Note that all maps on this site are only indicative. You should
never set out without the correct OS map.
Branscombe is one of the most beautiful
villages to be found along the East Devon coastline. Tucked away
in its own valley, you wouldn't there was a village in the area
at all if you were viewing the coast from the sea - which is probably
the reason that Branscombe once became an extremely busy centre
for smuggling.
Basic Hike: from Branscombe Mouth west on coast path to Weston
Mouth and back along the beach. Recommended map: Ordnance
Survey Explorer 115.
Distance and going: five miles, one steep climb and descent.
Food and drink: there's an excellent little cafeteria at Branscombe
Mouth or two pubs in the village.
Anyone who walks in the Westcountry
regularly will know that it can occasionally become uncomfortably
cold despite being Britain's warmest region. At such times it's
best to repair to one of the south coast's more sheltered zones
- and nowhere in Devon beats Branscombe when it comes to south-facing
warmth.
The wind was stabbing down the beautiful Branscombe Valley like
some dreadful dagger from the north the winter day we went there,
but later, along the Undercliff, we changed seasons and entered
spring. We were so warm we could have pulled out deckchairs and
sunbathed.
No wonder they used to grow mainland England's earliest potatoes
and broad beans along here.
Mind you, anyone attempting this walk will soon be warm - no matter
what the weather - just by climbing the Alpine-like slope that stretches
up from the seaside car park at Branscombe. It is a slope of the
house-roof variety. As you walk, so your nose scrapes the steep
hillside in front of you.
Goodness knows how high the ridge is
at the top. It is a ridge by-the-way - rather than a bluff or cliff.
I say that because, only when you get to the top do you realise
that the southerly hill which protects the village of Branscombe
is, in fact, one of those sham eminences with no substance to its
spine. The slope ascends steeply up through the beech hangar from
the village - and then ends abruptly in a sea-facing abyss.
The South West Coast Path follows this ridge as it treads its way
prettily west past various old quarries towards a place called Berry
Camp. From the path we can look down through the woods to see the
picturesque village escorting the stream past the ancient and handsome
church of St Winifred.
On the other side, far below, there's the beach at Branscombe Ebb
and from this high vantage point you can see why Branscombe became
one of the smuggling capitals of the south coast. What looks like
a remote and isolated stretch of coast is in fact just a few hundred
yards (as the seagull flies) from the village which is hidden and
protected by the great ridge.
Apparently two Branscombe farmers,
called Bray and Fry, were the hardcore smugglers here back in the
bad old days. It must have been a romantic time of swash-and-buckle,
but it wasn't so funny if you were caught bringing in the brandy.
There were huge fines, long terms of imprisonment, hard labour -
and, if you were really unlucky, transportation. The high odds meant
people played the game very seriously - sometimes fatally.
Things came to a head in this loveliest of all corners of South
Devon with the suspected murder of Branscombe customs officer John
Hurley in 1755.
But it wasn't all hatred and murder - a contemporary account of
smuggling in Branscombe by George Pulman, published in 1857, portrays
quite a different picture:
"Smugglers could not have been
much in dread of the excise-man for, when a child, I have often
met strings of their horses by daylight, in charge of only a single
person, travelling along the secluded roads and heavily laden with
the contraband. The smugglers' horses were all remarkably sagacious.
They travelled in single file, eight or ten together, and one of
them - the oldest and most experienced - was called the Captain.
He led the rest, and they all knew the 'enemy' and how to treat
him. It was dangerous to attempt to stop them and, truth to tell,
the experiment was seldom tried."
Without seeing a single smuggler we continued our walk in the sunshine
along Coxe's Cliff, over the top of Weston Cliff, and down to Weston
Mouth. Much of the territory covered on the route is, by-the-way,
owned by the National Trust - including this latter chunk down the
steep contours into Weston Combe.
The tide was out so we decided to head
back along the beach. It's a bit of a trek, made all the more arduous
by the fact the shingle is of the small and rolling variety. The
actual distance is about two-and-half miles, but it feels more like
five by the time you get back to Branscombe Mouth.
It's worth it though, because this is a wonderful, lonely bit of
the littoral - and you can do what we did, and stop for a picnic
on the way. We came to a halt at a place called Littlecombe Shoot
where I was amazed to find a sort of secret holiday camp. The place
is merely a scattering of chalets, old and new, spread across the
undercliff in a higgledy-piggledy way.
From this enviable demesne, it's merely a matter of stumbling along
the shingle to Branscombe Mouth.
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