Peters Tower

The train from Exeter rattled along the Avocet Line, a scenic railway branch named after the elegant wading birds that frequent the Exe Estuary. Mudflats and saltmarshes slipped past the window. There is an undeniable charm to travelling seaward by rail.

At Lympstone village station I was the only passenger to alight. Peters Tower was hard to miss, its clock face high above a cluster of slate roofs. It was only a short walk along narrow rows of whitewashed and red-brick cottages adorned with hanging baskets and weathered fishing buoys. Beside a historic lime kiln I paused to take in the tower, looming over the foreshore, then readied the key for the broad front door beneath a crimson lantern.

Since 1885, Peters Tower has kept watch and time over the Exe Estuary, its 70-foot clock tower visible for miles. It was built by William H. Peters in memory of his wife, Mary Jane, reflecting the philanthropy of a family who had made their fortune as merchants in the eighteenth century. Mary Jane was remembered as a much-loved woman, known for helping the poorer families of the parish. William's memorial to her extended beyond the tower itself to include twelve affordable cottages for local people. As well as providing the community with a public clock – a valuable amenity in a town whose livelihood depended on the rhythms of the sea – the tower was also intended as a refuge for fishermen caught out by bad weather on the estuary.

By the late-twentieth century, years of neglect had left Peters Tower derelict, with rotten floors, collapsing stairs and crumbling brickwork. Ownership passed to the Landmark Trust in 1982, who painstakingly revived the building and transformed it into a unique holiday let. Working within the tower's tiny footprint, the Trust took inspiration from yacht design, creating cabin-like living spaces complete with a galley kitchen, bunk beds, teak panelling and brass fittings. The living room and bathroom lanterns are replicas of those aboard a Naval warship, while an aluminium spiral staircase maximises every inch of space. Outside, the brickwork, weather vane and clock face were all carefully restored.

I spent my first hour spiralling up and down the tower's 42 steps, discovering the small but perfectly formed rooms, each flooded with estuary light. After stowing away my belongings, I wandered to the village shop for provisions, then settled at the pub for a whitebait supper. My arrival in Lympstone coincided with the start of a heatwave, worryingly bringing some of the hottest June days ever recorded in the UK. The pub's outdoor tables were packed with folk making the most of the cooler evening air beneath the shade of parasols.

Back on the foreshore, a welcome breeze could be found. Colourful strings of buoys and rusting anchors hung from the railings, while fishing crates and creels were stacked beside the sturdy harbour wall. As the tide slipped away, I wandered between small coves beneath red sandstone cliffs, where twisted old oaks clung improbably to the ledges. The retreating water revealed a humble treasure trove for a mudlark, and my pockets soon held a handful of worn pottery shards. I gathered a few oak sprigs and wild stems from the harbour's fringes to brighten the vases back at the tower, where I returned to watch the shifting colours of sunset fade into night.

I switched on the lamps and settled into a corner on the third floor beside an open window. With its little writing desk, timeworn binoculars, and shelves of books about the building and surrounding region, the room felt like the private lookout of a well-read lighthouse keeper.

That evening, I leafed through the stack of visitor logbooks on the desk, one of my favourite rituals of any Landmark Trust stay. Their pages brimmed with sketches and reflections from thankful guests who had fallen under the tower’s spell, punctuated now and then by the complaints of others who had expected something rather more conventional, overlooking what made the place so special. One guest explained how to silence the clock mechanism long enough for a lie-in, avoiding the hourly chimes that ring out from 7am until 11pm. Another recommended using a Le Creuset casserole dish as a makeshift bedpan rather than tackling the spiral staircase on a midnight trip to the toilet. Eccentric advice aside, almost every account returned to the same theme: the mesmerising outlook across the restless estuary.

I woke to the first chime of the clock after a comfortable night’s sleep in the top bunk, eager to share the tower’s quirks with my oldest friend, who was travelling down from Yorkshire to join me. After meeting her at the station later that morning, I found almost as much pleasure in watching her discover the tower for the first time as I had in exploring it myself.

We laughed at the chance to relive the bunk-bed days of primary school trips, imagining how enchanted our younger selves would have been by the tower. It was exactly the sort of place we would have turned into the setting for a make-believe adventure, inspired by the Secret Seven and Famous Five stories we devoured together as children. Even now, it wasn’t difficult to imagine ourselves as the heroines of one of those tales, keeping watch over the estuary from our lofty hideaway.

The heatwave scorched on throughout our stay in Lympstone, so we fell into the habit of rising early for walks along estuary trails until the heat became uncomfortable. The route to Topsham was especially lovely, with verges abundant with wildflowers and raised viewpoints across the mudflats and saltmarshes teeming with migratory wading birds. Once a thriving port and shipbuilding centre, Topsham retains an elegant waterfront lined with handsome Regency buildings. Independent cafés, shops and pubs make it an easy place to linger, while the large antique centre on the quayside is brilliant for a browse.

Before catching the train back to Lympstone, we stopped at the Bridge Inn on the edge of town for local cider and a ploughman’s lunch in the beer garden overlooking the River Clyst. The inn is thought to have stood on this site since the time of the 1086 Domesday Book, and the stonemasons who built Exeter Cathedral in the twelfth century are said to have lodged here. Much of the present building dates from the sixteenth century, and it has remained under the stewardship of the same family since 1897. Inside, it is delightfully unspoilt, with a traditional parlour and preserved cob malthouse. A historic place for a pint, served straight from the barrel.

In the afternoons, we would return to the tower with the high tide and wade into the estuary. We felt lucky to have such cooling waters on our doorstep, bobbing between the boats and buoys as the day’s heat melted away. When the tide ebbed and the little bays emerged, we would laze on our towels, search the strandline, and watch dappled oak shadows stretch across the cliffs. Later, back at the tower, we hung our swimming costumes out to dry on washing lines strung between weathered poles once used for drying fishing nets.

We happily whiled away the hours in Lympstone, wandering the backstreets, admiring idyllic cottages, scouting the village church with its Norman roots, paddling in the stream by the old mill, browsing local art at the Seaglass Gallery, enjoying breakfasts at High Tide Café and dinners at The Swan.

On our last evening, we collected a takeaway pizza from the pub and ate it on a wooden bench at the foot of the tower while watching the sun set across the water. It was a special few days, shaped by tides and clock chimes, spent with a treasured friend.

We said reluctant goodbyes at the station. My friend had a train to catch, but with an open-return ticket I was able to stay a little longer. The kind staff at the pub looked after my bag while I set off along quiet country lanes and footpaths. Before long, the distinctive silhouette of A la Ronde appeared among the trees.

A la Ronde

Built in the 1790s for cousins Jane and Mary Parminter after their ten-year Grand Tour of Europe, A la Ronde is unlike any other country house. At a time when the Grand Tour was part of a wealthy young man’s education, it was highly unusual for two unmarried women to undertake such an adventure alone. Fortunately, Jane and Mary came from a prosperous merchant family and, with financial independence, were free to spend their inheritance as they wished.

Jane designed the house with the help of architect John Lowder, while local craftsmen drew on their shipbuilding skills to create its remarkable sixteen-sided form. Inside, the cousins filled every corner with curiosities collected on their travels.

I had seen photographs of A la Ronde before visiting, but the reality was even more beguiling. Every inch of the house has been thoughtfully considered, from a soaring central octagonal room, awkward wedge-shaped corners ingeniously fitted with cupboards and shelves, doors disappearing neatly into the walls, and windows of all shapes and sizes framing views of the grounds and estuary beyond.

The shell, rock and fossil collections are astonishing, as are fleeting glimpses of the shell gallery above, where some 25,000 delicate shells still survive. Elsewhere, shells decorate walls, furniture and intricate models, the drawing room is encircled by a frieze made entirely from feathers, and homemade landscapes fashioned from sand, mica and lichen hang on the walls.

At the heart of it all, the Octagon has an Alice in Wonderland quality. Eight double doors lead into the surrounding rooms, while a silvered witch ball hangs beneath a carved wooden dove, reflecting the space back in wonderfully distorted miniature.

Jane and Mary valued their independence as much as they cherished their extraordinary home. Their will stipulated that A la Ronde could only be inherited by unmarried female relatives and should remain unaltered, a wish that was honoured for almost a century before a male relative eventually inherited the property. The National Trust acquired the house in 1991 and it’s satisfying to think the cousins would approve of the care now taken to preserve it.

A la Ronde is a celebration of two creative women who defied the expectations of their age and built a wildly whimsical home, entirely on their own terms. I couldn’t have loved it more.

I finished my visit with an ice cream from the café truck and drifted through the gardens, orchard and wildflower meadow, all alive with butterflies. Then I followed the dusty field paths back to Lympstone for my train home, feeling deeply inspired.

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We arrived on a late December afternoon, the sky quickly fading. After a Christmas spent merrily but rather hectically darting between family celebrations, Stogursey promised a moated pause in the East Quantocks. I had come to photograph this remarkable place for The Landmark Trust, and to see in the New Year within its comforting ring of ruins.

The castle came into view at the end of a rutted track beyond an old mill house. We left the car by a shallow ford and ferried our bags across the stone footbridge in a waiting wheelbarrow. Ahead, a buttery-yellow thatched cottage beamed from within the medieval gatehouse towers, framing an arched bridge whose stones were first cut around 1300. It seemed lifted from a fable.

