A Trip to Eggesford
Exeter can seem rather cut off from the wider county. Some even say it is a piece of Surrey transplanted here, but I think they just have not walked far enough from the campus bubble. Indeed, here are two Norman castles only a short jaunt from Exeter – they may be consumed by forest but are not hard to find. These two castles are just one of the many historic sites in easy reach of students, and so I will start by describing them. I hope in time to cover other sites of interest and show the range that the environs of Exeter have to offer.
They sit in what is now Heywood Forest and surrounds, just above Eggesford Station. Once fully obscured by neglect and woodland, now merely ignored and overlooked, they are mostly undiscovered. To the north, on higher ground, is Heywood Castle set in Heywood forest, and in a wooded part of Eggesford House's grounds sits Eggesford Castle. The presence of two castles so close together has perplexed many scholars, as they seem to be of similar date. The most convincing argument is that Heywood Castle was built as a replacement, as it sits in a better position. And so you can see the most important fortification without jumping any fences, which is reassuring to me or anyone else who does not wish to trespass. Yet having walked far to circumvent the House's grounds you might be tempted to try a little short cut and question the right to exclusive use of such large stretches of land.
Eggesford conveniently lies on the Tarka Line, Exeter to Barnstaple, so can be reached in just 45 minutes from St David’s. Aboard the old two-car train, the journey has a sense of slow continuity in contrast to the slick trains that race out of the county. And so the city quickly dissolves into the rolling farmland and wooded hills of Devon proper. While the line follows the Creedy valley the river flashes into view, often flanked by a ribbon of trees meandering through an otherwise empty field. As the land undulates the train sticks to the base of valleys, twisting through the county, led by the waterways. Beyond the train window a brook separates two fields: one of turquoise grass, made fluid by the wind, the other of ruddy soil recently broken by a plough. It would take a lifetime to track and name each rivulet and watercourse… as futile as a mortal trying to gain dominion over naiads. At the midpoint between the coastal basins, with no noticeable sign, the water system changes. All streams no longer flow to the Exe. The Taw is now dominant and can be seen running alongside as the train pulls in to stop.
It is odd that Eggesford is not a request stop, as the station is far smaller and more isolated than most others on the line. One might fancy that the Earl of Portsmouth only gave permission for the station to be built on his estate under the condition that each and every train must stop for his and his guests’ convenience. However, as the law tends not to like the dead controlling the living, the more realistically inclined might recognise the station’s merit as a point at which to await a correct signal further down the track. Time must past and so the rather handsome 19th Century station building is now a private residence, with a wisteria climbing the track-side façade hinting at former charm. The platforms are well kept and ornamented. Indeed, sitting next to the purple tulips in full bloom and listening to early chitterlings from the riverbank foliage is one of the better ways to spend time waiting for a train. The absence of a nearby town or village is the only obstacle to a truly commodious wait: there is no pub at which to retire for a restorative drink or to contemplate the trip.
The fortifying power of a pint would have proved greatly advantageous for the walk up from the station, as I spend half an hour plodding up narrow roads to reach the forest. Unlike in Hardy's day there was no brougham waiting outside the station to whisk me up the hill. At the edge of the forest is a small car park, after which the vaguely surfaced road gives way to a stone-based mud track. Shadows among the trees morph into men and then, as reason prevails, back to dead wood. The edges of the path are speckled with bluebells, primroses, and ramsons. This deciduous carpet seeps into the forest, clinging to the light, amongst the few saplings growing in vain. Beyond monotonous lines of pines stretch into obscurity, silenced by the needle mulch. There is no sound save the muttering of the wind, the clap of a startled pigeon's wings, and the imported sound of walked dogs. The frequency of bluebells and the range of native trees, which challenge the managed growth, suggest an ancient foundation to this modern wood.