“Here’s the question I’ve been waiting to ask you,” I say. “You’ve been telling me about memories all day. You’ve made a company that tours memories: your own, your family’s, and the families of your customers. You remember with respect the stories of individuals like your father, Agatha Christie, and former clients. Alex, what do YOU want to be remembered for?”
For the first time today, Alex Graeme seems to have no words left. In fact, a creeping pinkish-red hue matching the Dartmoor sunset peeks over one of his three shirt collars. “Um, that’s a tough question…” he replies.
Alex is spared an immediate answer when we crest a hill to see Princetown prison on our right. “Oh my, I must get a photo!” he says. I refrain from jumping out of his car, an American-style Ford Galaxy, preferring to stay far from the intimidating black prison. At 5:45PM Dartmoor’s orange lights beckon under an angry, fast-moving fog. The red light of a radio tower shows above the prison like a warning northern light. My mind wanders to the twelve-year-old prisoner of war that Alex told me about. The boy who perished at Princetown, one of many American and French graves in Dartmoor’s notorious chapel grounds. Outside the car Alex hops around like a leprechaun, impervious to the macabre as he indulges in one of his many passions, photography.
Sitting there, I begin musing on the proprietor of Unique Devon Tours. Having started his company only two years ago, Alex won the Devon Tourism Award as “Best International Attraction” most notably for his genealogy tours. For those tours Alex undertakes extensive research, sometimes surprising guests with introductions to grandfathers four-times removed and a willingness to touch emotional topics, like visiting asylums where the great Aunties of clients had been interred. From fossil hunting to llama walking, Alex’s Devon-based tours scour his favorite land like a cowboy scours the Wild American West. Maybe it’s the American van we sit in, but Alex strikes me as a cowboy of the British sort. He’s got all the traits: a lilting accent; the attire (his hat dewdrops; his leather jacket three layers of buttons and wool); something to point-and-shoot with (a magnificent camera); trademark dinners (pub roasts); and a bullishness dedication to seeking stories in the land and its inhabitants. His wagon wheels he link east to west, past to present, staking his Devonian claim to remembering and being remembered.
Like a cowboy in the center of New York, Alex looked slightly odd when he appeared at our pick-up spot, Tesco, at 8AM. Clutching coffee, he introduced me to his trusted stead (the Ford Galaxy). “Why an American car?” I asked. His reply: “It’s the perfect tour vehicle: comfortably seats six, good on petrol, safe, and uniquely charming.” Immediately intrigued by the professional and perky Brit, I started asking questions. Alex is happily married to a lady studying fine art at Plymouth University, the mother of their two kids. He and his wife also share a wanderlust. “After an amazing holiday in New Zealand we decided to move there,” he says. “We came back to Devon to prepare our things at a house in a little village. Then we fell in love with the ready-made village life. It’s comfy but not small, the perfect place for raising children. We love how diverse Devon is. We have so many options on a day off. Where do we want to walk? The moor? The lanes? The beaches? The villages?”
As he talked Alex is drove us through the Bittaford country roads. He laughed when he saw my eyes widen at his statement that exploring the minuscule lanes, lined on both sides by hedges taller than I, might be a safe and leisurely pastime. “This is usually the part when Americans go a bit white!” Alex spun the wheel like a horse-back rider pulls the reigns, catching cues from other drivers in forehead salutes and Morse-code blinking headlights. Our first stop of the day was Bigbury-on-Sands beach to peak at Burgh Island, one of Agatha Christie’s favorite haunts. For my tour, Alex had planned a loose schedule around sites of literary interest from Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie’s and to sites with American links. Although he explained that he values “precision” in his tours he gladly veered off-course when I encourage him to show me scenes closest to his heart.
A few minutes later we picked our way down slippery smooth rocks to the wide-open Bigbury beach, where a peachy-brown strip of sand lined by single tire tracks pointed toward the multi-floor white Burgh Island Hotel. Alex’s camera shot at everything that moved, his voice crowing from behind the lens, “Just look at this beautiful beach! Not a soul in sight!” He asked me to walk along the beach so that he could take action shots. As a tour perk, Alex provides guests with pictures of their tour.