The heavy timber door opened with a welcoming creek. Before long, there was a dinner of festive leftovers in the oven and a fire dancing in the arrow-slit-windowed sitting room. I settled on the sofa with the Landmark's weighty history album of a thousand years, spanning Norman ambition, Plantagenet intrigue, Lancastrian defiance, Tudor pragmatism and rural resilience.

The castle was founded after the Norman Conquest, when William de Falaise raised a timber ringwork to guard the Somerset coast. In the 12th century the de Curci family made it their principal seat, renaming it Stoke-Courci — a name that gradually evolved into Stogursey. They built a great mound and keep, later encased in stone curtain walls under Henry II. From this stronghold they commanded the mouth of the River Parrett, a strategic gateway to the southwest.

When the de Curci line petered out, the estate passed to Warin FitzGerold, chamberlain to King John. By 1217 the Crown seized direct control of Stogursey, but rebellion followed during Henry III’s minority. The castle was besieged and heavy repairs were carried out in the aftermath.

Through the troubled 13th century the castle passed through various hands. By 1309 it was remodelled into a more compact stronghold. It later served the Lancastrian cause and fell during the War of the Roses, though 15th-century records suggest more repairs rather than final ruin.

By the Tudor period, fortification gave way to farming. Sold in 1670 to offset debts, the site became a tenanted farm with barns, stables, dovehouses, gardens and orchards. Walls softened to ruin, the gatehouse was converted into a cottage tucked within the medieval towers, and vegetables were cultivated in the former inner ward. Over the next 200 years the cottage edged toward dereliction and the crumbling castle walls were swallowed by undergrowth.

In the 20th century, The Landmark Trust rescued the site from neglect. The tangled vegetation was laboriously cut back and the sagging cottage carefully restored: masonry repaired, strengthened and limewashed, thatch reinstated, chimneys rebuilt, oak windows - some fished from the moat - conserved, a new oak stair inserted into the 17th-century turret, and modern comforts introduced. The medieval castle stonework was capped in lime mortar against the weather, securing it as a refuge once more.

Today the gatehouse cottage remains the sole entrance to the grassy inner ward, and when you stay here the moated ruins are yours alone to explore. We set out to investigate them on our first morning; darkness had thwarted any proper inspection the night before. Knitwear thrown over pyjamas, we coiled down the oak stairs, across the stone flags, and stepped out into our castle garden. Frost crackled underfoot and steam from mugs of tea coiled into the sharp air. Around us the curtain walls – faceted, patched and repatched – rose in a ragged geometry shaped by centuries, their long shadows flung across the lawn. I paused at a metal grate set over an old well. When it was excavated in the 19th century, a drinking horn was reportedly found. I dropped a stone to ripple my reflection, waiting for that hollow plunk followed by a fading echo. In medieval times, all the water for cooking, washing and drinking would have been hauled from its depths.

At the centre of the ruins, the winter-bare branches of a tall ash tree swayed above the stump of its fallen neighbour. Standing here brought an indefinable awareness, similar to pausing in the middle of a prehistoric stone circle; the sense of being held in time under a roof of sky. We perched on a wooden bench with our tea and watched ducks skid and waddle across a sheet of ice that topped the moat. Beyond, rooks circled over banks that were once baileys, and a patchwork of fields stretched to the foot of the hills.

After an unhurried fry up, we ventured to where the Quantocks dip to the sea. The pebble-strewn beach at Lilstock was once the old port of Stogursey. Richly veined slate and shale cliffs back limestone pavements of the foreshore, scattered with fossils and wave-sculpted stones to seek.

Back in Stogursey, we topped up our firewood at the village shop and wandered the quiet backstreets. Down a narrow cobbled alley, we came upon an intriguing holy well framed by an ornate arched gateway. Two pure springs flow across a paved yard into moss-lined stone cisterns. Once the village’s main source of drinking water, the wells were also credited in medieval times with healing powers.

The Church of St Andrew was our next port of call. Founded as a Benedictine priory around 1117 by William de Falaise, who also established the castle, it likely incorporates fragments of an earlier building. The priory was dissolved around 1440 and became the parish church, with many later alterations. Inside, we found symbolic stone carvings, a fossilised prehistoric marine reptile set into the floor, and finely carved 16th-century bench ends. One bench shows a “pelican in her piety” – the medieval emblem of a mother pelican wounding her breast to feed her young with her own blood. The image may have inspired the printed pelican curtains now hanging in Stogursey Castle. Hand-printed curtains are a much-loved Landmark tradition, their designs drawn from some element of each building's distinctive history.

Back at the castle, a watchful hawk perched high on the battlements. It clocked us at once and lifted off, gliding effortlessly into the dusk. Indoors, F baked a cake while we grazed on more leftovers and began a jigsaw by the hearth. I returned to the building’s history album and discovered that a king visited in 1210, losing 20 shillings at the gambling table. Knowing royalty had once wagered here, we felt compelled to stage a few spirited rounds of cards before sleep claimed us, summoned by the soft crackle of the open fire.

What a treat to wake on the last morning of 2025 in the south bedroom, where a 17th-century roof truss lies exposed like a ribcage, its wattle-and-daub still clinging in the apex. New Year’s Eve dawned frost-bright and drew me outside while F snoozed. Halfway across the bridge, I stopped short: a heron stood statue-still on the bank. After it drifted away, I lingered, thinking of the moat excavations. The near-intact foundations of the 14th-century bridge beneath me were uncovered from the mud, along with fragments of chain mail, leather shoes and an archer’s wrist guard. There was also a scattering of pottery and bones found, including a whale vertebra, perhaps washed ashore and carried here for food.

The church clock tolled, pulling me back to the present. My camera raced through a roll of film – it was too beautiful a morning to resist, each blade of grass honed by ice. Then back indoors for a long, indulgent soak in the tub.

We had no desire to stray far from the castle that day. F spent the afternoon happily cooking while I decked out arching corners with colourful paper streamers in readiness for our New Year celebrations. We wandered into the fields to watch the final sunset of 2025 sink behind the Quantocks. I pictured a medieval hunting party pounding home for a raucous banquet. We had our own feast of a candlelit roast in the quarry-tiled kitchen. As evening deepened, it was books and bubbles by the warmth of fire, until midnight drew us outside to chime in the New Year, encircled by history and surprised by a local fireworks display lighting up the countryside. Without a doubt, one to remember.

New Year’s Day began with porridge and a leaf through the leather-bound logbooks. Their pages hold handwritten accounts from those who have stayed since the Landmark Trust revived the castle – poems and ditties, sketches and paintings, local tips, wildlife sightings, simple thanks for peaceful hours, and memories before the site was taken into protective care. One former student had photographed the castle cottage in its derelict state, then returned decades later to stay, pasting those old prints into the book. I made sure to read every entry left by those who had toasted a New Year here, feeling part of a shared thread.

We embarked on a bracing walk along Kilve Beach that afternoon. I kept a watchful eye for fossils re-emerging from ancient seabeds after 200 million years. A sea-silvered tree trunk served as our perch for a warm flask and generous chunks of my aunty’s famed chocolate flapjacks.

We followed the foreshore to the charming village of East Quantoxhead where fossils are tucked into boundary walls, then cut back across the fields to Kilve, stumbling upon a lived-in dovecote beside chantry ruins.

Then it was home to our castle sanctuary beneath a rising Wolf Moon, local cider, a blazing fire and a hearty stew. High winds stormed the battlements and boomed down the chimney; the perfect night to conjure up enemy horsemen thundering closer and archers standing watch at the arrow slits.

Our time to leave came round too quickly. On one last turn about the inner ward, we paid our respects to the old walls keeping their counsel. An egret soared regally overhead while we wheeled our belongings across the bridge and back to the car. What a privilege it had been to stay at Stogursey Castle, a time-locked place worthy of ballads. May this steadfast stronghold – narrowed, adapted, endured – long kindle wonder in those that cross its threshold.

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A long weekend at the beginning of autumn was spent in the Cornish hamlet of Coombe. We had booked a Landmark Trust stay to celebrate my Dad’s 70th birthday.

The snaking road descends swiftly through the shade of spreading oaks into the secluded hollow of Coombe. A lively brook winds through the dell, crossed by a ford and a rustic wooden footbridge. Clustered around it, amid old orchards, stand a weathered watermill, its mill house and a handful of quaint cottages.

The first recorded mention of Coombe dates back to 1520, but this remote valley stretching inland from Duckpool has been inhabited since ancient times. At the valley’s head, traces of a decayed earthwork in Stowe Woods marks the site of an Iron Age fort. While the oldest existing houses in Coombe are from the 17th century, they likely sit atop much older foundations. In the 1960s, the Landmark Trust purchased the hamlet as part of a collaborative effort with the National Trust to preserve the humble character of the buildings and their surroundings.

Just before the ford crossing, we caught sight of our thatched home for the next few days. Hawker’s Cottages have served as a single dwelling for most of their history, though the two ends were built at different times. No. 2 forms the older half, with two-foot-thick walls, a pegged collar-rafter roof, and a cloam bread oven (made with local clay), suggesting a date in the mid-17th century. The adjoining cottage No. 1 was likely added in the mid- to late-18th century.

We waited for my parents to arrive before stepping inside No. 2, excited to share a Landmark welcome with them. I opened the lychgate and we marked time in the sheltered walled garden. The evening was bathed in watery autumn light and babbling murmurs of the stream. I peered over the ivy-clad wall into the garden of No. 1, admiring its gabled timber porch splaying out like a pair of open arms, fashioned from battened boards that bore the marks of earlier lives. Above the porch a cross-shaped window glimmered.

