Monday 27th April 2026

Rest day number 1 Westward Ho!

Westward Ho! will never come close to be in the running for prettiest village in Devon. It is known as a conglomeration of residential care homes and static caravan parks and has none of the history of other nearby towns.

The village is named after Charles Kingsley’s novel Westward Ho! published in 1855, which was set in nearby Bideford. The novel was a bestseller and as the Victorians had a passion for seaside holidays, entrepreneurs saw the opportunity to develop tourism overlooking the Pebbleridge described in the book. In 1864 a hotel was built, named the Westward Ho! Hotel, and the expanding settlement also took on the name Westward Ho!

Westward Ho! is a historical novel set partly in Bideford during the reign of Elizabeth I. It is based on the adventures of a young man who goes to sea with Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh to the New World where they do battle with the Spanish. The title of the novel comes from the traditional call of boat-taxis on the River Thames which would call “Eastward ho!” or “Westward ho!” to show their destination. “Ho!” is a call to attract passengers meaning “hey” or “come”.

The village is the only place in the British Isles that intentionally has an exclamation mark as part of its name. It is also unique in being a town named after a novel rather than the other way around, ie a novel being named after a town.

Today is a Monday and Westward Ho! is a totally different place to yesterday. Yesterday the mini golf, the dodgem cars, the pirate ships, candy floss sellers, the ice cream vans, the cafes, bars, pubs, amusement arcades were all teaming with people and dogs enjoying a warm sunny day at the seaside. Even the screeching sea gulls love Sundays with easy pickings of unguarded fish and chips and dropped candy bars. Today all is quiet and almost deserted. We went for an early walk and there were one or two dogs on the beach, two ladies swimming in the salt water pool on the rocks, a man with a metal detector beep beeping among the stones, a rubbish truck, and delivery trucks replenishing all the food and alcohol consumed yesterday. We liked it better today but then we are not good for business.

We have had a very quiet day. A short walk in the cool of the morning. Barbara has been piecing together triangles for a new “ocean waves” quilt. I have been getting up to date with the continuing disaster of Donald J Trump. Catching up on some sleep, doing some washing (we wash some clothes every day but more on rest days) and resting our tired old legs. This time we have deliberately made the “rest days” simple, even boring, so we are forced to relax and recover.

I had a near nasty incident when walking into Instow the other day. We were walking along a footpath and there was a car coming out of a narrow drive way, stopped across the path blocking it, while someone got in a rear door. I started to walk along side the car to go around its rear when it suddenly took off and turned sharply toward me. I had a nanosecond to get my foot out of the way before 2 tonnes of SUV would have run across my toes. We have been wondering what our plan B would be with me in plaster or a moon boot and on crutches.

We have walked 150 kilometres so far which is the equivalent of walking out our front door in Wellington and walking SH1 to Bulls. Not that we would ever want to walk to Bulls!

• Substitute by The Who, 1966

(Chorus 2)
(Substitute) Me for him
(Substitute) My coke for gin
(Substitute) You for my mum
(Substitute) At least I’ll get my washing done

More trivia: Westward Ho! celebrates Rudyard Kipling, Nobel Prize for Literature, as he went to boarding school and wrote his first novel here.

I have included a photo of some of the words of the Rudyard Kipling poem ‘If’ that are written in stone in the esplanade paving at Westward Ho! If anyone is interested here is the complete poem. It is an example of Victorian era ‘stiff upper lip’ self-discipline, a father giving advice to his son.

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!