31/08/2026
This morning I walked down the stairs, as I always do when staying in a hotel, because I have never entirely trusted lifts, elevators, cables, pulleys, electronic sensors or the mysterious engineering philosophy that permits several hundred kilos of humanity to be suspended above the ground inside a metal cupboard. It is a personal thing, and I accept that it probably says something about me, although I have never quite decided what. Perhaps it suggests that I am cautious, perhaps that I am mildly eccentric, or perhaps it simply means that I once watched a film in which a lift became stuck between floors and have never emotionally recovered. I used to ‘pothole’ and climb as a hobby so,it’s not a fear of anything. Whatever the reason, I prefer stairs, and so I descended towards reception with the slightly purposeful gait of a man who has already consumed one double espresso and is beginning to believe that he possesses a functioning nervous system. The receptionist greeted me warmly as I passed, and I returned the smile with the enthusiasm of someone whose bloodstream was now approximately forty percent caffeine, before heading towards the breakfast restaurant in search of the substance upon which the entire small-group touring industry depends. Coffee is not merely a beverage when you are a tour guide. It is infrastructure. It is logistics. It is strategic planning in liquid form. A tour guide without coffee is like a minibus without wheels, a castle without a moat or an Englishman without something to say……technically possible, perhaps, but nobody really wants to discover what happens next.
Fortunately, the hotels we use on tour generally understand this fundamental principle of human survival and provide small espresso machines in the bedrooms, which means I had already administered a swift double espresso before leaving my room. It had not transformed me into a particularly energetic person, but it had at least persuaded my brain to reconnect with my body. By the time I entered the breakfast room I was therefore ready for another assault on civilisation. Ahah. There it was. The coffee machine was staring at me from across the room, its polished little buttons gleaming with the quiet confidence of an appliance that knows exactly what it is capable of doing to a tired tour guide. I approached it with reverence, filled another cup and watched the dark liquid emerge with the satisfying intensity of a geological event. I added juice, because somewhere deep inside me a responsible adult occasionally attempts to intervene, and then wandered towards the buffet, selecting a few morsels with the restraint of a man who knew that a full English breakfast at nine in the morning could have catastrophic consequences when followed by a day involving several hundred miles of roads, castles, abbeys, cliffs and twelve enthusiastic Americans. A member of staff guided me towards a booth beside the window, and as I sat down I looked out across Bristol and realised that I had been handed one of those views that makes breakfast considerably more difficult because the food becomes almost irrelevant.
Beyond the glass, the Clifton Suspension Bridge stretched elegantly across the Avon Gorge, its two great stone towers rising against a clear blue sky, the bridge itself appearing almost impossibly delicate from a distance despite having spent generations carrying traffic across one of the most dramatic urban landscapes in Britain. Brunel’s great creation seemed perfectly at home there, suspended above the River Avon as it wound its way through the gorge towards the Severn Estuary, and for a moment I simply sat with my coffee and stared. Bristol has many personalities, and this particular morning it was presenting its best one. The city below was beginning to stir, roads filling gradually, buses moving through the streets and the distant urban murmur rising beneath the enormous sweep of the gorge, while above it all the bridge seemed almost theatrical, as though someone had constructed a magnificent piece of Victorian engineering specifically for the benefit of people eating eggs Benedict. I sipped the coffee, swallowed some juice and studied the cooked breakfast menu with the concentration normally reserved for military intelligence. Eggs Benedict won. Porridge followed, because apparently I had decided that I was simultaneously a sophisticated continental gentleman and a Victorian Scottish grandmother. It was an excellent combination, although by the time the eggs arrived I had begun mentally calculating the amount of time available before I needed to collect the group, and the arithmetic was already becoming complicated by the fact that I had voluntarily ordered two breakfasts.
