Walking the blog 

Only in England would a village named Cockington exist. My wife and I walked there. It’s located near Torquay (pronounced tor-key) in South Devon, a village that nearly charmed the socks off our feet.  

We found our way to that glorious spot, partly because my organic GPS named Pam read an insightful blog – “She walks in England”– and partly out of our shared stubborn desire to stay clear of beachcombers, sun worshippers and dog walkers along Torquay’s crowded beaches, often referred to as “the English Riviera.”  

As we stepped down from the railway coach at picturesque Torquay, we ambled toward the station exit, our socks dutifully in place. Before we stepped outside Pam uttered those two famous words “Queen Victoria,” our simple reminder of the queen’s best traveling advice: Always stop at the nearest toilet before heading into unfamiliar territory.

The blog advised Cockington walkers to follow the sidewalk behind the Grand Hotel, cross a bridge and head up the hill, but on the other side of the bridge the road diverged and both ways went uphill. We picked the right one which ended up being the wrong one; it turned into a dead end in someone’s backyard where a fully festooned clothesline waved us back.  

We returned to the bridge and headed to the left. At a lamppost we spotted a small sign with an arrow pointing toward Cockington Churchyard, so we continued to follow that line of sight until once again, the road split. Our choice once again turned out to be the wrong one, so we shuffled back to the Y while scratching our heads. 

One reliable strategy to find our way is for the two of us to just stand on the sidewalk and look pathetically confused until a stranger notices, takes pity and offers advice. We didn’t have to wait long before a couple rescued us. The English are an attentive and generous people. They pointed us to the left, told us to stay to the left until the road stopped climbing where a steep descent heads down into the village. 

Propelled by their thrust of certainty, we practically skipped as we climbed, then gradually just plugged along until the hill crested. After stopping to recover our breath we let gravity nudge us toward our destination.  

For us, Cockington was less a village and more a hamlet because “to be there or not to be there” had been our quandary. The path we trod did not resemble any rural grassy lane depicted on the blog. The idyllic promise of “lush green forest vibes, (with) no sign or sound of the road” was not our experience. We were on our way but not that way. 

When Cockington finally appeared, it gleamed like a jewel. From the promontory overlooking the community we saw thatched cottages, stone walls, hedges and landscaped gardens, as if we’d stepped into a fairy tale from a bygone age. My GPS sighed and our worries dissolved. 

First stop: a table inside the Weaver’s Cottage Tea Garden. Our feet collectively murmured approval. We ordered poached eggs and raised our two steaming Americanos even before the toast arrived. Next we explored the village as it might have looked when the world was younger. Quaint restored structures simply occupied the historical sites: a metalwork market (once the old forge), the 1947 cricket grounds (originally a medieval deer park), the public house (site of the old sawmill), and the almshouses (rebuilt in 1790 and 1810). 

An entrance gate to the county park opened onto 450 acres of arboretum woodlands, gardens, ornamental lakes, farmland, a 17th century manor house, more thatched cottages and an 11th century church – all of it tangled up in hiking and cycling paths. At a cafe we bought ice cream cones to fuel a stroll along the old sunken ditch traditionally referred to as a ha-ha, with a wall on the inner side to keep livestock out of the manicured gardens. Beautiful, not laughable.

Returning to the rail station only took us 15 minutes by retracing our steps, ending up in a comfortable seat on the train coach. As the train’s soothing clickety-clack rhythm started churning beneath my feet, I closed my eyes.

In my reverie, I recalled Bilbo Baggins, a character who no doubt dragged his feet even as he emerged from Tolkien’s imagination, clinging to his comfortable and predictable life within the Shire and his hobbit hole. He whispered “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step into the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

If I might add a footnote, the only way to know you’ve been anywhere at all is by getting back again.