By the 1820s, this modest farmhouse took on a gentler grandeur as a gentleman’s residence. It became home to Robert Stephen Hawker, writer, and celebrated Vicar of Morwenstow, who spent his early married life within the cottages’ sloping walls. The cross of light from the window remains his signature upon the house: a whimsy wrought in wood and glass, much like the curious chimneys he later raised just down the coast at Morwenstow Vicarage, each modelled on the towers of Cornish churches.

My parents’ car pulled up on the drive. Bessie, our family dog, bounded across to greet us. She was the first to pad over the cottage’s giant Cornish slate flagstones into the living room, and headed straight to sniff at a grand dark-pine press cupboard. Crafted many generations ago by the carpenter at Coombe, it has stood in the cottage for as long as anyone can remember.

The log burner was soon blazing and our belongings were tucked away into the homey bedrooms. After supper, we sat around the fire playing cards and flicking through the Landmark Trust Logbooks and History Album, swotting up on the building’s past. It was decided that we would follow in Hawker’s footsteps and venture to Morwenstow the following day.

We woke to dribbles of condensation on the window panes and a lashing downpour that had painted the valley a deeper shade of green. The morning lingered lazily, scented with grilled bacon and coffee. When the showers eased, Dad and I took the chance to venture out. We crossed the swollen stream and walked Bessie through the sagging orchards, where apples hung heavy and fell with soft, satisfying thuds. By the rusted orange wheel of the old watermill, I remembered its mention in Charles Kingsley’s Westward Ho!. The heroine, Rose of Torridge, was sent to stay with her uncle, the miller here, as Kingsley wrote ‘sitting in the little farmhouse beside the mill, buried in the green depths of the valley of Coombe.’

The rain held off, and the others joined us for an amble down to Duckpool, where the stream spilled into the sea and a sweep of sand emerged with the falling tide. We slurped steaming hot chocolate from a little kiosk by the car park, collected driftwood and clambered over jagged rocks archived with layers of sediment. Bessie chased her ball through the shallow pools. Then back to the cottage, and thick slices of Mum’s lemon drizzle cake, washed down with tea served in the Landmark Trust’s Old Chelsea Blue china.

Our plan to trek the coastal path to Morwenstow that afternoon was scuppered by the weather. We opted to drive over instead and walk the loop from the pub. F and I had visited before and were eager to introduce the family to more of Hawker’s old haunts.

Hawker had appointed himself guardian of those drowned along this treacherous coast, a shoreline where shipwrecks were once so common that the majority of local homes incorporated their timbers. When Hawker arrived in Morwenstow, he found a decaying church in a community where smuggling passed for a trade and wrecking was regarded as a right. Determined to change their ways, he urged his parishioners to guide ships to safety rather than lure them onto the rocks for plunder. Hawker took it upon himself to build a small lookout on the clifftop, constructed with salvaged wood from the coves below. Here he would sit during storms, scanning the grey waters for ships in distress. In 1842, the Caledonia wrecked off Sharpnose Point near Morwenstow. Hawker personally buried the bodies of the dead and tended to a lone survivor. From the wreck, he recovered the ship’s figurehead and placed it in the churchyard to mark the graves of the captain and crew.

It felt fitting that a gale picked up as we passed through the churchyard. Branches overhead were blasted into obscure shapes by wind that whipped our raincoats and tugged at our hair. We stopped at a replica of the figurehead, a Scottish maiden armed with a cutlass, watching over the sailors’ resting place. Inside the Norman church, we found the original figurehead preserved as part of a memorial. For 162 years she stood steadfast in the churchyard, weathering Atlantic storms until finally succumbing to decay. Now restored and returned to the church, she endures as a quiet, land-bound echo of the fate of the Caledonia.

We fought against the wind across seaward fields, peering down at the white-topped waves kicking up against the cliffs. Turning off the coastal path, a short flight of steps cuts into the rock, leading to a narrow ledge where Hawker’s lookout clings (now the smallest property owned by the National Trust). Built partly into the earth, the hut is a rough, bunker-like structure with slate floors, simple timber seating and vast views. It doesn’t so much look out to sea as the sea looks into it. Though it has been repaired many times, the thought that parts of this ramshackle dwelling were once wreckage, hauled up the cliffs and nailed together by Hawker, makes it an extraordinary place to hide away.

For years, Hawker watched the Cornish coast from his hut, aiding ships and finding solace in solitude. It was his refuge and muse, a place where he wrote poetry, including ‘The Song of the Western Men’ (now the Cornish national anthem). Friends like Alfred Tennyson and Charles Kingsley visited him here, drawn by both the rugged scenery and Hawker’s outlandish charm. Known for his quirks, Hawker reputedly spoke to birds, kept a pig and a stag as pets, let animals join his congregation, wore vivid, unconventional clothing and even dressed as a mermaid on occasion, complete with a wig of seaweed. Initials of passing walkers carved into the walls of the hut stand as rough-hewn tributes to a heroic eccentric, hermit, poet and social reformer, happily adrift from the world, like a ship in a bottle.

After our blustery walk, we sought refuge in the village pub, The Bush Inn. Said to date from around 950 AD, it began as a monk’s rest house for weary pilgrims. Clues to its origins still remain in the main bar, where there is a Celtic piscina cut from stone and a monastic cross carved into the flagstone floor. In the middle bar, a ‘leper’s squint’ can be found, once used to pass food to the afflicted, later serving as a smuggler’s lookout. Licensed since the 13th century, the inn became a haven for wreckers and rogues, its dark tales are said to have inspired Daphne du Maurier’s Jamaica Inn. We shared cheesy chips and Cornish cider from a pew beside the glowing hearth, marveling at how little has changed at Morwenstow, save the farmers who gather where the wreckers once plotted.

The rain-swept, wind-swept day invited an evening of feasting and idling by the fire with a whisky nightcap. But the following morning dawned clear and dry, so after a breakfast of pancakes, we pulled on our boots and set out. Our circular route led toward Sandymouth, passing through the centuries-old Stowe Wood. The path wound over deeply anchored roots spreading out like claws beneath a gnarled oak canopy beginning to brown with autumn colour. We skirted the Iron Age Cornish Round, now a mossy, fern-topped mound encircled by tall pine spears. Emerging from the woodland, we followed a tree-lined avenue once leading to Stowe House. Built by the Grenville family in 1679 and demolished just 60 years later, the great house survives only in traces with the farmhouse that replaced it later that century, the family crest above its pillared porch, and a long brick wall that still borders the path. We picked up a bag of fresh mushrooms from an honesty box stand near the farm, before joining a bridleway to sheep-spotted fields running up and down the clifftops; the rocky coast laid out before us.

F and I braved a swim with the choppy tide at Sandymouth. We bobbed up and down with our backs to the spray, staring up at the wave-cut shapes of the twisted cliff face made up of rocks formed 300 million years ago. A quick warm up at the cafe above the beach, then it was back to Duckpool along this dramatic stretch of coastal path.

Returning to the cottage, we snacked on fish-finger sandwiches then picked rosy red apples from the orchard to have with cheese that evening. It was a night of candlelight, books and toasts to Hawker. I took Bessie for a wander before bed when a waxing crescent moon shone high above the dark valley. Bats fluttered round the mill, thin streams of smoke rose from the chimneys and chinks of warm light fell from the windows of our neighbouring lodgings; signs of others revelling cosily in the old magic that lingers at Coombe.

Before surrendering to the drive home, we spent our final morning just beyond the North Devon border, sauntering around Clovelly. This famously romantic village is a tumble of whitewashed 14th-century fishermen’s cottages and meandering passageways clinging to the cliffs and cobblestones. It was a perfect day to visit, out of season and below a sky of flawless blue. After a final drink on the quayside, we made tracks, reluctant yet restored from a weekend at Coombe, fully nourished with a deep contentment.

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Hammersmith Terrace is a street best walked slowly. This tall, brown-brick row was built in the mid-1760s on the banks of the Thames with gardens running down to the river wall. I first happened upon No. 7 during an impromptu day trip. Having spent my twenties living in London, I would seek out the Hammersmith riverside as a quiet refuge on the city’s fringes. Now that Wiltshire is home, I often crave familiar London pockets.

When the hankering struck, I booked an early coach and made straight for the Thames Path. My plan was to wander up and down its northern banks, admiring the grand Hammersmith facades along this leafy cobblestone stretch of elegance. I stopped to search low-tide beaches and quenched my thirst at a few watering holes. The Dove remains a historic favourite for a pint, while the Carpenter’s Arms rewards a short detour from the water’s edge with a delicious lunch. It was a good day spent in the familiar riverside rhythm. I even finished a book that had long since gathered a silvery skin on my bedside table.

As I walked back along Hammersmith Terrace toward the station, I noticed a blue plaque I must have passed countless times. I’m not sure how it had escaped me before. It read: ‘SIR EMERY WALKER 1851-1933 Typographer and antiquary lived here 1903-1933.’ A small poster on the railings advertised guided tours of the house, so on a whim, I pressed the doorbell. A friendly woman answered, apologetic but warm – all the tours were fully booked for the day. She invited me to browse the gift shop before I left. Stepping inside felt like entering an Arts and Crafts time capsule. It was a brilliant surprise. My delight didn’t go unnoticed; ‘Not what you expected?’ she smiled.

