Westward Bound July 19th 2013

This is a sample of Things to Come: The Trout Inn, somewhere in Devon - just asked and it's Bickleigh near Tiverton.

After a long day in the scorching saddle, we have found heaven at this beautifully thatched and coutured pub where we can stay overnight in their car park for nothing. More of that later...
Back to the Beginning:

Irrifutable evidence of 2013 heatwave

The Duchess threw a wobbly on the motorway today. We think she was just objecting to a change of driver in the middle of a traffic jam on the M5. I surrendered the wheel to BB as my knees no longer respond to the calf-high clutch with joy. The moment the swap was made, the Duchess faltered and stalled in the middle lane. We suspect it was in deference to her age and status, that  the rest of the traffic stalled too. We pulled over and had a 2 hour cooling off period - for the Duchess and our melting feet.
As we wait for rescue, with traffic streaming past in tight formation,  BB's newfound positivity visibly wilts. It's mixture of heat-stroke and hope-loss.
It wasn't that he thought the Duchess was terminally doomed - he feared our holiday was: that we would be transported back from whence we came only this morning, ignominiously on a trailer. Having deeply celebrated leaving both work and home only four hours earlier, the anticipated humiliation was making him miserable. I have to say he is a very fine worrier when the opportunity presents itself.
It is wonderful to be gifted with a quicksilver brain, but if you have ever tried doing one of those puzzles tipping the slippery stuff down a labyrinth, you will know how hard it is to control those jiggly little blighters, rolling and splitting off all over the place. Give me a good old lava flow of a brain any day. You know exactly where it is going, how long you've got to empty the bins, rescue your photos, and still have time to phone a friend. I am prone to worrying after the event, not before, which is why we complement each other like a pair of perfect Plum Duffers. In fact I recommend installing single-line panicking tracks into any union. Check them out before you set off anywhere, even up to bed. If you both panic in unison it is unlikely you will get much further than the first iceberg. You could sing a rousing song as the ship goes down, but don't expect serviceable lifeboats.
Perceiving signs of a weary body and ferreting mind, I read BB extracts from previous holiday blogs long forgotten, mostly in the hope of distracting his ferrets. I am hoping that like the spurious motorway signs from Derby to Bristol prophesying doom on the road. ahead, our problems will be just as ephemeral. It turned out that the forewarned traffic problems only existed in the mind of the traffic controller - probably based in Kuala Lumpur. Perhaps he didn't know he had post different signs for North and Southbound traffic. Whilst the Northbound traffic stalled for twenty miles, ours hardly faltered, and kindly arranged its sole fit of hiccups to coincide with the Duchess's.
Finally when I was beginning to run out of distractions, a Little Green Flag Van draws up behind us, and out steps a little green man - who as BB observed, was aged possibly twelve and a half. More to the point he wasn't waving any sort of flag. That was quite disappointing. We like a flag.
The green boy looked totally lost when we described the problem (engine runs, but power fails) however since he was only in Year 8, his lack of ideas was hardly surprising. More surprising was the fact that his Headmaster had allowed him to cover his arms in tattoos, and drive a van.
Given that he was obviously bunking off from double science we didn't actually expect him to diagnose anything, but he obligingly unscrewed an air pipe, screwed it back on again, and the Duchess came to back life at the first ask. We suspect she just got overheated and needed a couple of hours off piste, she's an old girl and the temperature was up in the 90's so she can be forgiven.
Relieved to say goodbye to the little green lad and his little green van, we set off again, travelling rather later than we'd hoped, down the A38 from Weston-Super-Mare (cue Psalm 115, 'The sea saw that and fled') towards Tiverton. But tempus had flown too, so back onto the motorway hoping to reach a pub in time for grub, and find a spot to park up for the night.

Trout Inn Car Park - aka campsite

Tiverton seemed dead, so with dusk falling we drove into Bickleigh, saw a spacious car park for the Trout Inn and went inside.
'Greetings!' cried the man behind the bar. 'And what can I do for you?'
'Answer me questions two,' I reply - feeling like someone in a fairy tale. 'First, are you still serving food?'
'Indeed we are!' says the cheerful host.
'Second, could we park our van in your car park overnight please?'
'Indeed you can! For free! We are a Brit Stop.'
'We aren't after a ten-second tyre change...'
He grins.
'Like on the continent, you can stay over for free in certain places, and we are one of them. There's a sticker on the door.'
'Very cheery, isn't he,' I observe to the waitress who is passing, hands laden with the most scrumptious looking grub. I have to restrain BB from following her.
'Hmm, it's just an act,' she confides. 'Wife's covered in bruises...'

BB and I suspect this is heaven. Food, bed - and a sticker - offered just when the sun is setting and we have had more than enough of this day. We order the most wonderful, interesting fish dishes, lightly spiced squid for BB( £9) and panfried fresh mullet fillets with new potatoes in an oily, lemony, minty, caper sauce with green beans for me (£11). Both utterly delicious, and the same price as the Yorkshire Bridge Inn, which wasn't. The best meal out we've had on our travels, and a chocolate mousse to finish with.
The owners, Nathan our cheery host, and wife Emma (unbruised - we checked) opened the pub with friends Rob and Fi last August. They re-thatched and renovated it, got flooded to ankle height in November, undaunted, got themselves an ace chef, and were opening for Christmas when the heavens opened, the rivers, drains and all hell, rose up to hip height on Dec 22nd. Christmas was drowned, but they got back to business by Boxing Day. A remarkable story, and a remarkable menu.

 This is a 4x4  job. Bring magnifying glass.

On top of this they provide public toilets for, well, the public, and free overnight space for motor homes under a relatively new scheme called Brit Stop, the sister of France Passion. (Do try to use a French accent, it sounds naff in English.) The idea is for businesses to attract punters with motor homes, (not caravans, god forbid, they're a totally different sub species, don't get me started...) by offering overnight accommodation, in the hopes you will purchase their wine, cheese or other commodity. And, as everyone who has watched the Tour de France knows, France has the best line in posh Motorhomes this side of the Atlantic - clever move.
You aren't obliged to buy a thing, but by relying on an ancient technique perfected by the Catholic church, and therefore tailor-made for French campers, success is pretty much guaranteed. Who can take something for free and not feel morally obliged to cough up for the alms tray? We can vouch this technique works just as well for Brits Stopping too. It felt like a free night, and technically it was, but in fact cost us nearly £40 in food and drink. You have to be hard of heart and short of cash to resist the charms of Jim the sacred Exe River-chef of the Old Trout's kitchen in Bickleigh. And besides Mine Hosts were so charming and chatty it would be churlish not to fill their coffers as fast as they filled our glasses.

Blue Trout at night, a diners delight