Railway posters for British seaside holidays are an art form in themselves. The sun always shines, yachts scud across an azure sea, improbably shaped bodies chuck beach balls at each other, and children play on improbably golden sands. As a small boy, I stared fascinated at the ones which decorated the compartments on the trains from our village station. I even went by train for our annual seaside holiday at Burnham-on-Sea and still managed to forgive the posters for the lies which they cheerfully peddled. Such is the seductive power of art.
We found this one outside the Minehead terminus of the West Somerset Railway. These resuscitated railways are fantasy made flesh, or at least steam, smoke and metal. The stations are immaculately painted in the old colours of the Great Western Railway, and the flower beds are lovingly tended.
It only needed a whiff of a paraffin lamp and of Jeyes Fluid in the Gents and I could have imagined Mr Gate with his whistle and flag still standing on the Hallatrow platform as we set off for Mells Road. We clambered into an old carriage and the locomotive chuffed off northwards, leaving a tattered ribbon of smoke hanging over the fields. At Blue Anchor the line ran so close to the tide line that the train seemed to running along the edge of the waves. 
We clambered out at Washford and walked along the busy A39 to find the footpath leading back towards Minehead. It was well-marked through some old pastures and eventually became a track. As we climbed there were good views towards the coast as far as Minehead, and above us brooded the tops of the Brendon Hills. 
We were only just outside the boundaries of the National Park, but this rich farmland seemed a world away from the moors and marshes of Exmoor proper. Here stubbles had been cultivated and in some fields winter cereals were already well-advanced.
When we reached a three-way cross, we went straight on up the narrow lane until we reached a house called Forche’s Gardens. Here we turned right and followed the track to Escott Farm, passing in front of its handsome buildings and then through a belt of woodland. We marched forwards through a succession of gates and fields until we crossed a fenced alleyway of well-tended grass.
This was the top of the racehorse gallops belonging to Sandhill Farm where Philip Hobbs trains one of the most successful strings in National Hunt racing. Far below us we could see the ranks of schooling jumps. 
We passed through a gate into some rough woodland, and it was soon after we emerged from it that we made our only mistake of the day. The footpath sign directed us to our left to follow the headland around some exotic new ley grass which the sheep were munching with enthusiasm. When we came to a gate into a lane, we passed through it and turned to our left, as we had planned in advance after studying the map. We had forgotten, however, that we had been diverted from the original course of the footpath which went straight across the field and which led to a different gate.
Every walker knows that sense of growing unease as anticipated markers - a lane here, a curve there – fail to appear in their proper turn. We floundered on until it became obvious that we were walking the wrong way. Disregarding all that chauvinist prejudice about Mars and Venus as she peered at the map, my wife immediately grasped where we were and spotted a bridle way which would repair the damage. We sped along to its end, and there turned down a lane which took us into Withycombe.
The plan had been to climb up Withycombe Hill before descending to Carhampton to sample the delights of the Butchers Arms. We were thirsty, however, and behind schedule, and so we took the narrow lane which quickly brought us to the A39. Carhampton is a substantial village, and even boasts a set of traffic lights, a rare mark of distinction and sophistication in West Somerset. We made our way along the main road until there, in the centre of the village, was the Butchers Arms.
The Butchers Arms is trying hard – very hard. There is not one box on the pub landlord’s list of survival techniques which the “Butchers” has failed to tick. Two well-kept cask beers, Exmoor Ale and Courage Best… extensive menu of very reasonably priced food…kid’s menu…games room…kid’s play area…quiz nights…log burning stove…pleasant service. It’s open every day of the week and virtually every hour of the day. It’s not like some pubs we know on the Moor for which you just about need Old Moore’s Almanac, or even a crystal ball, to work out whether the door will be firmly locked at the most surprising of times. 
I say “Good luck” to the Butchers Arms and all who sail in her, but it’s not my kind of pub. Probably I was still grumpy after my map reading skills had lost some of their lustre, but I felt ill at ease. Every table was set with place mats for eating, and was surrounded with soft, high backed chairs. In most pubs the geography leads you straight to the bar, but here you weaved your way thither between the tables. It was a bit of a caff. In fact one punter came in off the street, wandered about for a bit, studied one of the laminated menu cards and, perhaps disorientated, disappeared the way that he had come without ordering. There was a television screen on in one corner but the sound system played unrelated muzak. Two elderly ladies got stuck into curry, but one sent hers back because “it wasn’t hot enough.” Presumably she was referring to the temperature rather than the intensity of the flavouring.
We found our way into a lane which ran parallel with the main road, and this led us to Carhampton Gate. From there a footpath took us through the old deer park of Dunster Castle which stood before us on its wooded eminence.
When we reached the edge of the village, we took a path which led us around the perimeter, passing the old mill and its remarkable bridge. 
We had decided to return to Minehead by walking along the edge of the sea, and so we left Dunster by the subway under the A39. When we had walked this way previously, we had been intrigued by a building at the side of the main road which originally had been a police station. Now divided into cottages, it looked more like a French chateau than a Victorian copshop. 
As it turned out, it had been designed by none other than the celebrated architect John Norton in 1858, just two years before he began work on Tyntesfield House near Bristol, one of the most exotic examples of the gothic revival and currently being restored by the National Trust.
We passed by Dunster Station. If we do a similar walk again, we will join the train here. The parking’s free, as opposed to £5.50 in Minehead! The path took us to the lovely Old Manor at Lower Marsh Farm, and then out on to the golf course.
We soon discovered that the golfer’s traditional shout when he missed a putt was quite different to the warning on the poster, although coincidentally it began with same consonant. As we walked between the course and the beach, most of West Somerset Community College appeared to be coming the other way. Were they on their way home? A hundred or so children surely didn’t live at Dunster Beach. Were they on a field trip? No one was carrying a clip board or note pad. They wandered amicably and aimlessly along, with just one melancholy teacher nominally in charge. Perhaps walking had become part of the national curriculum, in which case we deserved an A*.
