Where is Shaldon, you ask? Why, just about here. (Measurements in miles, furlongs and poles.) (A pole - or a perch - or a rod - is a unit of length equal to 5½ yards.) (Or 16½ feet.)
OK, so it's probably more to do with local geography than a celebration of the fact that there is at least one politician in the Labour Party with principles, but we continued with a spring in our steps.
On top of the ridge, there were views - still pretty saturnine, it has to be said, but far-reaching and impressive. Here's Teignmouth, with a smudgy looking Exmouth in the distance ...
... and the view back along the lane, with Dartmoor lowering on the horizon.
It was horrible to see it scrabbling on its side in the dust, and so very hard to walk on and let nature take it course. We hoped a kindly or at least hungry predator would return soon and finish the job.
Looking back up river to the moor.
The lane started to climb again as we approached its end, and there were views down the coast to St Marychurch, whence hailed my great-great-grandmother, and Torquay. And the sun came out.
After dicing with death for a couple of hundred yards on the Torquay Road, we turned onto the coast path at this very excitingly named house.
Then there was a final bit of risky living - at least as far as my partner is concerned - as we skirted a herd of unconcerned cows and made our way down the extremely steep path towards the Ness at Shaldon. My home from home.