Return to Dawlish, Red Rock and the Warren

First we voted in the European Elections.

Then, as Son the Elder was being Son the Actor in Salisbury when it was his birthday earlier in May, we went belatedly to Dawlish Warren in Devon to celebrate.

First, though, a walk down over Lea Mount, where we parked the car. 

It was the first time we'd been back to Dawlish since the loss of the biscuit tin by the sea in 2015, and views that were once so familiar as to be commonplace are now beyond compare. 

It was a bit emotional. 

There've been a few changes since then. One corner of Dawlish seems to have discovered street art, which is great ...

... but the shack selling refreshments right on the front is gone. 

Though not to worry: Gay's Creamery is still in Brunswick Place for all your clotted cream with ice cream needs. 

Then we headed for Dawlish Warren along the sea wall. I was busying noticing familiar details with fresh eyes after our absence.

So was Ted, only with his nose.

All along the railway, under the bridges and station, was the sound of cooing. 

This part of the sea wall has been rebuilt since we last walked it, following the damage caused by the storm of February 2014. We missed the low section which was paved with bumpy local stone, though it does mean you can now walk to the Warren at high tide without getting wet. And the railway and houses behind it are a little better protected from tidal surges.

Looking back towards Dawlish

I wasn't sure I'd still be able to manage the very steep steps up through the thicket to the top of Red Rock.

'I'm not sure you'll still be able to manage these, Mum,' said Son the Younger.


RIGHT. WE'LL SEE ABOUT THAT.

Views from the top of Red Rock towards Exmouth ... 

... Dawlish Warren ... 

... and Dawlish

Eek.

Back at sea level, we had our lunch ... 

... and made the trek out to the the dog-friendly section of the Warren ... 

... so Ted could have a play in the sea. 

Which he duly did, completely forgetting that he is a Senior Doggo now.

There were quite a few barrel jellyfish washed up on the beach. This one reminded me of photos in 1950s cookery books of the sorts of desserts served at sophisticated dinner parties. The orange looked a bit spongy, like trifle. 

It was time to walk back to Dawlish.

Just one last throw of the ball. 

And home.