A Visit to Sidmouth

My parents love Sidmouth. So we went to Sidmouth. 

I love Sidmouth too - when the folk festival's on. The rest of the time it's staid and conservative. Not to mention Conservative. 

But the beach and the cliffs are great. I installed the parents in a shelter on the front with ice creams and a copy of the Daily Bigot and went for a wander. 

It was a lovely day for it. 

First, I headed for the cliffs at the easternmost end of town, on the grounds that I like them best. 

Here some of the sandstone rocks have green go-faster stripes. 

They reminded me of Ted a couple of years ago, during a spate of decorating.

Sidmouth's famous hanging gardens are still very much in evidence. 

In fact, I was shocked by how much of the cliff face has been lost since I was last here, just under four years ago. 

There are great holes visible in the sandstone now, and because the tide was high and it was hard to keep away from the cliffs, I decided not to hang about too long. 

As I was leaving, a woman with two children asked me if it was safe. I had to say no, I didn't think it was. 

After lunch - toilets 5 metres, France 87 miles (handy to know when life on Brexit Island gets beyond endurable) -  I deposited the parents on the esplanade again and forayed to the west.

Back at the cottage in Shaldon, I took stock of the day's treasure: (clockwise) a geode, a vug (which reminds me of my grandmother's treacle tart),  fossilised ferns and a fossilised sponge (or sausage roll).  Plus ten hag stones. All in all, a pretty good haul.