As he talked Alex is drove us through the Bittaford country roads. He laughed when he saw my eyes widen at his statement that exploring the minuscule lanes, lined on both sides by hedges taller than I, might be a safe and leisurely pastime. “This is usually the part when Americans go a bit white!” Alex spun the wheel like a horse-back rider pulls the reigns, catching cues from other drivers in forehead salutes and Morse-code blinking headlights. Our first stop of the day was Bigbury-on-Sands beach to peak at Burgh Island, one of Agatha Christie’s favorite haunts. For my tour, Alex had planned a loose schedule around sites of literary interest from Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie’s and to sites with American links. Although he explained that he values “precision” in his tours he gladly veered off-course when I encourage him to show me scenes closest to his heart.
A few minutes later we picked our way down slippery smooth rocks to the wide-open Bigbury beach, where a peachy-brown strip of sand lined by single tire tracks pointed toward the multi-floor white Burgh Island Hotel. Alex’s camera shot at everything that moved, his voice crowing from behind the lens, “Just look at this beautiful beach! Not a soul in sight!” He asked me to walk along the beach so that he could take action shots. As a tour perk, Alex provides guests with pictures of their tour.
After Bigbury-on-Sands, we begin our long-and-looping morning journey through Devon. When a black crow lighted from the center of the road, I muse that crows seem to be the only birds as at-home on an American cowboy’s desert plane as a British cowboy’s country lane. Alex is a natural tour-guide through pedigree and experience; I think he’d as likely be leading through the desert as Devon.
He grew up at Fonthill, a Shaldon-area manor whose inhabitants and stories could serve a Doyle or Christie plot. His father was a convivial handyman, fossil seeker, bird-watcher, and gin drinker who took the family to Scotland for every holiday. He inspired Alex’s risk-prone curiosity by famously walking up the mansions of Scottish country homes, claiming heritage and requesting tours house and grounds. Back in Shaldon, Alex's smart mother ran Fonthill as a B&B. Here Alex developed a taste for hospitality and leading tours, serving as a pint-sized Inchbrakie and Dartmouth guide for amused guests. Naturally, Alex moved on to study hotel management and tourism in college. He took jobs at hotels with histories he adored, like the Grand Hotel in Torquay. At some point Alex decided that working in hotels did not fulfil his desire to be deeply helpful to others. He transitioned to work for ten years in mental health services and might still be there today had Inchbrakie not required more attention. As the agility of his parents and the home deteriorated, Alex’s family decided to pass Fonthill to the respectful hands of new owners. “Clearing the contents of the estate was a full-time job,” he explained. Exploring trinkets of his family’s past ignited a fire in Alex. He penned and laid-out the photos for a published coffee-table book telling the Graeme family history. And he formulated a business idea that would unite all of his interests: history, literature, Devon, being of-service, and exploring. Unique Devon Tours was born.
Through hill and dale, fog and dew, past sheep and farmer, we followed the meek morning light. Like a cowboy surveys his ranch, Alex drove me along his favorite trail in Kingsbridge, where a river submerged the roads and red-hulled boats capped the brown water. We drove through Chillington, where a group of men in green wool parkas displayed wide smiles and wider as they passed between a white-washed pub and a warm brown stone chapel, shining red and yellow from candles inside. We visit Torcross and Slapton Sands, a place devastated in World War II D-Day preparations when botched British and American military operations resulted in over 600 friendly-fire casualties and victimized two nations of ignorant bystanders. We wondered if locals combing the beach with metal detectors are children of the British families once displaced from these shores. Alex introduced me to the background to my cowboy ancestors when he took me to Dartmouth. Apparently, my pilgrim forefathers intended to make this pretty town their last stop before setting sail for America.
He grew up at Fonthill, a Shaldon-area manor whose inhabitants and stories could serve a Doyle or Christie plot. His father was a convivial handyman, fossil seeker, bird-watcher, and gin drinker who took the family to Scotland for every holiday. He inspired Alex’s risk-prone curiosity by famously walking up the mansions of Scottish country homes, claiming heritage and requesting tours house and grounds. Back in Shaldon, Alex's smart mother ran Fonthill as a B&B. Here Alex developed a taste for hospitality and leading tours, serving as a pint-sized Inchbrakie and Dartmouth guide for amused guests. Naturally, Alex moved on to study hotel management and tourism in college. He took jobs at hotels with histories he adored, like the Grand Hotel in Torquay. At some point Alex decided that working in hotels did not fulfil his desire to be deeply helpful to others. He transitioned to work for ten years in mental health services and might still be there today had Inchbrakie not required more attention. As the agility of his parents and the home deteriorated, Alex’s family decided to pass Fonthill to the respectful hands of new owners. “Clearing the contents of the estate was a full-time job,” he explained. Exploring trinkets of his family’s past ignited a fire in Alex. He penned and laid-out the photos for a published coffee-table book telling the Graeme family history. And he formulated a business idea that would unite all of his interests: history, literature, Devon, being of-service, and exploring. Unique Devon Tours was born.