Between the late 1870s and early 1930s, Hammersmith was frequented by important figures from the English Arts and Crafts era. It traces back to 1878, when William Morris acquired a residence on the Upper Mall and renamed it ‘Kelmscott House’, after his Cotswolds home, Kelmscott Manor. Morris was a key founder of the Arts and Crafts Movement. A visionary designer, poet and socialist, Morris is renowned for his now ubiquitous nature-inspired art, his commitment to craftsmanship and his critique of industrialisation and capitalist society.

When travelling home one night from a socialist meeting, Morris crossed paths with a like-minded Hammersmith neighbour. The son of a coach builder, Emery Walker had carved out a successful career in printing and gained industry expertise in typography. They went on to form a close friendship and, living a mere stroll away from one another, would meet most days. This connection paved the way for many creative collaborations, and Walker assisted Morris in founding the Kelmscott Press. Operating until Morris’ death in 1898, the press inspired a revival of fine bookbinding, typography and design in bookmaking.

I returned to Emery Walker’s House in the summer with a friend who shares my passion for Arts and Crafts interiors. We had pre-booked the house tour and I felt giddy at the prospect of exploring beyond the reception. Our small group was first ushered into the dining room where my eyes met the steady gaze of William Morris from his portraits (photographed by Walker) propped up on the mantelpiece. Their friendship stands the test of time within these walls, where Morris’ textile and paper designs flow from room to room. In fact the house is believed to hold the largest collection of hand-printed William Morris wallpapers still in their original situ. The volunteer leading our tour pointed out a large ornate book sprawled across a table. It was a rare edition of The Complete Works of Chaucer from the Kelmscott Press, featuring 87 woodcut illustrations by Edward Burne-Jones and elaborate borders and initials designed by Morris. The book is considered to be the press’s crowning achievement.

There are more personal Morris mementos about the place. A desk drawer contains Morris’s spectacles, pens and even a cutting of his hair, taken on the day of his death (when Morris was dying at Kelmscott House, Walker had cared for him). Morris’s 17th-century library chair also rests proudly in the dining room. It was given to Walker by Morris’ widow, Jane, and is covered with a cushion embroidered by their daughter, May. The inscription ‘MM to EW’ is a testament to the close bond between their families.

We were captivated by the handcrafted stories that unfolded at every turn of the tour, whispering from shady nooks and glinting in with the river light reflected through the windows. Our guide passed around a resin block encasing tiny metal letters, explaining that they were fragments of the Doves Type, a historic typeface created by Emery Walker and Thomas Cobden-Sanderson. Cobden-Sanderson, an artist and bookbinder of the Arts and Crafts Movement, had lived at No. 7 before the Walkers. After William Morris’s death, he and Walker founded the Doves Press in 1900, designing the celebrated Doves Type, inspired by 15th-century Venetian forms.

Sadly, their creative partnership ended in bitter dispute. In 1916, under the cover of night, Cobden-Sanderson secretly cast every piece of the type from Hammersmith Bridge into the Thames. It is said to have taken him 170 trips to consign more than a ton of type to the riverbed to prevent Walker from ever using it again. Over the years, fragments have miraculously been recovered by eagle-eyed mudlarkers, and a digital revival of the Doves Type now carries its legacy forward. What a thrill it was to hold such a tangible connection to the past, especially after such a dramatic attempt to erase it.

Every room in Emery Walker’s House overflows with hoards of beautiful objects: textiles, ceramics, candle sconces, paintings, portraits, etchings and furniture bequeathed by architect Philip Webb. There’s an ancient vine winding through the conservatory, grown from a cutting taken from William Hogarth’s garden. Yet despite these treasures, the house retains a wonderfully unselfconscious, lived-in charm.

Newer, more ordinary items mingle with the heirlooms; drawers hold ink-smudged letters and notes, dime novels sit beside rare and esteemed titles, and some of the ‘Delft’ tiles are, in truth, self-adhesive squares. Here and there, wallpaper patches and surfaces left purposefully uncleaned by conservators reveal the gentle wear of a century’s passing.

The house stands as a masterpiece of lived-in Arts and Crafts design, but also as a celebration of interwoven, eclectic histories. When Emery Walker died in 1933 the house passed to his daughter, Dorothy, who lived there for the rest of her life. Having grown up immersed in her father’s inspirations, Dorothy cherished the home’s character, preserving it as faithfully as possible to his original vision. She in turn left it to Elizabeth de Haas, a Dutch woman who had arrived in 1948 as Dorothy’s helper and companion. When Elizabeth inherited the property in 1963, she devoted herself to its care just as Dorothy had before her, remaining there until her death in 1999. It was thanks to De Haas that the Emery Walker Trust was established to safeguard the building – conserving, maintaining and displaying the house and its contents while promoting the study and appreciation of the Arts and Crafts Movement.

In the weeks following the tour, I contacted the Emery Walker Trust, who graciously invited me back to photograph the house. It was a true privilege to spend more time with each room, to study individual objects in greater detail, and to learn more about the important work carried out by the Trust.

One of the brilliant volunteers met with me to speak about a showcase in the house’s small exhibition space, to which she had loaned pieces from her own private collection. ‘Making Her Mark: Women in the Arts and Crafts Movement’ displayed the work of women whose contributions have historically been overlooked in favour of the more familiar names of the movement. May Morris, Mary Annie Sloane, Phoebe Stabler, Louise Powell, Katharine Adams and Ethel Sandell worked across a diverse range of media, including embroidery, sculpture, ceramics and painting. Their efforts were focused on revitalising craft and design in Britain alongside establishing successful careers in professions that were often closed off to women. The exhibition sheds light on their friendships and celebrates their advocacy for women’s roles in the arts.

It’s fascinating to explore any threads of Arts and Crafts interest so intimately at No.7 Hammersmith Terrace. But what I feel resonates most, is the tangled pasts of three generations, occupying the house over almost a hundred years. The sense of a stopped clock prevails more than once. The building’s multilayered life has been respected, rather than prioritising Emery Walker and William Morris over Dorothy Walker or Elizabeth de Haas. It’s a refreshing spirit of honest preservation. The house undeniably boasts a rare design legacy, yet also stands as a testament to the overlaying narratives every dwelling accrues. They gather over time – some tangible, others felt – stacking like geological strata, or accumulating on a Philip Webb bookcase with the background hush of the Thames.

Find out more about Emery Walker’s House.

The Trust’s expert volunteers run guided tours on Thursdays and Saturdays from the beginning of March until the end of November.

Subscribe to their mailing list for future reopening/exhibition updates.

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A tunnel lies beneath the tower. An unassuming door from the cellar leads to a long, arched passageway beyond an iron gate. We fumble for the key and follow in the footsteps of lamplit shadows. The imagined tang of tobacco lingers in the stale air, exhaled by the encasing stone. The tunnel ends at a heavy wooden door. The bolt is drawn back, flooding the passage with moonlight and the sound of the waves lapping against the steps beneath us. Whispers hurrying ashore from a phantom ship, arms laden, bottles clinking. A signal code winking from atop the tower.

How easy it is to dream it all up here. How the stories swirl, spiralling up and down the cold stone stairs.

Luttrell’s Tower is a striking fixture of the Hampshire landscape, looming over the shores of the Solent. It was built around 1780 for Temple Simon Luttrell in the grounds of his Eaglehurst Estate. Luttrell was a Member of Parliament, known for his controversial movements in fashionable and often risqué circles. Local legend claims that the tower and its underground burrow were constructed to aid his reputed smuggling activity. A date of 1731 scratched inside the tunnel suggests that it may predate the tower, so perhaps earlier illicit trade took place. Certainly, smuggling was widespread along this part of the coast in the 18th century. The ever-restless Solent strait separates the Isle of Wight from mainland England; a historical maritime route that was once a smuggler’s playground. Luttrell may have been an enterprising partaker, his tower perfectly equipped for the discreet landing and storing of contraband.

Luttrell had his tower designed in the Gothic Revival style, a whimsical harking back to forms of the Middle Ages. It was first tentatively attributed to architect James Wyatt but later proven to be the only known surviving building of architect Thomas Sandby, the first Professor of Architecture at the Royal Academy.

Our car crunched along a gravel drive, past a white-painted lodge and through a thick spread of mature trees. We emerged to a postcard perspective of the edifice, rising above a sparkling band of sea. I sprang from the car, circled the tower’s footprint and giddily admired its affections: the weathered stone, crenellated battlements, pointed arches, oriole windows, classical urn relief and other theatrical flourishes. In the light of that late summer evening, Luttrell’s folly glowed with gothic glory.

The sea’s glimmer flashed through a row of trees planted either side of an imperial stone staircase to the beach. The posts of its curved banisters are topped with ornate pedestals. I ran my fingers across their fading forms; seashells and starfish encrusted with lichens. A strange sculpture alongside the steps caught my eye. On closer inspection, it appeared to be the stone-carved feet of a bygone statue.

After Luttrell’s death in 1803, the tower was sold to Luttrell’s brother-in-law, the 7th Earl of Cavan, a distinguished soldier in the Napoleonic Wars and commander of the British Army in Egypt. He brought back various Egyptian trophies, including these mysterious feet. They are thought to be the base of a statue of Ramesses II of the XIXth dynasty and possibly travelled as a ship’s ballast. The currents and paths those toes must have crossed.

