08. South Devon

Exmouth is where the river finally lets go and meets the sea. You arrive along broad, tree-lined streets and then suddenly there’s the Exe Estuary opening out in front of you, sails and masts pricking the skyline, mudflats and shifting channels glinting in the light. The seafront itself is a long, generous sweep of sand backed by a promenade families with buckets and spades, kites tugging at strings, joggers tracing the same daily route along the front.

Walk towards the river mouth and you can feel the character change. The water turns more restless, the view widens towards Dawlish and the red cliffs of the Jurassic Coast, and the cry of waders mixes with the chatter from cafés and kiosks. You might take a boat trip up the estuary, watching flocks of birds lift from the marshes, or simply sit on a low wall with chips, letting the tide and the day drift past. Exmouth feels like a proper gateway – both to the coast ahead and the calm, intricate waterways behind you.

Topsham feels like a riverside town that’s quietly tucked itself away from the main flow of things. You drop down towards the Exe and find narrow streets lined with a mix of old merchants’ houses, Dutch-gabled facades, pastel cottages and hidden courtyards. The shoreline is a patchwork of small quays, boatyards and wooden steps leading straight into the water, with views across broad, shimmering marshes full of birdlife.

You wander the Strand and can almost see the ghosts of its days as a busy port, when ships from all over would have been loading and unloading along this stretch. Now it’s more about antique shops, good pubs and people pausing on benches to watch the river change colour with the sky. At low tide, boats settle on the mud like sleeping animals; at high tide, the water laps right up under old walls and garden steps. It’s a gentle, slightly eccentric stop on your route somewhere that feels lived-in, layered and perfectly sized for a slow stroll.

Dawlish Warren stretches out as a sandy spit between river and open sea, and it has that distinctly holiday feel the moment you arrive. Arcades, ice-cream kiosks and cafés cluster near the entrance, but a short walk over the dunes takes you into much quieter territory. The beach runs for what feels like miles, a broad sweep of sand and shingle backed by marram grass that hisses in the wind, with the Exe Estuary curving away behind you.

This is also a nature reserve, and if you wander out towards the point you’ll find hides and boardwalks tucked among the dunes and saltmarsh, giving close-up views of wading birds picking through the shallows. Trains flash by on the line that hugs the coast, a familiar West Country sight, while ships and sailing boats work their way in and out of the estuary. It’s a place with two moods: classic bucket-and-spade liveliness near the funfair, and big-sky, wind-in-your-face wildness once you’ve walked a little further. Both suit a road trip day perfectly.

Meadfoot Beach feels like Torquay turned slightly away from the bustle to gaze out to sea. You follow a winding road down from the hilltops and suddenly you’re alongside a narrow crescent of shingle and sand, backed by low cliffs and elegant old villas peering over the trees. The water here is often calm and clear, shading from pale green to deep blue, with rocky outcrops punctuating the bay and the odd paddleboarder or kayak sliding quietly across the surface.

A simple promenade traces the shoreline, dotted with beach huts, benches and the occasional café. Across the water, you can see the outline of distant headlands and, on clear days, the shapes of ships further out in the English Channel. It has something of a Riviera air, but softer, gentler, less showy than the main Torquay seafront. Stop here to dip your toes, scramble on rocks, or simply sit with a takeaway drink, listening to the small, rhythmic wash of waves on the pebbles and feeling the town hum politely in the background rather than all around you.

Paignton Beach is unapologetically classic seaside. You arrive to a long, level stretch of sand backed by promenade, pier and a scatter of colourful beach huts, with the red cliffs of the bay bookending the view. The air carries the unmistakable mix of doughnuts, chips, candyfloss and salt, while the soundscape is all gulls, laughter and the gentle rattle of rides from the funfair.

Walk along the front and you’ll pass the pier reaching out into the water, the steam railway puffing off inland, and families spreading out their patch for the day. The sea here is usually friendly and shallow near the shore, the sort of place where people paddle without thinking too hard about it. Paignton wears its holiday heart on its sleeve – bright, busy, slightly nostalgic and that’s part of the charm. On a road trip full of hidden coves and quiet headlands, this stop gives you a simple, sunny hit of fish-and-chips-on-the-wall, sand-between-the-toes energy.

Berry Head feels like a proper headland, jutting out into the sea with that mix of wildness and history you only get where cliffs and fortifications meet. You drive up through Brixham and out to the high ground, then walk onto a plateau where old Napoleonic-era fort walls still trace the edges, now shared with wildflowers, grazing animals and far-reaching views. The drops on either side are sheer and dramatic, the sea far below flecked with white where it hits the rocks.