Through hill and dale, fog and dew, past sheep and farmer, we followed the meek morning light. Like a cowboy surveys his ranch, Alex drove me along his favorite trail in Kingsbridge, where a river submerged the roads and red-hulled boats capped the brown water. We drove through Chillington, where a group of men in green wool parkas displayed wide smiles and wider as they passed between a white-washed pub and a warm brown stone chapel, shining red and yellow from candles inside. We visit Torcross and Slapton Sands, a place devastated in World War II D-Day preparations when botched British and American military operations resulted in over 600 friendly-fire casualties and victimized two nations of ignorant bystanders. We wondered if locals combing the beach with metal detectors are children of the British families once displaced from these shores. Alex introduced me to the background to my cowboy ancestors when he took me to Dartmouth. Apparently, my pilgrim forefathers intended to make this pretty town their last stop before setting sail for America.
Eventually we made our way to the Imperial Hotel in Torquay, a town that Alex loves not as “the purple rinse brigade” do but as the home of one of his great mentors, Agatha Christie. “I have a massive admiration for Agatha Christie and am so lucky that the English Riviera has allowed me to attend courses about her history. In her writing and her person she developed a wide respect that we all tune into. She didn’t have a negative side.” He described how Agatha promenaded Torquay harbor to cheekily poke fun at the gentry, preferring to swim at lesser-known beaches around the bays. “The more I learn about her, the more I like,” he mused.
At the Imperial Hotel where Alex engaged in a conversation with two pensioners eager to speak with “the man with the clipboard.” They loved that Alex led tours of the region and eagerly shared their memories. Although he adored their stories, Alex broke the conversation short: “We’ve got a schedule to keep.” Part of me wanted to keep watching in awe as Alex gobbled up Devon’s history like a cowboy on beans.
On our way to the Church House Inn, Stokenteighnhead, Alex admitted that he was “very discerning of lunch spots. I’m a bit of a foodie.” He was nervous about our lunch at one of his childhood pubs which he hadn’t visited since the local vicar christened of his brother’s son at the village chapel some years previous. Of course we walked in to find the same vicar seated in the pub, coyly drinking a Coke. She was surrounded by friends with wine and pints, laughing boisterously, perched in front of a reworked fireplace laden with decorative copper pots. “One of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken is of that vicar holding my brother’s baby,” Alex remembered. After placing our orders with Di, a bartender Alex knows personally (“she’s been here for years,”) we watched horseback riders outside and turned the pages of the Graeme family coffee-table book. Before we leave Alex forced me to try one of the few British desserts still foreign to me, sticky toffee pudding. “There’s no better place for pudding than a pub!”
Renewed and high on sugar, Alex deemed us in need of a Moorish adventure. He spurred the van toward Grimspound, scene of ancient English civilizations. Through “proper pea soup” we scaled squishy grass to pause at a gushing stream that splashed yellow followers, slick black bushes, and a couple that apparated out of the shadows above us holding hands like they were walking over pebbles on a beach instead of Bronze-Age stone encampments. “Let’s climb to the top?” he asked. Tally-ho!
At the Imperial Hotel where Alex engaged in a conversation with two pensioners eager to speak with “the man with the clipboard.” They loved that Alex led tours of the region and eagerly shared their memories. Although he adored their stories, Alex broke the conversation short: “We’ve got a schedule to keep.” Part of me wanted to keep watching in awe as Alex gobbled up Devon’s history like a cowboy on beans.
On our way to the Church House Inn, Stokenteighnhead, Alex admitted that he was “very discerning of lunch spots. I’m a bit of a foodie.” He was nervous about our lunch at one of his childhood pubs which he hadn’t visited since the local vicar christened of his brother’s son at the village chapel some years previous. Of course we walked in to find the same vicar seated in the pub, coyly drinking a Coke. She was surrounded by friends with wine and pints, laughing boisterously, perched in front of a reworked fireplace laden with decorative copper pots. “One of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken is of that vicar holding my brother’s baby,” Alex remembered. After placing our orders with Di, a bartender Alex knows personally (“she’s been here for years,”) we watched horseback riders outside and turned the pages of the Graeme family coffee-table book. Before we leave Alex forced me to try one of the few British desserts still foreign to me, sticky toffee pudding. “There’s no better place for pudding than a pub!”