This is one of the peculiarities of small-group touring. Every morning begins with a plan, and every plan begins with the assumption that twelve human beings will behave approximately like twelve Swiss railway clocks. This assumption is rarely supported by evidence. The group was due to meet shortly, and I had already checked the weather forecast, which was promising the kind of glorious summer day that makes a tour guide briefly believe that he has some influence over meteorology. The sky was blue, temperatures were comfortable and there was little wind, which meant that the day could be arranged around some of the landscapes I particularly enjoy. We would leave Bristol, head south through Somerset towards Glastonbury, explore the abbey, have pasties for lunch and then continue towards Dunster in Somerset before turning west into Devon, eventually reaching Hartland Quay for dinner and an evening walk along the cliffs. On paper it was a splendid itinerary. On a map it looked slightly deranged. This is another characteristic of British touring: distances that appear harmless on paper acquire a completely different personality when you realise that roads have been designed around medieval villages, ancient hedgerows, rivers, hills, farms and the occasional tractor operated by a man who appears to regard the concept of passing places as an affront to his ancestors.
Once everyone was gathered, bags were loaded, seat belts fastened and the familiar ritual of turning off my van sensors displayed on the dashboard, and with everyone accounted for, we headed out of Bristol and into Somerset, leaving the urban landscape behind as the roads carried us towards Glastonbury. The transition was wonderfully abrupt. Bristol’s streets and buildings gave way to rolling countryside, hedges and broad agricultural fields, and the landscape gradually opened as we approached the Somerset Levels, that remarkable low-lying landscape of wetlands, drainage ditches and ancient routes of movement. Glastonbury itself rises from this landscape in a manner that has always made it seem slightly theatrical, with the distinctive form of Glastonbury Tor dominating the surrounding countryside. The Tor is not part of the abbey site itself, but it is impossible to ignore it, and from the town its presence gives the whole landscape a peculiar sense of vertical drama.
Glastonbury Abbey was our first substantial stop, and it is one of those places where the imagination has to work almost as hard as the historian. The ruins today are extensive enough to convey something of the scale and importance of the medieval monastery, even though centuries of neglect and stone robbing have reduced the great church to fragments of walls, arches and foundations. The abbey had been one of the wealthiest and most influential religious institutions in medieval Europe, and walking through the remains provides a vivid reminder that medieval Somerset was not some isolated rural backwater but part of a sophisticated network of religious, political and economic power. The great church once dominated the site, while the surrounding precinct contained buildings, gardens and working spaces necessary to support a large monastic community. Naturally, my role was to explain all this while simultaneously keeping an eye on the group, checking that nobody had wandered off in search of a particularly interesting dog and making sure that the historical narrative did not become so enthusiastic that lunch was postponed indefinitely. Tour guiding requires balance. One must provide enough information to make the past come alive without accidentally turning the audience into archaeologists who refuse to leave because they have discovered a suspicious-looking stone. One must also give people time to explore in their own.
By late morning we were beginning to think about food, because historical appreciation, however profound, has never entirely defeated hunger. We left Glastonbury and continued westwards, eventually stopping for pasties, which seemed entirely appropriate for a day spent crossing the West Country. There is something reassuringly practical about a pasty. It is food designed to survive being carried around, eaten outdoors and transported across a landscape without requiring elaborate cutlery or a lengthy explanation from a waiter. It also has the considerable advantage of allowing a tour guide to eat lunch while standing up and still look as though he is working. The group settled into lunch with enthusiasm, and for several precious minutes nobody needed directions, historical information, restaurant recommendations or assistance locating the toilet. I stood nearby with my own pasty and coffee, enjoying that rare moment of peace that exists between lunch and the next departure time, when the guide can briefly contemplate the day and wonder whether the people sitting happily eating their lunch realise quite how much invisible organisation has gone into ensuring that they are able to sit there at all.
From the Somerset border we continued towards Dunster, the landscape gradually changing as we approached the western edge of the county and the Quantock and Exmoor country. Dunster is one of those West Country villages that seems almost unfairly picturesque, with its medieval castle rising above the settlement and its streets lined with historic buildings. Dunster Castle itself occupies a commanding position above the village, and the site has an extraordinary history stretching from its medieval origins through later periods of alteration and domestic occupation. The castle we see today contains layers of rebuilding and adaptation, reflecting the changing needs of its owners rather than some single frozen medieval moment. This is something I particularly enjoy explaining to groups, because castles are often imagined as permanently medieval, when in reality they were frequently altered, modernised, domesticated and occasionally made considerably more comfortable by people who had grown tired of living in what amounted to a stone refrigerator. The grounds provided an opportunity to stretch our legs after the drive, and the views across the surrounding landscape were magnificent, particularly beneath the clear afternoon sky. The gardens and terraces offered a gentler side to the castle, and for a while the group wandered through them at the leisurely pace that only occurs when nobody is worried about finding a car park.