We uncovered the keys to our landmark and coiled up the spiral stairs. The tower’s lofty heights beckoned. Leaning over the rooftop parapet, we took in the lie of the land from a breezy tree-top vantage point. Here, natural beauty, whimsy and seafaring history merge. Forestry reigns and crowds the shoreline. A distant island allures from beyond boat-strewn ripples. A neighbouring manor house casts a stately shadow across the lawn. A setting to conjure up a fable.

I envisage the grounds beneath us scattered with tents that the Earl of Cavan had erected after taking up residence at the tower. The tower itself was considered too small for his needs, so a large manor was built on the lawn-ward side. Eaglehurst House was designed to remind the general of his campaigns, with a central encampment of sorts; ceilings simulating the sweep of canvas, flanked by apartments on either side. It was one of the first substantial houses in England to be built as a bungalow. The future Queen Victoria visited at the age of 14 in 1833. She was drawn in by Eaglehurst and wrote in her journal ‘it is a very singular place; there is a very high tower near the sea, but they live entirely on the ground floor like tents’.

When the Earl of Cavan died, the Eaglehurst estate passed to his grandson who put it up for sale in 1843. At this time, Victoria, now Queen and married to Prince Albert, visited again. She considered purchasing the estate as a marine residence before ultimately deciding on Osborne House on the Isle of Wight. Had she chosen it, the tower would have been dramatically altered and embedded in a sprawling royal residence.

The estate had another close call when a potential buyer planned to turn it into a holiday resort. It was saved in 1844 by local doctor Andrew Robert Drummond of Cadland, who succeeded in acquiring the properties to prevent their development.

For the next hundred years, Eaglehurst House and Luttrell’s Tower were let to a succession of tenants who altered remarkably little. Written accounts from the 1870s speak of the lavish parties hosted by tenants Count and Countess Batthyany. Crowds of young people would sail over to play tennis on the newest craze, a lawn court. Annual fêtes, garden dinners and dances lit by Chinese lanterns were held. Fireworks were let off from the tower’s roof, with the occasional squib unexpectedly exploding and swishing round the stairs. Making our way back down them, I listened out for a dramatic hiss, seeking the flicker of sparks illuminating the stone and a whiff of gunpowder snaking through time.

On the staircase, we collided with the memory of an excited girl climbing skyward while clutching a bright red scarf that trailed in her wake. From the top of the tower, the girl and her mother had waved the scarf at a resplendent ocean liner on its maiden voyage. Their gesture was returned by a flurry of handkerchiefs and scarves on board the RMS Titanic. The girl’s father, Guglielmo Marconi, had installed a state-of-the-art wireless telegraph system on the ship, crucial for transmitting and receiving Morse code messages and distress calls. Just five days after passing by the tower, its high-pitched distress tone helped save hundreds of lives when the Titanic tragically struck the iceberg.

Guglielmo Marconi was a pioneer of radio. He rented the tower from 1911–1916 and used the top room as a laboratory to conduct his experiments, often tinkering late into the night. Here Marconi began to successfully beam wireless messages across the Solent, continually seeking to improve the range and reliability of his groundbreaking technology.

When first stepping inside the top room, I was taken in by the imposing bay window with an uninterrupted line of sight across the water; a view to draw out the spirit in you. The interior, like the rest of the tower, strikes a balance of grandeur, comfort, eccentricity and scale, with a central fireplace made for tall, flickering candles. The unusual moulded plaster decorations are especially beautiful, including an elegant frieze of seashells. Certainly a worthy space for the inspiration that Marconi had found to advance his work.

Sir Guy and Lady Granet were Eaglehurst’s following tenants. They commissioned Clough Williams-Ellis, architect and designer of the renowned Italianate village of Portmeirion in North Wales, to restore parts of the tower and design both the ‘perspective’ landscape garden behind Eaglehurst House and the grand steps to the terrace and beach.

After unpacking, we sauntered down the beach steps to explore the shore before sundown. We reached a pair of wrought iron gates at the foot of the steps surmounted with Neptune’s protective trident. These are a later addition but much in keeping with the maritime splendour of Clough Williams-Ellis’s design. How lucky we felt to turn their key to the waves.

We were alone on this wilder stretch where trees press close to the water’s edge. Their bleached, castaway limbs mark the high tide line, which we searched for shells and shapely stones. Beyond rows of the jagged teeth of wooden groynes, we spotted a colourful terrace of beach huts and the distant outline of a family breathing in the evening from their porch. The sea had become a mosaic of shattered mirrors as it slowly sucked and churned the shingle in the last smoulder of the sun.

The folly appeared all the more enchanting from the foreshore. It was difficult to picture the hauling down of its gleaming white flagpole and boarding up of the windows with heavy steel shutters. They had been too conspicuous during the Second World War when the RAF requisitioned the tower as a lookout to be manned around the clock. What harrowing grandstand views it would have provided at the height of the Battle of Britain.

After the war, the house and tower returned to their owners in a battered state. They were sold to Colonel Valda Gates who had served in the Royal Army Service Corp. Over the years, he carried out major repairs and alterations, making the tower habitable year round by installing a modern bathroom and kitchen, laying wooden floors and replacing chimney pieces. The cellar was plastered and painted, the sea tunnel was reopened, the stair turret rendered, windows were added, and the plasterwork and frieze were reinstated.

Thankfully the Tower fell into another good pair of hands when it was acquired by a building preservation charity in 1968. The Landmark Trust rescues at-risk historic buildings and lets them for holidays, while the profits go back into maintaining the properties and funding future restorations. When the Trust became keepers of Luttrell’s Tower, the layout was tweaked under architect Philip Jebb’s direction. Chiefly the sitting room was moved from the ground floor to the top floor, a small but practical kitchen was nestled into a corner where there had been an en-suite bathroom, and decorative finishes were simplified to reflect the building’s Georgian heritage.

Eaglehurst House is now privately owned but the Landmark Trust continues to care for the Tower. Its exposed position and the harsh maritime environment makes it a high maintenance building that requires regular attention. The Trust does a brilliant job maintaining it as one of their most popular hideaways. F and I first experienced a Landmark stay earlier this year (you can read about our time at Castle Bungalow here). It was an absolute joy to inhabit another of their cherished conservation projects honouring unique tides of history.

On that first evening, F prepared supper with ingredients we had picked up en route from local farm shops at Setley Ridge and Beaulieu, while I arranged a bunch of anemones with hardy beach-side blooms plucked from the shingle. Every room of the tower merits a fresh, frothy vase of flowers. We tucked into a New Forest mushroom risotto from the bay window as the moon rose and lights dotted to life across the Solent. For our whole stay we were mesmerised by this outlook and soothed by the constant lapping of the waves. From this nook, we tracked ships of all shapes and sizes and looked up their onward destinations. This became a favourite pastime over the next few days.

After dinner, we lounged in comfy armchairs with books from a glass-fronted cabinet. The titles in this small but perfectly formed library explore both real and imagined histories linked to the tower and local area. I went straight to the dark green leather-bound logbooks that date back to the early 1970s. Within their pages, the years are chronicled by written accounts of those that have stayed. There are drawings, paintings, poems, nagging complaints, advice, well-wishes and narrations that mark significant life milestones. Notches of time lean through handwriting. I flicked through the logs chronologically and noticed the names of a Mr and Mrs Buxton repeated throughout earlier volumes.

The Landmark Trust had ‘inherited’ Colonel Gates’ loyal gardener and housekeeper who had begun working around Eaglehurst from 1951. The Buxtons were helped for many years by their son, who later took over with his wife, eventually retiring in 2013. The logbooks spoke highly of all the Buxtons. Accounts mentioned them faithfully stocking the larder as per shopping lists that had been sent ahead of arrival, dutifully collecting guests that had travelled by train from the station and greeting them like old friends. Many entries have been signed off with ‘see you next year, usual week’.

I was particularly struck by the writings of guests that had visited as children and returned as adults, measuring themselves against the tower. Accompanying relatives had since passed away, they themselves had grown and changed, with new friends or family members in tow, but the tower, for the most part, remained the same.

We kept the windows open and dozed soundly to the murmur of the sea. The luxurious wooden bed placed in the centre of our bedroom was hard to rise from. I twirled up the stairs to make a cup of tea. The thrill of bare feet on cold, smooth stone helped rally me from a sleepy haze.

The tea accompanied me on a stroll around the garden, on a dull, crisp dawn. Still in my nightdress, I crossed the lawn that stretched to the sea and unexpectedly came upon a young muntjac. A treasured moment passed before the muntjac startled towards the forest thicket. In the aftermath of a long, dry summer, grass patches shared in the sandy tones of the tower facade, broken by deep green leaves of wisteria that slithered high to curl around the rooftop windows. The pale pink and lilac hydrangeas were beginning to brown and amber hints of the approaching autumn were tinting the creepers.

Following a breakfast of eggs and soldiers, we went for a ramble along the foreshore, past the colourful huts and to the end of the spit, where the grey-scarred face of Calshot Castle stands against the elements. This moated artillery fort was built in the 16th century by Henry VIII. It’s a weather-beaten place of rusty doors and flaking paint, slowly being sanded away by salty air and now a stronghold for warbling gulls. The former RAF seaplane base and barracks alongside it operate as an activities centre. We picked up Kitkats from the climbing wall cafe and snacked away by the boatyard overlooking the marshes towards a blockish power station. I spotted red corn poppies growing through cement cracks in the car park and yellow horned poppies sprouting alongside blue-green clumps of sea kale from the shingle.

