Devon ain’t Heaven
it broke up my family
t Shona — who lived 20 miles m me — may have moved here, so many others, with unrealistic pectations, believing life in the st Country to be an extension of perfect seaside holiday. e all know the type. Pampered ddle-class women who see it as ir birthright to decamp to Devon h year, braying about exquisite b suppers and ‘simply super’ fing — all the while having two eks lined up in Umbria in case the ather is simply foul. t some coastal resorts, as soon as school holiday season starts, you ’t move for Breton-top blondes d their Boden-clad children. It’s f they move in packs, arriving en sse in their 4x4s for their oh-sorty stint of British summer. ut what happens when the rists leave and the tearooms se for winter? When it rains so d the pot-holed roads become passable rivers and you feel like there is nothing to do but bolt the door and light a fire?
There are times when if I don’t make the 45-minute round trip for a pint of milk, days would go by where I wouldn’t see another soul apart from my daughter.
bUT like the smell of manure on farmers’ fields, which Shona found so abhorrent, the solitude is part and parcel of living in the British countryside and something in which I find great solace.
The tranquillity has certainly helped me come to terms with the tragedy of losing our first daughter, Marianne, in 2013, almost 24 weeks into my pregnancy. For me, the harshness of city life was not conducive to recovery.
I used to enjoy London — such a vibrant city, with all the culture and opportunity it brings. And while I also once loved the five-bedroom Edwardian house we bought in Ealing, I grew to resent that, too.
It was beautiful, with high ceilings and grand marble fireplaces, but I felt shackled by it. We had spent so much money buying and doing it up, our mortgage was eye-watering. All I wanted was to run for the hills and leave it all behind.
I wanted a simpler life: to walk my cocker spaniel in a park where she wouldn’t be attacked by some maltreated pitbull; to look up at the night sky and see the stars.
As a freelance writer, I could write from wherever home happened to be, but after making the decision to move out of London, we had to find somewhere still commutable for Adrian, the main breadwinner.
Bizarre, then, that we were both irresistably drawn to a sprawling property in a remote coastal village not far from Bude. It was within our budget and came with acres of ancient woodland.
Yes, it really was too far and too remote — a four-hour drive from London and an hour and a half from the nearest railway station — but we both kept returning to it, daydreaming about what it would be like to live there.
We decided to view the property so we could rule it out, we fooled ourselves. It needed a lot of work and, with a new baby on the way, surely this would be too much to take on.
But as soon as we descended the winding driveway, lined with ancient beech trees, my heart soared.
The house — once lived in by Thirties crime writer Anthony Berkeley Cox and regularly visited by Agatha Christie — was more than I could even have dreamed of. The grounds were stunning: woods full of bluebells and wild orchids, dormice, rare butterflies and deer.
There were meandering paths down to the river and the beach, and an old boating lake. The nearest house was half a mile away.
We both left without any doubt that this is where we wanted to live. Within six months, we’d sold our house in Ealing and bought this one for exactly the same price.
Family and friends thought we were mad. Move to the middle of nowhere, without knowing anyone — away from your husband all week and with a newborn baby? Some said our marriage wouldn’t survive.
But 18 months on, here we are. We have three new additions to our family, an energetic cocker spaniel called Penny and two cats who help keep the mice at bay.
Some also said that we would find the locals unwelcoming. Indeed, in her article, Shona accused the people of North Devon as being the most ‘small-minded, miserable, whingeing bunch of people’ she had ever met in her entire life. I wonder what they made of her. I do agree there is a lot of poverty in rural Devon, but for what people lack in money, they make up for ten-fold in generosity of spirit.
From the day we arrived, we have been bowled over by the kindness of strangers who have welcomed us into their hearts and homes.
I remember one young mother messaging me to ask how I was doing. I’d only met her once before, but within minutes of my replying to say I was struggling as my baby would only stop crying if I held her, she was on my doorstep, patiently teaching me how to tie a reef knot in a scarf so I could wear it as a makeshift baby sling and thus reclaim my arms.
It’s the women of Devon — the ones who live here all year round and who can rise above the perils of wind-lashed hair and no local branch of Wagamama (two of Shona’s biggest gripes) — who have impressed me the most. Strong and fearless, they inspire total awe.
No chattering classes here. They can change tyres, chop wood and put up shelves, while sewing their own clothes, growing vegetables, keeping chickens and baking cakes worthy of Mary Berry’s approval. Shona’s description of the Devonians having TMT (Too Much Time) could not be further from the truth.
These are women who devote every hour of the day to urgent practicalities — not vacuous vanities. Their nails may have never seen a manicure and many cut their own hair, but so what?
Their children live in villages where there has never been a crime. The kids don’t rely on computer games for fun, but run around in fields and on the beach, growing fit and strong with ruddy cheeks and dirty knees, while breathing in the clean sea air.
Shona says she pined for shops such as John Lewis. But how sad to cling to consumerism and its unsatisfying allure when living amid such natural beauty. Besides, hasn’t she heard of online shopping?
Similarly, it’s true that no one drives a nice car — but what is the point when it will get pranged on the narrow, hedge-lined lanes?
And when it comes to clothes, who cares what you’re wearing? The main thing is you’ve got your wellies and raincoat. (Shona is right: it does rain an awful lot.)
And, yes, there is no point in wearing your hair any other way than scraped back, as the blustery weather makes quick work of wrecking any attempt to style it.
Nor can I recall the last time I wore make-up. But do you know what? I don’t care one jot.
Unpolished, in Shona’s eyes, they may be. But for the people of Devon, it’s not what you look like, but what’s inside that counts.
oF COURSE, I have had to make an effort, too — something that perhaps Shona failed to do. I remember one freezing February morning a month after we had arrived when I finally mustered the courage to go to a toddler group at the village hall.
I was in desperate need of some adult conversation, but hadn’t slept the night before and felt nervous and exhausted. No pushy or judgmental mums here; I was immediately made to feel like I was at home — and I will always be grateful for this.
Aware of how important a lifeline it can be in isolated rural communities, I now run the toddler group each week. I am part of a children’s committee for the village, have volunteered at the local school and have helped organise various fundraising fetes for a new playground.
Maybe I am being unfair on Shona, but I’m a firm believer that you get back what you put in.
As my daughter rosalyn gets older, perhaps things will be more difficult. When she can ask where Daddy is and I have to explain he is away working to pay for our life here. And when she is a teenager, maybe I will tire of driving her around. or maybe she will feel bored with living in a place where there is little to do other than enjoy the great outdoors.
Yet both Adrian and I believe the life we are giving her is the best one possible. We believe she will grow up happier, away from the adult lures of the city, with an appreciation of nature and the exhilaration of walking on a windswept beach.
of course, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my friends in London, the theatre and nice restaurants. There have been times when I am spooked by the bats swooping around the lounge or scared by the howling winds outside.
But then I step outside and the rugged, majestic beauty right on my doorstep instantly calms me. So, too, does the sea, which — bafflingly — Shona so grew to hate.
God has not forsaken this county, Shona: it is His and it is awesome.
I am sorry you were so unhappy here, that you felt you had no choice but to go back to Surrey — leaving two of your four children behind.
I hope that you find what you’re looking for. For me, I found what I was looking for the day I made North Devon my home.