Eventually, however, the clock reminded us that our journey was far from over. We left Dunster and headed west, crossing into Devon and continuing through the landscapes of Exmoor before making our way towards the coast. This section of the journey is one of the reasons I enjoy touring in the West Country because the geography constantly changes character. Inland Somerset gives way to the high open landscapes of Exmoor, then to increasingly rugged Devon countryside, where roads twist and rise and fall through deep valleys and wooded lanes before eventually delivering you towards the Atlantic. The final approach to Hartland is particularly satisfying because the landscape begins to feel properly coastal long before the sea itself appears. Hartland lies on the dramatic north-western edge of Devon, and Hartland Quay sits below the cliffs where the Atlantic pounds against a spectacular and notoriously rugged coastline. This is not the sort of place where the sea politely rolls onto a sandy beach. It arrives with geological intent.
By the time we reached Hartland Quay, the sun was beginning its slow descent, throwing long shadows across the landscape and giving the cliffs a richer colour. We checked into the hotel and met in the pub for dinner. The atmosphere changed immediately from touring mode to holiday mode. There is something deeply satisfying about arriving at a pub after a long day on the road, particularly when the destination involves cliffs, sea air and the promise of food. Dinner was accompanied by the usual gradual transformation of the group from neatly organised visitors into people who had spent the day walking around ruins, castles and countryside and were now primarily interested in sitting down. I understood completely. I had spent the day navigating roads, weather forecasts, timetables, parking arrangements, historical dates, meal times and twelve people, and I was beginning to feel that a chair represented one of the great achievements of British civilisation.
After dinner we ventured outside and into the night for a walk along the cliff path, and the reward was enormous. The North Devon coast was stretched before us, the Atlantic horizon broad and uninterrupted, the cliffs dropping dramatically towards the rocks below and the evening light spreading across the water. Hartland Point lay further along the coast, marking the western extremity of the peninsula before the coastline turns north towards the Bristol Channel. The wind had strengthened slightly, as it often does beside the sea, and it lifted jackets and hair while filling the air with that unmistakable combination of salt, vegetation and wet rock. Behind us the hotel glowed warmly against the darkening landscape, while ahead the coastline seemed to continue indefinitely. It was the sort of evening that makes a long day of driving worthwhile, when the logistics disappear for a moment and the landscape takes over.
Standing there, I thought about the extraordinary variety contained within a single day’s journey. We had started beneath Brunel’s great suspension bridge in Bristol, crossed the Somerset Levels, stood among the ruins of one of medieval England’s most important abbeys, eaten pasties, wandered through a castle at Dunster and finally arrived on one of Devon’s wildest coastal stretches. On a map it was simply a line drawn westwards. From the driver’s seat it was a succession of landscapes, roads, conversations, coffee stops, historical anecdotes, wrong turns narrowly avoided and increasingly heroic attempts to ensure that nobody left a hat, phone, handbag or member of the group behind. That, ultimately, is what small-group touring is about. It is not simply transporting people from one attraction to another. It is stitching together places that might otherwise seem unrelated and allowing a group to experience the geography as a continuous story.
Eventually it was time to head back. Everyone was present, nobody had fallen into the Atlantic, so I considered the day a complete success. The walk back was quiet and I was already thinking about tomorrow, because tour guides are rarely permitted the luxury of finishing one day before planning the next. There would be another breakfast, another coffee machine, another forecast, another collection of bags and another collection of human beings who would somehow have to be persuaded to arrive at precisely the same place at precisely the same time. I would once again avoid the lift, descend the stairs and begin the ritual all over again. And somewhere downstairs, almost certainly, a coffee machine would be waiting for me with the patient expression of an old friend who knew perfectly well that I would be back.
https://www.seymourtravels.co.uk/2027tours-1
( I hope you’ve enjoyed this story. As a former Rick Steves guide I used to write them as blogs to encourage travel and a sense of curiosity. I am leading another Devon and Cornwall tour in 2027. Join me ! Please ‘like and share’. Thank you. )