It was mizzling steadily when we returned to the tower. Intent on a swim, we floated with the rocking tide at the foot of the steps. The water was surprisingly warm and danced around us with the drumming of raindrops. As we dried off on the terrace, the shower came to its end with a cool breeze that blew inland from the sea. I ran an afternoon bath and wallowed, steam curling out the bathroom porthole.

I’m very fortunate that F is at home in any kitchen. He baked us a zesty sponge cake while I wandered about the tower lolling by the windows with a pair of binoculars and taking lots of photographs. There were delightful details to absorb in each room, from gentle curves to large wooden shutters, veined marbled surfaces, artworks mounted in elaborate gilded frames, headboards carved with scallop shells, and a plaster lioness guarding her chimney breast.

We set and lit the open fire in the top room. Flames leapt beneath the pouting face of another 18th century surround, her cherubic features framed by wispy locks that fold into a crowning bow. F rustled up grilled fish, buttered greens and herby potatoes. After dinner, we dipped in and out of the library, watched candles curl their yellow tongues, and indulged in a cheese board as the fire sank to embers.

The following day, the rose light of the morning sun was hot and shining. The sea glittered under skies of August blue as sails gently fluttered across the channel. We flung the windows wide for a blast of sea air and ate a stack of fluffy pancakes with lemon curd and berries. The vase of leggy anemones on the table cast prancing silhouettes across our plates.

We set up stripy deckchairs on the lawn and lazed there for a while, before F caught some rays from the terrace. I nested on the roof, alone in the majesty of shifting tree tops and boxy battlements, where yellow lichens blot the dusty-pink render. It was quite the sun-trap and the sea soon began to call. I emerged on the beach via the underground tunnel. The novelty of this access route could never wear thin. The rest of the afternoon was spent mermaiding about in the water, sprawling out on the shingle like butterflied mussel shells and reading on the terrace. We had sandwiches with a bottle of wine at the beach steps. It all felt like a wonderful dream.

A mood of lovely laziness gave way to another day. It unfolded with a fry up, then walks up and down the strandline. I collected beach treasures and read more logbook entries on the steps until a change in the weather, swift and sudden. A dark sky rolled in and roused the sea, which grew white-capped and menacing. Then came the boiling rain clouds. Time to retreat to the tunnel.

From our front row seats at the bay window, we watched the lightning storm advance. F made us fish finger sandwiches while I threaded hag stones onto a length of string and lined up a parade of shells along the window ledge. The Isle of Wight was lost to the eye in a thick, boat-swallowing mist. We listened to the thunder-drench, the thudding swell and the trumpet cries of a cruise ship horn. The ship emerged from the fog like a mirage while we tucked into leftover cake. It was a faultless position to witness a raging tempest. When the gale had blown itself out, a rainbow finale lit up a patch of horizon.

The smell of stormy weather loitered as our last dusk at Luttrell’s Tower bruised purple. We walked down to the sea through a ghostly mist that hung above the lawn. There was an otherworldly hush upon the Solent; its waters wrinkled like soft velvet ribbons beneath a delicate fingernail moon.

The sun blazed a golden morning when the time came for us to reluctantly depart. We clambered to the very top of the tower for one last look over Luttrell’s kingdom, pausing to read the initials, names and dates on the stairwell; engravings from others that had been moved by this singular place, who sought to leave some small mark within its stone embrace. The flag billowed over our heads as we said our see you laters, hoping very much to one day return.

We hadn’t felt the need to venture far from the tower’s clasp during our stay. But our route home was peppered with pitstops across the New Forest, Britain’s largest remaining tract of unenclosed land.

We cooed at the free roaming ponies on every turn to the quintessential village of Beaulieu. From here, we walked a circular route to Buckler’s Hard, a fascinating 18th century shipyard where many of Nelson’s fleet were constructed. A line of pretty red brick terraces trail down to the river, amongst them, a shipwright’s cottage, workshop and tiny chapel. We perched outside the pub and watched an archaeological dig excavate a historic slipway from the buttery mud. How many of the boats built and launched here must have sailed by Luttrell’s tower?

Mud and saltmarsh dominate the landscape of the Beaulieu River estuary, where seaweeds, marsh samphire and sea lavender thrive. We ambled through pine forests skirted with ferns and across swaying grassy drifts loomed over by twisted oaks. From a bird hide, we observed the long, probing beaks of redshank and curlew snack from the creeks and channels.

Lunch was a delicious selection of grazing plates on the garden terrace at The Pig, followed by local ale and cider at two brilliant old boozers, The Cuckoo Inn and The Royal Oak, all the while reflecting on what a week it had been.

The days at the tower had slipped away but time had also stilled. Caught between land and sea, we had dreamt over books, revelled in blue and white china feasts and restorative Solent swims. We had watched the late summer sun meet a salty storm, stalked vessels big and small, spied herons and oyster catchers wading in the shallows and deer across the lawn.

We left Luttrell’s Tower on the cusp of my thirty-fifth birthday, my pockets full of shells like those that graced the wall frieze. Our minds stirred with deeply layered tales of contraband, royal visits, sunken ships, radio rooms, extravagant parties, steadfast gardeners, dependable housekeepers, and generations of contented guests over the arches of the years. I hoped that a part of us might linger at the tower amongst them all, sharing in the joy and awe of the folly with the blue door, and the room with a view like a painting.

Thank you to the Landmark Trust for a special stay and for safekeeping the spirit of architectural gems like Luttrell’s Tower.

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It was nearing winter’s end. The wind-scoured hedges were brown and washed out until we reached a tunnel of contorted trees, jostling for light. Beneath their bare branches flourished a fern-feathered land, with the sweet, damp tang of moss and new growth in the air.

We had been warned that the drive down should be negotiated with care, unsuitable for cars with low clearance. Unless lodging at one of Peppercombe’s scattered old dwellings, the dell is accessible only on foot. The term ‘off the beaten track’ sprung to mind as our little Polo trundled along the unmade lane, following the course of the Pippa, a stream that hissed and boiled through the rocky hollow beneath us. It’s a trail that deserves to be navigated slowly, rewarding those who follow it with the otherworldly delights of an enchanting valley.

Deep in the woodland we passed a dusty pink thatch, a typical type of smallholder’s and labourer’s cottage built around 1830 from stone and cob. I’ve read that by the turn of the 20th century it was home to a family with nine children, one of which would be the last full time inhabitant in the 1970s. With a small garden and orchard, Bridge Cottage is an endearing reminder of ordinary life lived in this remote coombe over many centuries.

We stopped the car at the next bridge to take it all in; the ribbon of water flowing through a deep gully, flanked by the last of the snowdrops that danced to its rhythm. Through a gate beyond, the tree line broke and the shifting tones of sea and sky met. It’s here that we came across the small bungalow tucked in the topmost corner of the meadow. An out-of-the-way place if ever there was one, easily placed in the pages of a folktale.

Castle Bungalow is a glorious example of a ‘prefab’; a somewhat undervalued heritage of the built environment. Made by Boulton & Paul of Norwich, it was a 1920s variation of one of their catalogue structures. Originally purchased as a boat-house, the framework was brought to North Devon by train and first assembled at Portledge Manor in the valley to the east. Weather-boarded, timber-lined and with a corrugated iron roof, it's a pattern-book beauty. A sort of log cabin, mountain chalet or lakeside lodge, given a colonial feel with a wraparound veranda, the views from which are magnificent. Iron Age man obviously agreed, as the jutting promontory above retains the name of Peppercombe Castle - a hill fort with ridges still traceable beneath the scrub and gorse.

We unlocked the bungalow’s creaking door and stepped over the threshold. Inside, we were greeted by the warm embrace of wood-panelled walls, shooting up to surprisingly lofty ceilings. There were two bedrooms, one double and one twin-bunk, a galley kitchen with open shelving, a snug bathroom, and a large sitting room for hunkering down by the log burner, or congregating at the scrub-top table. The artworks and fixtures were an eclectic mix; satirical English countryman prints, an old Ordnance Survey map of the valley, Victorian seaside scenes, and eerie shipwrecks, paired with gas lamps and glass frosted lampshades. It brought to mind a classic railway station or train carriage. I stood at one of the large lead-paned windows, drawn back to those sea-wide views. Here was a land of pirates and smugglers that Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven or Famous Five might encounter. Needless to say, I was in my element.

We set about making home, neatly stowing away our provisions. F prepped dinner while I stacked the logs and laid a fire. The sky was dense as stone, the wind had picked up and rain was drumming against the roof. With the background stomp of the sea, I sunk into an armchair with Castle Bungalow’s History Album; an extensively researched story of the building and its rescue.

Peppercombe was once part of an estate belonging to the Pine-Coffin family of Portledge, who owned the valley for nearly 800 years. In the 18th century, the beach and clifftops were leased to William Tardrew, a local lime and coal merchant. Lime kilns and rudimentary lodgings were built, with landing and unloading facilities for boats on the beach. Soon after 1810, a castellated seaside villa was erected on the clifftops. It was christened Peppercombe Castle after the Iron Age camp that had watched over the spot in ancient times. The sprawling residence had formal and kitchen gardens, fruit trees, stables, a tennis court, trout pond, flashy seafront verandah and a towering flagpole.

