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A day of mystery, mead and mighty Gin & Tonics in Devon

Some nights are best left unspoken, and this was certainly one of them. But as the morning light crept in, so did the reassuring scent of sizzling bacon—a universal cure for all manner of existential crises. Chris, as ever, was at the helm of breakfast operations, masterfully assembling a spread worthy of a full English champion: eggs, bacon, black pudding, tomatoes, and, lest we forget, toast.

With bellies full and spirits lifted, we set off in our pre-booked taxi, which—by British standards—was “more or less” on time. Our destination? Torquay, the birthplace of Agatha Christie, as any self-respecting mystery lover should know. The driver dutifully deposited us in front of Torre Abbey, where we meandered through its elegant gardens and a rather impressive greenhouse, the kind of place where one half expects to stumble upon an eccentric botanist murmuring about rare orchids.

A brief detour through the so-called Spanish Barn (tragically devoid of tapas or flamenco dancers) and we were on our way to lunch. But first, a crucial pit stop: a pint at the Grand Hôtel. The weather, miraculously mild and sunny, allowed us to sip our drinks outside, basking in the rare British sunshine as if it were an endangered species.

From there, we embarked on the scenic walk to Cockington, a charming route that follows a meadow path alongside a small stream.

And what a delight awaited us at the end! A picture-perfect village straight out of a storybook, with thatched cottages so quaint they could almost make you believe in fairies.

In the heart of it stood the Drum Inn, where we had a 2 PM lunch reservation.

Right on cue, our friends H and Lybie arrived, and the six of us settled in for an aperitif, which naturally led to food, which—shockingly—was not just good but very good. Wine flowed as if rationing had never been invented, and two hours later, we were suitably fortified for the return to Torquay.

Rather than retracing our steps from the morning , we opted for a classic British experience: a ride atop a blue-and-yellow double-decker bus. After all, what’s a trip to England without one slightly wobbly bus ride with a front-row view of hedgerows and occasional near-misses?

Back in Brixham, we parted ways—H and Lybie veering left toward home, while the four of us made the executive decision to taxi up the rather unreasonably steep hill instead of attempting it on foot. A wise choice, I might add.

Once home, I declared an official siesta emergency and set my alarm for one hour. By the time I resurfaced, it was (unsurprisingly) aperitif o’clock. Chris, ever the mixologist, prepared some mighty Gin & Tonics, because after a day of cultural enrichment and countryside meandering, one must recalibrate with a proper drink.

Tonight? We’re staying in. Even the most adventurous need a moment of respite—after all, there’s another day of Devonian delights waiting just around the corner.

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