After a long weekend in Devon, I'd be happy never to see the phrase “locally
sourced” again. Not that these aren't decent words, conveying an important
and ethical message, but along the South West's coastline, you can't get
away from them.
Plastered outside cafés, on hotel noticeboards, on menus in beach shacks, they
are even on blackboards outside dingy-looking pubs.
I shouldn't complain. They suggest that the region has what I'm looking for:
eco-credentials sufficient to justify its claim to be “the best destination
in the UK for an environmentally friendly holiday”.
Last year, Discover Devon - a campaign led by Devon County Council to promote
sustainable tourism - went further, announcing that it was “England's
greenest county”.
Told to pipe down by the Advertising Standards Authority, which said that
there was no evidence to prove that it was ahead of other councils, it was
quickly demoted.
The point is that Devon is playing the green card. By doing so, it hopes to
win the support of the composting classes who like their holidays to reflect
their values.
I'm here with my eco-sceptic boyfriend, Gervase, to find out if it lives up to
its promise, and if you can still have a good time while learning more than
you might wish to know about the family history of your supper.
First signs are not encouraging. Fresh off the train from London, we pick up
our hire car, a hybrid Honda Civic, and head to the harbour town of
Dartmouth. More than an hour later, we are still circling the car park,
wondering what the town has got that makes it impossible to park. Worse
still, why are there so many cars in England's “greenest county”?
The answer to the first is the farmers' market. Here we wolf down lumps of
pork belly from Jilly's pig farm, with rocket and chilli jam - the region is
known for its chilli farms. Each plate costs £1.
By the time we've washed it down with cider - yes, yes, local - gobbled a few
scallops and watched a cookery demonstration on how to knock up the perfect
moules marinières, the scrum in the car park seems no less than appropriate.
The second question is more troubling. Gervase points out that to reach the
unspoilt beaches and pea-green restaurants, anything less than your own four
wheels would be a pain. Sure, you could ride bikes, but most people take
holidays to relax, not to punish their calves.
When I ask Angela Dallyn, the delightful owner of our farmstay B&B,
whether visitors come by public transport, she shakes her head. It's only
half a mile to the nearest bus stop, but she's not sure how regular the
buses are.
You'd have a tougher time still reaching the Field Kitchen restaurant at
Riverford Farm. The organic box scheme's headquarters, set in 250 acres of
fertile pastures, is miles down a track with only a tiny sign from the road.
Before you're allowed to eat lunch, you tour the farm to see your food
growing.
We march across fields of rhubarb, celery and chard, accompanied by the
disembodied voice of Guy Watson, the farm's owner. His recorded voice blares
out of an audio set we are given on arrival. Being ordered to “step forward
and pick some raspberries” while standing alone in a field striped with neat
rows of soft fruits is an experience I won't forget.
Transport is, though, the only thing that registered as an unsatisfactory
turquoise, and maybe because we felt guilty for driving everywhere. It would
be impossible to fault our accommodation, the first working farm to get a
gold award from the Green Tourism Business Scheme.
Food waste is composted, appliances are the most energy-efficient available,
and bathrooms are cleaned with vinegar, which gives off a peculiar, but not
unpleasant, fish and chips aroma.
Fearing for our wing mirrors, we creep along the narrow lanes, on the lookout
for green innovation. We find petrol stations selling regional produce and a
local currency in Totnes, a town in which everyone seems to have a yoga
teacher.
The Totnes pound, accepted by local businesses, is part of its plan to prepare
for a future in which climate change and diminishing oil supplies render
community action crucial (www.transitiontowns.org).
And yet, I'm not convinced it is these things that make a holiday in Devon
stand out. Angela says that most people come for the countryside, the food,
and the peace and quiet. If they find out that their destination is green,
it's a bonus. Take our trip to Blackpool Sands.
We dip our toes in icy sea, race along the beach and finally feast on cracked
crab at Venus Café. When the 2kg brute emerges, plucked that day from pots
in the bay, I'm relieved not to have spent any longer with my feet in the
water - it's large enough to feed a crowd and nip as many toes.
But it's only when the last claw is hacked apart and the final bit of flesh is
scraped from within that I fully appreciate our surroundings. I spot a solar
panel on the café's roof; then a notice about the beach's several
environmental awards, at which point our organic coffee arrives, in
biodegradable cups.
Impressive stuff, but later on, I'm worrying about the crab. Is it ethically
sound to feast on such a splendid-looking crustacean?
Back in London, the internet supplies my answer. I learn about South Devon's
Inshore Potting Agreement, which prevents overfishing and increases marine
biodiversity.
What's more, according to fishonline.org,
a website dedicated to helping consumers to identify sustainable fish, crab
from this region is the most sustainable you can find in the UK. There goes
my final chance to catch Devon out.