The Tardrew family vacated in the 1860s. Other tenants came, and later, a Pine-Coffin son made the ‘castle’ his home. Unfortunately in 1909, part of the cliff subsided and the building developed dangerous cracks. The Pine-Coffins were forced to abandon their grand villa, salvaging what they could before it was left to ruin. The lawns reverted to farmed meadows, and the gardens became part of a smallholding. Peppercombe’s lime kilns had also been driven out of business by local competitors, and so the valley quietened. However by 1926, it was decided that the views here were not to be wasted. The Pine-Coffins had their prefabricated boat-house relocated to the valley mouth via a cart track, specially levelled between Portledge and Peppercombe for the move. The boat-house was dragged in sections along the coast and reassembled on the drive to the former house. In this wild clifftop nook, perhaps with a touch of irony, it was re-named Castle Bungalow.

For many years, the little prefab was used as a summer pavilion to keep nets for prawning on the beach below, and later let as an overlooked and fading holiday cottage. In 1988, after the decline of the Pine-Coffin estates, Peppercombe and the surrounding coastline were sold to the National Trust. To help raise the necessary funds, the Landmark Trust took on the lease and renovation works of two buildings in the valley: Bridge Cottage and Castle Bungalow.

The Landmark Trust is one of Britain’s leading conservation charities. They rescue historic buildings that are in danger of being lost, making them available for self-catering holidays. The rental income then supports ongoing maintenance and preservation so these sanctuaries can be enjoyed by future generations. Every property is the result of a conservation project celebrating time-honoured craft skills and age-old materials. Traditional fittings are savoured and each is attentively furnished with pieces and finishes that emphasise their character and individual histories. No Landmark is reordered for modern convenience and many have unconventional domestic arrangements. They are wonderfully devoid of modish mass-produced furniture, televisions, radios, telephones and Wi-Fi. The Trust is celebrating its 60th anniversary this year. It’s heartening to see the continued delight of saving and sharing these old buildings and their idiosyncrasies.

The renovation works for Castle Bungalow included a new corrugated iron roof and a bathroom installed where there had been a bedroom. They stripped and re-grained the doors in the Victorian and Edwardian fashion, caulked cracks in the floorboards like the deck of a ship, and installed the wood-burner on an existing stone set into the floor, presumably for the original stove. Outside, the veranda encircling the bungalow was built and the exterior was repainted in cream and dark brown; a nod to the Great Western Railway’s popular holiday line to the far southwest.

The bungalow's hues glowed on our first morning, reminding me of the boiled buttermilk sweets that my Grandmother used to dish out. The previous night, the wind had sighed and blustered until the early hours. I only knew this from waking briefly to hear the gale and sea sounding in the dark. It had otherwise been a deep, long sleep. I always doze better with the sea in earshot, however fierce its roar.

The world appeared to have changed with the dawn as rays of sun pierced through gaps in the clouds. We set up a pair of stripy deckchairs on the veranda and had breakfast there, rejoicing in the warm feeling that comes from basking in unexpected sunshine. We watched birds of prey drifting silently overhead and studied the mint-green lichens blooming on a rail fence that ringed our little refuge. The mild, wet climate brings an abundance of fungi and mosses to the valley, where rare lichens thrive in the sea mists. It was hard to pull ourselves away from such an outlook yet the beach was calling.

A footpath from the bungalow led straight down to the shore through a channel of spidery trees and coils of ferns, soon to unwind. We emerged on a secluded pebbly stretch, backed by a precipice that rose and fell in great curves, its craggy edges eaten away. These rocks were made up of 280-million-year-old mud and sandstone, a vivid contrasting combination that can’t be found anywhere else locally. When rainfall is heavy, the run-off water drains down the cliff face and to the sea in blood-red streams.

We trod over densely layered time, patterned in the rocks, making our way to a pocket of silvery sand exposed at low tide. The surf was unsettled but we had heard that this spot was safe for a swim. It was a quick dip but the cold water absorbed us into the landscape and plastered crazed, endorphin-hit grins across our faces. I rinsed the salt from my swimming costume in a small waterfall where the Pippa completes its headlong seaward passage.

After a warming flask of tea, we carried on along the beach before linking up to the coastal path and circling back towards the bungalow. Either side of the trail, delicate gorse flowers flared amongst sharp thorns and the deep russet of dead bracken. We paused for a moment at a little wooden bench commanding a superb view of Castle Bungalow’s outlying position within the steeply-wooded valley.

From here, we could make out traces of the boundary walls that belonged to Peppercombe Castle’s formal gardens. The National Trust has planted new fruit trees alongside their predecessors and stationed benches in the orchard to enjoy the scenery. How beautiful the blossoms must be in spring. There are other exotic garden memories to be found where hydrangeas, bamboo and fig trees have prevailed closer to the bungalow. We spied a crumbling structure through the vegetation. It turned out to be the ivy-conquered remains of the once majestic villa, discernible thanks to a section of wall with decorative battlement parapets. We rustled through the undergrowth to carefully investigate the ruins; a jungle of old shadows, where time has been unveiled through decay.

Back in the bungalow's homely clasp, we realised that we hadn’t crossed paths with another human being all day; the glorious absence of others. A long soak in a warm bubble bath after our icy swim was on the cards. It filled the woody bathroom with steam that swirled out the open window.

The dark woods and bright stars soon closed around the safety of our hideaway. F rustled up a tasty pie with fresh fish from Appledore’s fishmonger that we had picked up on the drive down.

The rest of the evening was spent dipping in and out of the book cupboard – a huddle of titles selected by The Landmark Trust to illuminate aspects of the building and locality. There were volumes about North Devon’s history, smuggling and shipwrecks, local ghost stories, wild flowers and fauna, birds and marine life, alongside poetry collections and novels by the classics that had ties to these lands – the likes of Rudyard Kipling, Thomas Hardy and Daphne du Maurier. I enjoyed a nostalgic flick through Charles Kingsley’s The Water Babies, and Henry Williamson’s Tarka the Otter, which I hadn’t read since childhood. There were also a couple of interesting publications about architectural pioneers of prefabrication and the prefab's role in post-war Britain. I had brought books along with me but ended up reading only from this inspiring little library for the rest of the week.

We had originally planned to explore the greater area but didn't feel the need to venture far with so much beauty on the doorstep. The next morning, over coffee and a fry-up, we decided not to use the car again until it was time to leave.

Instead we packed a picnic, donned our boots and embarked on the coastal path. Before following it west, we took a peek at the National Trust’s coach house – a spot by the bridge for weary walkers to shelter or relax, and open to anyone who may be passing through. Inside we found a mural depicting plants and animals that grace the valley, including a charming rendition of our little bungalow.

We wound our way up the headland. The oak woods along this stretch are ancient, having survived felling thanks to their remote placement on the cliffside. Like the rest of the woodland, marsh and grassland that make up the valley, they support a number of habitats and species. Wild garlic, bluebells, fritillary, orchids, beetles and butterflies would be seen in abundance later in the year.

The twisting trees creaked their squeaky hinges in the salty breeze. We passed under them, between snaking roots and over buttery mud puddles. Gaps in the disorderly vegetation revealed the blue-green-grey of the sea. We kept a close watch, for it's not uncommon to spot seals, dolphins, porpoises and ospreys from these vantage points. They eluded us, but the sweeping views over Bideford Bay and Hartland were spectacular. Then, the not too far away island of Lundy materialised from a cloak of haze, like a mirage beyond the waves.

Our route descended into the small fishing village of Bucks Mills. We had visited years before and I wrote a little about it here. It was lovely to return and find the ever-quaint fisherman’s cottages, boulder-strewn shore, castle-like lime kilns, cobbled quayside and romantic artist's cabin, all frozen in time. We tucked into our pack lunch while watching breakers booming on the rocks, then followed the brook upstream.

The loop back contoured through another mystical, mossy wood, where the water flowed musically. We emerged at Lower Worthygate and returned along earthy lanes and quiet country roads.

The final footpath into Peppercombe traversed a tranquil rocky streambed where I found old Victorian pottery shards, strewn like breadcrumbs. We tumbled out beside a whitewashed National Trust holiday cottage, then passed a pretty terraced row that once housed officers tasked with policing the seas for smugglers, which later evolved into the Coastguard Service. The walk had stretched us out. It was time for leftover fish pie, books, cheese and whisky in the hushed light of the stove.

Our remaining time at Castle Bungalow was spent doing an awful lot of lounging. Reading in the comfiest bed in the first glimmer of dawn. Working on jigsaw puzzles and writing at the table. Reading in chairs by the cross-hatch windows while keeping a watchful eye on the weather and sluicing tides. Feasting from the Landmark Trust’s signature blue and white Chelsea china. Snoozing and playing cards in the warmth of wood fires. Watching the stars coming out over the sea and distant winking ships from the veranda, while bats pitched overhead. Being drifted to sleep by the steady crash of waves and the occasional hoots of owls.

We walked the isolated beach each day, searching rockpools for sea life and the tideline for striated rocks. We also studied the surf-smoothed driftwood sculptures that stacked up beneath the cliffs. It's no surprise that beachcombing has long been associated with this coastline, where wreckage has provided useful windfall for opportune scavengers over the centuries.

