I am worn down. My muscles ache from walking 10-13 miles with ascents and descents of over 2500 feet; the bottoms of my feet are bruised from walking on too many pointed edged rocks. Time for a break.

Since I’m not a purist when it comes to long-distance walking, I take a break around Torquay, mainly visiting Agatha Christie sites. I still walk over 5 miles. So, still feeling a bit achy, I decide to take a legit break. No walking today. I bus from Babbacombe to Teignmouth and walk the brief distance to the Cliffden Hotel.

“I know that I’m ten hours early, but I have a room for tonight.” “Yes sir, the rooms aren’t ready yet. Your welcome to wait in the bar or in the restaurant.” Since I hear laughter and voices in the bar, I walk into that room. Seven or eight men, from late 60’s to early 80’s are enjoying themselves. With a big smile, one says: “Come join us, mate. Oh, but since you’re the new mate, if you have a drink then you have to buy us all one.” Hmmm, what should I say? “Well, the guys I drink with don’t lift the glass until 5PM. Thanks for the invite though.” I move to the restaurant.

I find a seat in order to look out over the 7 acres of gardens. Beautiful view. Another couple also sits in an adjoining table. No one else in the restaurant.

The unspoken rule in English restaurants is that one always great those near you. We chat. “Where are you from?” “I’m from the states, Atlanta. I’m walking the South West Coast Path, meeting my wife in Poole in two weeks.”

The wife says “Oh, my brother did that walk. He absolutely loved it! I grew up in western Scotland and love the outdoors. Where have you walked?”

“I started near Truro a couple of weeks ago. Last fall, I walked from Minehead to Falmouth.”

The husband joins in “You walked through St. Ives then. What did you think of St. Ives.”

“I absolutely loved the harbor, the town, the light, the coastline. I visited St. Ives Tate and the Barbara Hepworth museum. It is a magical place.”

“Yes it is. I grew up there. In fact, my dad was one of the assistants for Barbara Hepworth.” (I visited the Hepworth had her studio and gardens in a big time artist. One of her large sculptures stands in front of the United Nations building in New York.)

As I could tell that he is friendly and willing to talk, I continue about St.Ives: “That must have been something. Do you have any memories of life there, of Barbara Hepworth, and of his work with Hepworth?”

“Oh plenty. Dad and mom raised a bunch of us, mainly brothers but one sister. During lockdown, I was interviewed for a documentary about my dad for the Tate museum. I sat at one table; the fellow asking the question sat at another table; the recording crew sat near several other tables. I told them a story that the fellow interviewing me loved; but the final producer cut it.”

“What was the story?”

“Well, after the war, there were very few well-known women artists. Hepworth wanted to change that. She wanted more women artists to be recognized. One day, she was having a meeting with several clients who wanted to commission a piece. When the clients arrived, she asked her men assistants to go into the painted outdoor greenhouse right above where she and the clients would talk. Strange, but even in those days art was a man’s world.”

“Well, my father and the other three assistants went into the greenhouse. Hepworth and the clients talked so long that my dad said that he had to go to the bathroom. Rather than interrupt the meeting, he simply relieved himself in a large clay pot. The problem was that the soil was so baked that it drained right out, and because it was a simple greenhouse, ran downhill right between the feet of Hepworth and the clients.”

“What happened.”

“ Oh, she joked about it. She said no afternoon tea and biscuits for you this week.”

We continued to talk for at least an hour.We talk about Barbara Hepworth. “She smoked like a fiend and drank whiskey. Almost set the place on fire.” We talked about her other assistants that his dad worked with, Ben Nicolson, Peter Lanyon, Johnny Wells. He talked about himself. He had a small gallery in Penzance where he showed his work. I showed them photos of a Terry Shaul showing in Truro who was a recently deceased primitive artist. We talked more about walking; she had broken her elbow while walking the day she was hosting some friends for a dinner party. Ouch! We talked about other walkers. Living above the SWCP, they love watching walkers. Sometimes they’ll meet some when they go to their neighbor’s tearoom. On and on and on. We thoroughly enjoy each other’s company.

I don’t know how, but somehow the topic returns to other walkers. I say: “Oh, I met the friendliest fellow walking near St. Ives. He is the person who I met in Truro and showed me parts of Truro. He drove me around Truro, we walked around Truro. More than 6 hours! Even fixed lunch for me in his small apartment. He is known as ‘the walking Vicar.’”

There is a pause. “Alan Rowland, right?”

“Yes! Do you know him?”

“He married us years and years and years ago.”

I pause again. “Let me show you something.” I dig into my daypack and hand them the booklet that Alan had given me about his ramblings on the South West Coast Path. We all break out laughing as she reads the title page.

Before they leave to catch their train to Truro, I take their photo, Alan’s book in hand. Anthony and Linda Frost. I airmail Linda the photo. We keep waving and grinning at each other as I watch them from the restaurant walk through the garden to the train station.

A man who married them years ago. Who spoke words of blessing upon them on one of their most important days years ago. A man who allows important memories to be brought back today.

A man who entertains a stranger for a day. Who blesses me upon the resumption of my South West Coast Path two weeks ago. A man who allows that memory to be felt again today.

Sometimes walking, or In our case sitting in the restaurant, allows moments like these. I can speak confidently that all three of us felt bigger; we feel happier; we feel as though something has just renewed our spirits.

Tonight I look up Anthony Frost. I learn that one of his brothers is the British comedian Stephen Frost. I learn that his dad is SIR Terry Frost. His dad wasn’t only an artist, but he was the leading artist of the St Ives School. Knighted for his contributions to British art. One of the foremost, and most loved, abstract British artists of the twentieth century. Little did I know!

Tomorrow I’m emailing Alan to let him know the joy that he brought three people as we shared memories of his part in our lives.

Barbara Hepworth. Her sculpture outside the UN and a smaller version of the sculpture Battersea Park.