"Like the sea birds you can fly over to mingle with the work-a-day world when you like,
but you can also fly back when you like your noiseless, dustless island Sanctuary. "
- travel writer S.P.B Maise.
When you are standing on Burgh Island looking across the
thin stretch of sand that links it to the mainland - you can’t help but feel
the eerie magic.
The white 1930s art deco hotel stands gloriously
isolated. The wind blows hard enough
that I’m too scared to stand at the edge.
I’m terribly aware of my mortally as the grey tainted sea lashes below
against the rocks and threatens to cut us off from civilisation – if we forget
the time. So I stand a little closer to
my other half, which I guess makes this trip to my Devon dream a little more
romantic.
The building in brochures looks magnificent. The black and white photos of opulent days
gone by adds r to its glamor. For a while
now, I’ve wanted to see the place where these elegant people holidayed way back
then - where the famous in their hay-day made the most of Burgh Island hotel in
its hay-day.
Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot mystery Evil under the Sun was
filmed here in 2000. It helped set the
scene of murder most foul in beautiful surroundings. It provided the secluded bay, the unearthed
tunnels, the shade and the light.
It’s difficult to infiltrate this hotel unless you have
money. Rooms start at £400 or so a night
and Sunday lunch costs £48 a head. I
decided to close my eyes and book the Sunday offerings because sometimes in
life when your pockets always feel empty – I wanted need to remind myself that
once in a while I deserve to treat myself.
It was booked and then cancelled due to a wedding – so after
I sent heartfelt email with heavy tones of begging scattered through it - they
agreed to make us a one off afternoon teas.
“We don’t normally do this,” they said and I said “I was
very very grateful and very very happy.”
Burgh Island is the full stop at the end of a little village
called Bigbury-on-Sea. Getting there was
easy because we were already in Devon.
We traveled on a long country road that presents you with the view of
the island when you drive over a crest and start descending towards it. Like an old friend, it felt like she had been
sitting there waiting for us.
Exciting.
We opted to stroll along the beach rather than the hotel
driver picking us up. I just wanted to
take pictures and have a little more time to absorb my surroundings.
From first contact it’s made very clear this place isn’t
just for anybody. It’s for anybody with
money and when like us you don’t have that sort of cash - it feels a little
special, unsettling and weird. We
lingered around the gate trying to figure out how to get in, trying to look
like we were supposed to be there not some wannabes lurking around.
Once we stepped through the front door - all the allure,
mystic and expectations melted away.
Everything looked tired.
I know if I had lavished my money on a room for a night – this wouldn’t
do. The paint peeled down the sides of
the 1930 art deco mirrors in the toilet.
Rather than reflecting decadent surroundings, I could see the damp
patches staining the walls.
The main foyer offered some grand elegance, but the furniture
in the conservatory had been bleached by the sun. The garden was minimally tidy. It felt forgotten – void of green finger
loving and creative care. The
appreciation of the view was interrupted by thoughts that the building
desperately needed a new coat of paint.
We sat outside on a weary looking bench. The other half shouldered
my disappointment, as I silently felt guilty for bringing him here - for
talking him into driving miles to get me here - for making him sit and help me
decide what I should wear for such a special day - because in my excitement I
had left no room for this hotel to let me down.
It was our first holiday away together - so there was still
time to make the most of this trip and be happy. Teas were £25 per person arrived. The sandwiches were light – the cakes fresh and
the staff ever so polite. I sipped my
peppermint tea and read lines from The Great White Palace by Tony Porter – a true
account of how it all came to be.
Teas done, scones with clotted cream eaten, sandwiches
munched, photos taken - a stroll down to the secluded swimming pool in the
naked rocks completed - it was time to go.
The Pilchard Inn pub shares the island and is nestled at its
base, so we popped in for our farewell drink.
As guest of the hotel the bar staff let us sit on the other side – for guests
only.
In our last moments of VIP ism we
sipped our local ale in the darkness of this tiny inn and stared out at Bigbury-on-Sea. Part of me wanted the tide to come in, get cut off from the
rest of the world and escape on the infamous sea tractor that straddles the
waves and is the last and only link to the island.
The other half asked if I’d come back. I considered this and
said “only if we could stay for free and after it had been refurbished.”
He smiled. “Oh Miss
Miller, I guess that means no?”
I sadly guess it does.