On our last evening, we set a small beach fire in a circular pit edged with stones. We drank a steaming flask of hot chocolate in its glow from a little makeshift flotsam bench. An empty, wild beach is the best place I know and we couldn’t tear ourselves away. Instead, F nipped back up to the bungalow, returning with a bottle of wine and our supper. He chargrilled scallops and hunks of bread over the flames that we devoured as daylight faded and the dusky blue hour reigned.

A second course of crab pasta was polished off at the bungalow and we settled once more around the wood burner with a nightcap. The time had come to add a small contribution to the books that had most captivated us during our stay.

Every Landmark contains a hardbound logbook and a back catalogue of previous editions spanning the decades. The swirling history of Castle Bungalow seeps from its wooden walls, but also from these pages. I had loved poring over them with respectful fingers, each entry bridging the gap between us and those that came before. They were a joyful mingle: some accounts neat and brief, others spilling over sheets in ornate loops.

Guests had archived cherished hours in Peppercombe, cross-county day trips, favourite walks, local haunts, entertaining doodles, impressive paintings, illustrations, poems and pressed flowers. Some returned year after year and others had stayed just for a night. We had been initiated into a strange, secret community, connected by shared sea-flung views and an infectious spirit of place.

I arose early the following morning, struck again by the sound of the sea and the notion that it should never be taken for granted. The tail end of a winter we nearly forgot seemed to have arrived overnight. We packed the car as gulls cried into the wind through curtains of rain. Before setting off, we stood for a moment on the deck, drinking in the view to carry us through the journey home.

How lucky we feel to have spent a chapter at Castle Bungalow; a place that's good for the soul, with the ability to steal time and hold it too. We resolved to return one day. It was sad to make tracks but we came away restored, inspired and heartened to know it would do the same for many more to come.

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Batcombe sits amid the deep valleys of Somerset’s River Alham. The historic former-market town of Bruton is a walkable distance just three miles south, now a fashionable hub of creativity and food since Hauser & Wirth opened their Somerset gallery. Batcombe is at the heart of a parish of sleepy hamlets. Earthy lanes twist and turn into the village, where quaint cottages cluster around the stately 15th-century church of St Mary the Virgin. Bordering the churchyard is a 17th-century coaching inn that once doubled as the village doctor’s surgery. As was the fate of many beloved drinking dens, The Three Horseshoes succumbed to the pressures of the pandemic. Thankfully its doors reopened a couple of years back to locals, weary travellers and connoisseurs of good food alike.

I’ve read that Max Wigram, a former gallerist, antiques collector and investor, would visit Batcombe’s watering hole regularly for a pint with a side of pork pie. He once told the landlord to call, if ever he was selling up. When that call came, Wigram set about recruiting a select team to help revive the old inn. Local interior designer Frances Penn and landscape gardener Libby Russel brought their expertise to the renovation, celebrated chef Margot Henderson was invited to oversee the menu, and head chef Nye Smith entrusted with leading the kitchen.

We had the pleasure of feasting and lodging at The Three Horseshoes while I photographed the inn back in January before the year hastened on.

A stone path from the car park cuts between yew hedging draped with fairy lights. The beer garden shares a sturdy stone wall with the churchyard, propping up old fruit trees. There is a lawn of picnic benches and a courtyard where smoke curled from a smouldering fire pit. The borders were sculpted with winter’s rusty stalks rising between the rich colouring of evergreen herbs and shrubs; the seasonal head turner: a silk tassel bush with long silvery catkins. It’s a charming spot for alfresco dining throughout the sunnier months, but equally lovely to warm the cockles with a pint of stout beside the fire pit.

Chinks of friendly candle light beckoned us inside and across giant flagstones, dipped and worn by the passage of many years’ worth of thirsty folk. A beautiful 16th-century settle makes for a welcome perch to kick off boots caked in mud from restorative stomps across the surrounding hills (if you are at a loss for suitable boots, the team have a stash of wellingtons at the ready). A trusty log burner is set into the inn’s old centrepiece, a double-sided fireplace. Its warmth blazed out beneath a giant notched timber beam. Antique artworks hang from white washed walls and mismatched stick-back chairs gather around wooden tables, each topped with a flaming candle set in an old glass bottle.

We had a nosey around the private dining room that overlooks the garden with a classic local bistro feel, before settling at a table in the bar to quench our thirst with West Country offerings on tap. Immediately we started lusting over the bar snacks. Bags of Scampi Fries and Twiglets are up for grabs, alongside a superb chalked-up menu. We shared a bowl of devilled pig's skin, followed by two sandwich buns; one salt beef and Ogleshield, the other battered haddock with tartare. Absolutely delicious.

After inquiring about walking routes from the village, the barman gave us a handy map of a circular loop. Out in the crisp, wood-smoked air we nodded to a neighbour on the old lane, who was busy chopping a toppled veteran tree defeated by recent winter gales.

The walk stretches out beneath a granite sky, along muddy lanes, across sloping meadows, swaying bridges and beside the meandering fern-flanked streams of the River Alham. We passed mill buildings, some converted and others lost to time. I hunted for pottery shards on the mossy banks and in the shallows. My findings were left at a curious shrine made from crumbled stone ruins with the carved smirking face of The Green Man. A friendly herd of gorgeous Shetland ponies came to say hello as we passed through their field. A good time to have a pack of Polos in my pocket.

The Mendip foothills folded themselves around us as we followed their clefts between forgotten hamlets of farmsteads and handsome listed abodes. Isolated Spargrove was especially idyllic, with a mill, farm, ancient tithe-barn, and moated manor house. The sort of place that can wind back the clock to another era. We stopped at a farm gate to watch the watery sun sink into a brown tapestry of thick hedgerows, rounded hills and scooped valley views, before returning to The Three Horseshoes with wind-burnt cheeks. The evening was closing in and it was time to seek out our lodgings for the night.

There are five ensuite bedrooms above the pub. Each unfussy, elegant, airy and decorated with antique furniture and artworks. There are freestanding bathtubs, fluffy towels, natural Wildsmith products and enormous pillowy beds handmade by local company Relyon that has been going since 1858. We were in bedroom five, which has its own entrance from the terrace and a rather luxurious bathroom complete with a squidgy sofa, roll-top tub, and a separate zellige-tiled rain-shower stall. But it was the room’s view that I fell for. This side of the inn forms part of the church boundary and the windows open out into the gothic graveyard.

We tore ourselves away for a happy hour of cocktails and Scrabble by the log burner back in the bar, before settling into a dining room nook for dinner. The menu changes daily and reflects the seasons, celebrating Somerset produce and country classics. Co-patron of Rochelle Canteen in Shoreditch, Margot Henderson is a key figure on the London food scene, alongside her husband Fergus Henderson of the brilliant St. John restaurants, with an emphasis on the thrifty rural tradition of nose-to-tail eating.

I can never resist Maldon rock oysters for a taste of the sea. We also shared a cod roe and a leek dish to start, followed by a grilled sika haunch and a wonderfully rustic pheasant, venison and bacon pie straight from the pages of a Dickens novel. Dessert was a perfect apple pie with custard, then ricotta and sour cherry ice cream. All washed down with a carafe or two from a considered wine list featuring the St John range. Everything was exceedingly good and rooted in down-to-earth delights.

We took a turn about the churchyard to walk off a little of our grand supper while January’s fierce Wolf Moon shone overhead. Back at the fireside we indulged in a whisky and Somerset cider brandy nightcap before turning into the comforts of the room.

Waking to the age-old voice of church bells and a cold dawn breaking through pearly clouds felt pretty special. I bundled into the window seat with a cup of tea and the sense of being watched over by a majestic ancient yew. His protective shadow stretched over the headstones in the rising light of dawn. A bath before breakfast felt like a good idea. I flung the window open and wallowed contentedly to the chorus of morning bird song. To sink into a tub with an enchanting view is one of life's precious luxuries.

Smoke was mouthing from the chimneys of neighbouring dwellings as we tripped across the terrace to breakfast. The sweet tang of cafetière coffee greeted us in the dining room where the fire was already glowing. Bottles of local orchard apple juice and Somerset apple cider vinegar were laid out to help yourself to. The morning menu was deliciously understated: homemade yogurt and granola with fresh stewed fruits, sourdough with slabs of butter and jam, poached eggs, roasted tomatoes and grilled streaky bacon.

Following yet another feast, we lazed about our room before it was time to check out. I returned to the window seat with a blanket and book, thoughts drifting across the graveyard and swirling around the imposing church tower, a beacon for miles. We couldn't set off without paying the church a proper visit. St Mary’s was built on the site of a Saxon church, then rebuilt with stone in the Norman period. It has seen numerous alterations since, its current form dating mostly to 15th, 16th and 19th century renovations. I wondered how many of those with their names etched into the headstones had treasured these valley views. How many had frequented the old inn that they were laid to rest beside.

There was one more port of call to two championed suppliers of The Three Horseshoes. Westcombe Dairy and the Landrace Bakery mill is a short, undulating walk down and up the lane. They make incredible unpasteurised cheese and artisan charcuterie that you can sample and buy from a small on-site shop, along with local beer and cider. A like-minded neighbour to the inn, focused on quality produce with a respect for the community and surrounding landscape.

The Three Horseshoes is a gem in a beautiful pocket of countryside. It’s a base for rambles, resting up, roaring fires, chiming bells, local brews, hearty food and a peaceful night's sleep. A real feasting hub for all seasons where the air of a historic local endures.

thethreehorseshoesbatcombe.co.uk | 01749 326147