Follow the paths and you’ll come to the lighthouse, compact and sturdy, watching over one of the busiest stretches of water in the Channel. Look down from the cliffs and you might spot seals or even dolphins in the right season, while seabirds wheel and nest on inaccessible ledges. The wind is often brisk enough to make you brace yourself, the air full of salt and the faint smell of sun-warmed grass. It’s a place that makes you feel pleasantly small, with the sweep of Torbay on one side and open water on the other.

Dartmouth sits folded into the mouth of the Dart like it’s part of the river itself. You come in from above and look down on a view that feels almost theatrical: dark-wood ferries shuttling back and forth, pastel and slate-coloured houses climbing the hillsides, and the river winding away inland between green, tree-lined slopes. Down on the quay, the air is thick with the sound of footsteps on old cobbles, engine notes from boats and the faint chime of halyards against masts.

Wander the narrow streets and you’ll find old inns, independent shops and glimpses of the water at the end of almost every lane. Across the river, Kingswear mirrors Dartmouth’s rooftops, linked by ferries that form part of the town’s everyday pulse. Above the mouth of the estuary, the twin castles of Dartmouth and Kingswear guard the entrance, a reminder of how strategically important this harbour once was. It’s a stop that feels both lively and snug, a natural place to linger over a drink and watch the river’s constant coming and going.

Start Bay feels long and elemental. The road runs right behind the shingle for much of the way, giving you constant views across a wide, curving sweep of grey pebbles and shifting sea. At Slapton Sands, waves fold up the steep beach with a particular hiss and rumble as the stones roll back under each retreating breaker. Behind you lies Slapton Ley, a freshwater lake fringed with reeds and woodland, so you’re walking between two very different kinds of water.

This stretch of coast carries heavy history the relics of wartime training, the stories of Exercise Tiger but day to day it’s mostly about big skies, strong light and long walks. You might park up and follow the shingle until your legs feel it, watch storms build over the horizon, or simply sit on the beach listening to that constant stone-on-stone undertow. Start Bay feels exposed in the best way, a reminder of how directly this coastline faces the Channel and whatever weather comes with it.

Salcombe gathers around a drowned valley of pale water, all creeks, coves and wooded slopes. You drop into town on narrow, twisting roads and suddenly find yourself on streets lined with pastel and whitewashed houses, boutiques and cafés, all angled towards the estuary like they’re trying to claim a piece of the view. The harbour is busy with yachts, dinghies and ferries, their wakes stitching patterns on the surface as the tide pushes in and out.

You can wander the waterfront, watching kids crabbing from the quay and ferries shuttling across to sandy spits and beaches on the far side. Climb a little higher and the estuary unfolds below in a series of curves and channels, opening out to the sea between two protective headlands. There’s an easy, holiday energy here sailing gear slung over shoulders, wetsuits draped over balconies, people drifting between pubs and ice-cream shops. It’s one of those places where the line between land and water feels particularly blurred, and all the better for it.

Bantham Beach feels like a place made for tides and long afternoons. You arrive down a narrow lane and are suddenly confronted with a broad expanse of sand at the mouth of the River Avon, Burgh Island sitting squarely across the water like a small, self-contained world. At low tide, the beach seems to go on and on, its wet surface reflecting sky and footsteps, with shallow channels curling and rearranging themselves each day.

Surfers pick up the Atlantic swell that swings into the bay, while families settle into sandy hollows in the dunes. The river itself winds out in a shining silver ribbon, and if you climb the surrounding hills you get a panoramic view of estuary, island and open sea all in one sweep. Bantham has just enough in the way of facilities to keep you comfortable, but it still feels like a place ruled more by tide tables and wave forecasts than strict timetables. It’s an easy spot to lose time, drifting between walking, watching and just sitting in the soft roar of the surf.

Totnes draws you back inland with a very different sort of energy. You follow the Dart upriver and find a town perched on its slopes, cobbled main street climbing steadily from the water up towards a ruined Norman castle. Independent shops, cafés and market stalls line the route, many with a distinctly creative, alternative flavour hand-painted signs, organic everything, buskers at corners.

Down by the river, the Dart feels narrower and more intimate than at Dartmouth, its banks fringed with trees and old stone walls, rowing boats and small craft nudging the quays. There’s a sense of layers here: medieval streets, Tudor fronts, Victorian bridges and modern murals all sharing the same compact space. Totnes has long had a reputation as a bit of a free spirit, and you catch that in snatches of conversation and community posters tucked into windows. As an end point on this route, it brings you back from open sea to river valley, swapping salt spray for green water and a town that looks both inward and outward at once.