Torquay Travel Blog› entry 17 of 23 › view all entries
April 26th, 2008 – by: Higton
Torquay's finest moment is still Fawlty Towers. Lovers of Britsh comedy righty cite this series as a jewel in the crown, despite there only being twelve episode over two series. John Cleese's insane hotelier is still a byword in comedic characters and the town owes its reputation for this programme. We'd pick up Matt the next day in the town as he was visiting a stalker friend of his. I texted him for a hotel recommendation, to which he replied "there are hundreds". And it is true, there is at least four on every street. What he didn't tell me until afterwards is that they are all about £25 a night. If we'd of known that, I suspect the Cavendish (see review) would not have been our choice.
Torquay itself must be hellish in the summer if all those hotels are full.
Stag and Hen Gangs
Scary shit. Seriously worrying. In our brief jaunt around the town centre looking for a pub that didn't play 200 decibel dance music, we saw four stag parties and a hen do. In each, the poor unfortunate walking into marriage was patently obvious. The stag would be the one wearing fluffy antlers, or be wearing something akin to a Chubby Brown racism suit amongst a sea of t-shirted friends. These chaps would have their nicknames on the back, choice examples being "muff-diver", "Jonesy" or "Tosser" (OK, I made the last one up. Does my contempt come through?)
I'm always amazed by the capacity of humans to wear uniforms, despite spending years at school rebelling against.
[btw, I love Firefox - my computer just crashed and it saved all of this. Yes]
Clearly, it isn't all an English Poor nightmare. The Torbay area in which Torquay is situated is a beautiful spot, as our Sunday morning walk around around Oddicombe proved. A beautiful morning, we dropped through wooded cliffs and onto the shore. The sun shone, the sea was crystal and the divers were out, the better aquatic variety rather than the stag-night-types. Coffees, chat and the sound of a lapping sea. Bang on.
And when we returned to the clifftop after a very sharp climb, Matt was ready to leave after a freakish weekend. Wales, here we come.
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