Renewed and high on sugar, Alex deemed us in need of a Moorish adventure. He spurred the van toward Grimspound, scene of ancient English civilizations. Through “proper pea soup” we scaled squishy grass to pause at a gushing stream that splashed yellow followers, slick black bushes, and a couple that apparated out of the shadows above us holding hands like they were walking over pebbles on a beach instead of Bronze-Age stone encampments. “Let’s climb to the top?” he asked. Tally-ho!
By the time we reached the rock pile peak at the top of the tor, Alex’s hair is covered in dewdrops. I imagined that it’s his rendition of a cowboy hat. “This is what I love most about Devon,” he says. “You have to go inland to see the real Devon. It was this space that inspired Conan Doyle to resurrect Sherlock. Doyle dropped the character because he lacked depth. On Dartmoor Doyle found a place to combine Sherlock with spiritualism. Doyle himself felt most spiritual on the Moors.” Wind pulled at our jacket’s clasps. We turned in slow circles, surveying a pastel land, marvelling at the antiquity of the space. “I feel most spiritual here, too,” Alex stated.
Back in the warmth of the van, Alex followed the evening West. We stopped by a Devon treasure chest full of home-made chutneys, cakes, and jams, where passer-by were welcome to place £2 for one of the home-made concoctions, on the honor system. The sustenance reminded me of a cowboy who is welcomed to dine at the tables of farming strangers over the course of his long journeys.
Then, we were awestruck when we crested the hill toward Princetown, our final destination before Alex dropped me at home. It was as if the entire sky exploded, assuaging the colors that had been pent-up during the day’s grey drizzle. There was pink, green, orange, and yellow, stacked one on top of the other like ancient sediment lines desert caves. Mist faded into clouds fleeing the setting sun. We stood in the middle of the road, Alex switching lenses like a cowboy drawing his pistol.
And then, finally, we are winding away from Princetown, away from the moor, and back toward Plymouth. “What do I want to be remembered for?” he ponders.
Back in the warmth of the van, Alex followed the evening West. We stopped by a Devon treasure chest full of home-made chutneys, cakes, and jams, where passer-by were welcome to place £2 for one of the home-made concoctions, on the honor system. The sustenance reminded me of a cowboy who is welcomed to dine at the tables of farming strangers over the course of his long journeys.
Then, we were awestruck when we crested the hill toward Princetown, our final destination before Alex dropped me at home. It was as if the entire sky exploded, assuaging the colors that had been pent-up during the day’s grey drizzle. There was pink, green, orange, and yellow, stacked one on top of the other like ancient sediment lines desert caves. Mist faded into clouds fleeing the setting sun. We stood in the middle of the road, Alex switching lenses like a cowboy drawing his pistol.
And then, finally, we are winding away from Princetown, away from the moor, and back toward Plymouth. “What do I want to be remembered for?” he ponders.
Upon parting, Alex gives me a British squeeze and cheek-to-cheek peck. He also hands me a booklet containing with a calendar of photos snapped by his mother and several Unique Devon Tours postcards. “I really enjoyed my tour today,” I gush. Alex walks around to his door, nodding his head, and for a split second I imagine that he’s tipping his cowboy hat.
“Well, that’s a tough question. As a business-person I want to be remembered for providing the best tours this region has to offer, for developing a brand different than the others. Leading tours fulfils me; I have finally a brand I can make in a space where I continue to learn and grow. But I think what it’s really about is making people happy. I think, what I most want, is people to like their memory of me, to remember fondly their times with me. After all, being a good tour guide is about using your own life experience to become a good friend.”
Upon parting, Alex gives me a British squeeze and cheek-to-cheek peck. He also hands me a booklet containing with a calendar of photos snapped by his mother and several Unique Devon Tours postcards. “I really enjoyed my tour today,” I gush. Alex walks around to his door, nodding his head, and for a split second I imagine that he’s tipping his cowboy hat.
Upon parting, Alex gives me a British squeeze and cheek-to-cheek peck. He also hands me a booklet containing with a calendar of photos snapped by his mother and several Unique Devon Tours postcards. “I really enjoyed my tour today,” I gush. Alex walks around to his door, nodding his head, and for a split second I imagine that he’s tipping his cowboy hat.