We found this one outside the Minehead terminus of the West Somerset Railway. These resuscitated railways are fantasy made flesh, or at least steam, smoke and metal. The stations are immaculately painted in the old colours of the Great Western Railway, and the flower beds are lovingly tended.
It only needed a whiff of a paraffin lamp and of Jeyes Fluid in the Gents and I could have imagined Mr Gate with his whistle and flag still standing on the Hallatrow platform as we set off for Mells Road. We clambered into an old carriage and the locomotive chuffed off northwards, leaving a tattered ribbon of smoke hanging over the fields. At Blue Anchor the line ran so close to the tide line that the train seemed to running along the edge of the waves. We clambered out at Washford and walked along the busy A39 to find the footpath leading back towards Minehead. It was well-marked through some old pastures and eventually became a track. As we climbed there were good views towards the coast as far as Minehead, and above us brooded the tops of the Brendon Hills. We were only just outside the boundaries of the National Park, but this rich farmland seemed a world away from the moors and marshes of Exmoor proper. Here stubbles had been cultivated and in some fields winter cereals were already well-advanced.When we reached a three-way cross, we went straight on up the narrow lane until we reached a house called Forche’s Gardens. Here we turned right and followed the track to Escott Farm, passing in front of its handsome buildings and then through a belt of woodland. We marched forwards through a succession of gates and fields until we crossed a fenced alleyway of well-tended grass.
This was the top of the racehorse gallops belonging to Sandhill Farm where Philip Hobbs trains one of the most successful strings in National Hunt racing. Far below us we could see the ranks of schooling jumps. We passed through a gate into some rough woodland, and it was soon after we emerged from it that we made our only mistake of the day. The footpath sign directed us to our left to follow the headland around some exotic new ley grass which the sheep were munching with enthusiasm. When we came to a gate into a lane, we passed through it and turned to our left, as we had planned in advance after studying the map. We had forgotten, however, that we had been diverted from the original course of the footpath which went straight across the field and which led to a different gate.Every walker knows that sense of growing unease as anticipated markers - a lane here, a curve there – fail to appear in their proper turn. We floundered on until it became obvious that we were walking the wrong way. Disregarding all that chauvinist prejudice about Mars and Venus as she peered at the map, my wife immediately grasped where we were and spotted a bridle way which would repair the damage. We sped along to its end, and there turned down a lane which took us into Withycombe.
The plan had been to climb up Withycombe Hill before descending to Carhampton to sample the delights of the Butchers Arms. We were thirsty, however, and behind schedule, and so we took the narrow lane which quickly brought us to the A39. Carhampton is a substantial village, and even boasts a set of traffic lights, a rare mark of distinction and sophistication in West Somerset. We made our way along the main road until there, in the centre of the village, was the Butchers Arms.
The Butchers Arms is trying hard – very hard. There is not one box on the pub landlord’s list of survival techniques which the “Butchers” has failed to tick. Two well-kept cask beers, Exmoor Ale and Courage Best… extensive menu of very reasonably priced food…kid’s menu…games room…kid’s play area…quiz nights…log burning stove…pleasant service. It’s open every day of the week and virtually every hour of the day. It’s not like some pubs we know on the Moor for which you just about need Old Moore’s Almanac, or even a crystal ball, to work out whether the door will be firmly locked at the most surprising of times. I say “Good luck” to the Butchers Arms and all who sail in her, but it’s not my kind of pub. Probably I was still grumpy after my map reading skills had lost some of their lustre, but I felt ill at ease. Every table was set with place mats for eating, and was surrounded with soft, high backed chairs. In most pubs the geography leads you straight to the bar, but here you weaved your way thither between the tables. It was a bit of a caff. In fact one punter came in off the street, wandered about for a bit, studied one of the laminated menu cards and, perhaps disorientated, disappeared the way that he had come without ordering. There was a television screen on in one corner but the sound system played unrelated muzak. Two elderly ladies got stuck into curry, but one sent hers back because “it wasn’t hot enough.” Presumably she was referring to the temperature rather than the intensity of the flavouring.We found our way into a lane which ran parallel with the main road, and this led us to Carhampton Gate. From there a footpath took us through the old deer park of Dunster Castle which stood before us on its wooded eminence.
When we reached the edge of the village, we took a path which led us around the perimeter, passing the old mill and its remarkable bridge. We had decided to return to Minehead by walking along the edge of the sea, and so we left Dunster by the subway under the A39. When we had walked this way previously, we had been intrigued by a building at the side of the main road which originally had been a police station. Now divided into cottages, it looked more like a French chateau than a Victorian copshop. As it turned out, it had been designed by none other than the celebrated architect John Norton in 1858, just two years before he began work on Tyntesfield House near Bristol, one of the most exotic examples of the gothic revival and currently being restored by the National Trust.We passed by Dunster Station. If we do a similar walk again, we will join the train here. The parking’s free, as opposed to £5.50 in Minehead! The path took us to the lovely Old Manor at Lower Marsh Farm, and then out on to the golf course.
We soon discovered that the golfer’s traditional shout when he missed a putt was quite different to the warning on the poster, although coincidentally it began with same consonant. As we walked between the course and the beach, most of West Somerset Community College appeared to be coming the other way. Were they on their way home? A hundred or so children surely didn’t live at Dunster Beach. Were they on a field trip? No one was carrying a clip board or note pad. They wandered amicably and aimlessly along, with just one melancholy teacher nominally in charge. Perhaps walking had become part of the national curriculum, in which case we deserved an A*.
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