts for a day ride though: the elevator. We’re on the top floor of a three story apartment building, and the elevator is out of service. It went out of commission sometime yesterday, after we arrived. We got the bikes up fine when we arrived but this morning it would take carrying them down three flights of stairs if I’m to go out for a ride, and than lugging them back up again if it’s still out of service when I get back. It’s part of the reason Rachael was cursing at the still damp laundry - she’s descended and climbed them plenty this morning already.

A view we’re getting tired of. I hope the elevator’s back in service soon!

On a day where the weather’s questionable as it is, it’s not worth it to carry the bike down those stairs and possibly back up again. Plymouth’s an interesting enough place to be worth another outing on foot anyway. I’m not going with Rachael though, who will travel farther and faster than my creaky knees will keep up with today. She heads off on a long hike along the coast to the east, and I plan on a shambling meander to the west to see parts of town I haven’t explored yet.

My walk starts with familiar territory, down through the Barbican and then around the wall of the Citadel and up to the Hoe. It’s a windy day, the flags are whipping, and they’re all flying at half-mast in honor of the queen. I’d expected this of course, and was anticipating the sight of the line of flags at the crest of the Hoe. The surprise though is that overnight the multinational flags I saw here yesterday have all been replaced with Union Jacks.

In honor of the dear departed queen. Thank you for your service!

I don’t end up with much of a walk - maybe six miles, though I take about four hours at it. I walk westward along the coast as far as the ferry terminal we’ll sail out from Sunday before turning back east again. I’d mapped out a longer loop for myself that continued on around Devil’s Point, but once I’m past the Hoe it’s not so interesting - there are a few small rocky beaches but it gets increasingly industrialized as I near the port, and it looks like more of the same beyond that. And along the way most of the architecture isn’t terribly interesting - a fact that sounds uncharitable to say. It’s because so much of the city was destroyed in the war and had to be rebuilt.

The Hoe Foreshore, a pocket beach just past the Hoe.

Look, it’s Look II, by Antony Gormley (2017). I looked around but couldn’t spot Look I.

Carry on, carrion crow! I’ve been saving that excellent caption for weeks, hoping I’d get a good enough look at one to use it.

There’s a nice, too short pedestrian walkway east of the port, part of the South West Coastal Path. The wall along the promenade is capped with a line of replicas of warships.

At the port. That’s our line - Brittany Ferries.

I’m mulling over whether to just turn back when the decision’s made for me as showers break out. I have to find a bathroom anyway and the showers aren’t helping the situation so I pop in at the nearby East Hoe pub and order a half pint, my ticket for a trip to their loo. When I come out and take a table the room is crowded but strangely quiet, all eyes on the television. It’s tuned to the BBC, that’s airing scenes from the 96 gun salute for the queen (one for each year of her life) that’s taking place throughout the country. There’s a rotating display of rounds being fired off at different locations, with different types of artillery by crews in different traditional military dress. It’s quite moving really, even for an outsider with nothing but our distant shared heritage to connect me to what’s happening. Behind me, men mutter approvingly over their beers as different armaments and uniforms come up on the screen. It’s lucky timing, and I was glad to have been a witness.

It takes quite a while, but once it’s over the sound of the talking heads on the broadcast is shushed, a soundtrack of oldies comes on, and animated chatter resumes.

After this I decide to just head back east again and soon find myself up on the Hoe again - it’s like Rome, and all roads here seem to lead to it. After that I continue on down to the Barbican and ferret out a pasty shop for a Thai Red Curry pasty and an americano that I take down to the harbor wall to enjoy a snack lunch before heading back to the room.

Along the way back I make one last stop, at Saint Andrew’s Church, because I learned that it’s the place in Plymouth to go if you want to pay your last respects to the queen. There’s a spot on the lawn outside where you can leave flowers, and inside there’s a giant condolences book you can sign and leave your remarks in - it’s a scene playing out everywhere in the land, I’m sure. While I’m there a couple slowly walks up with a bouquet - and elderly lady and her son, I assume. She stoops slowly and places her bouquet and then stands as her son hugs and consoles her for a few minutes while she’s visibly shaking from sobbing.

Rachael’s back not long after me, sharing the photos from her walk. I’m pleased with my experience today but looking at her photos it’s clear that walking off to the east is the more scenic walk.

In the evening we walk down to the Barbican for dinner at a Greek Cypriot restaurant, Stavros, and then over to the cineplex for an experience we haven’t enjoyed since leaving Portland - a film! It’s the opening night of See How They Run, a who-done-it spoof based on Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap starring Saoirse Ronan and Sam Rockwell. Great fun, and it reminds us of how much we’ll enjoy taking in a film from time to time when we’re back in the States this winter.

Climbing back up to the Hoe along Cliff Road.

I’d heard that there was a work of public art dedicated to the Fab Four up here. I’m puzzled at first though when I look around and see nothing. Then I look down.

Life goes on, as the work of preparing for the university’s commencement ceremony continues. There’s been a lot of progress since I was here yesterday and the scaffolding was just going up.

On the harbor wall in the Barbican - a busker and his dog on set break.

Andrew the Fisherman casts his net above the entrance to Saint Andrew’s Church.

Offering words of consolation. I wonder what becomes of all these books from around the land? There must be enough to fill a small library.

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Amber StarfireI really enjoyed reading about your walk, and great pictures. Though I think my favorite is the underwear in the window. Gave me a laugh.

Must be a special experience to be in England at this time in history. We are all moved by the Queen’s passing, but to be there, to experience it viscerally with the country has to be amazing.
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