An apparently undistinguished sandstone wall adjoining the seafront promenade in Budleigh Salterton, Devon, is where, in 1870, eminent pre-Raphaelite Sir John Millais set his classic painting 'The Boyhood of Raleigh'.

Millais shows young Walter and pal Humphrey Gilbert sitting by the wall in rapt attention as a sailor tells nautical stories. We're meant to conclude these rather dainty looking boys were so moved by the maritime anecdotes, they promptly set off to become swashbuckling seafaring heroes.

Nowadays the A376 runs along one side of the car park and there's a small plaque rather grandly announcing "This is Raleigh's wall". If Sir Walter sat in the same spot today he'd probably be squashed by a passing car. Queen Elizabeth the First's favourite would most likely be crushed by a B-reg Honda Accord in immaculate condition driven by a tiny old man wearing a hat.

Enthusiastic sailor
And similarly, woe betide any enthusiastic sailor with a droopy moustache and baggy red culottes who approached young boys in what is now the Budleigh Salterton Gentleman's Club car park. He'd doubtless be lynched by a posse of red-blooded retired colonels hurredly downing their sherries and rushing from the billiard room. It may be a men-only Club but Budleigh, you see, is not a gay icon. It's a gray icon.

More than Bournemouth, Eastbourne or Southport, this small south Devon town is the last retreat of Britain's chronologically challenged. In other words, it's full to bursting with very, very old people.

The town's main claim to fame may be a Victorian vision of an inspiring boyhood but around half the population today are pensioners. Most of these have retired there bringing their life-savings, making the town the richest in Devonshire.

To the west is Exmouth, boasting miles of golden sands, guest houses and modern housing estates. To the east is the genteel resort of Sidmouth, which has a cricket pitch and bandstand on the seafront but seems like Venice Beach LA compared to Budleigh.


Pink thatched cottages
But Budleigh does have all the basic ingredients to have become a minor seaside resort. It nestles picturesquely in a bay at the mouth of the River Otter, there's a two-mile long, clean and safe pebble beach and an unspoilt Victorian town centre. 

A pretty stream runs along the High Street and through the neighbouring village of East Budleigh, whose pink thatched cottages could feature on the cover of an American magazine called "Isn't England cute?'. In both directions there are dramatic coastal walks on towering red cliffs and the rural path along the meandering River Otter valley is highly recommended.

Incidently, the Salterton part of the name dates back to the commercial salt flats that stretched across the estuary in Raleigh's time but which are now covered by the cricket pitch. I once watched a match. I was the only spectator.

Despite its natural attractions, Budleigh attracts a small number of visitors. Even on a baking hot July day the beach is almost empty. Locals know it's an easy place to go for a quick swim. And it's all because the residents of Budleigh have, after a long campaign, successfully repelled the tourist invasion.

A shilling a year
In her art gallery on the High Street, former borough councillor and chairman of the town's independent museum, Priscilla Hull, once told me: "My gosh, we fought the push for more tourism. We really don't want candy floss trippers here."

Priscilla once helped negotiate a deal with Lord Clinton whose estate dominates the area. "He leased the beach to the council for a shilling (5p) a year for 999 years providing there was no trading on the beach or untoward developments. The family wouldn't allow bungalows or anything like that. It was right on their doorsteps after all.

"I must say it has paid off handsomely. We now have a prosperous comfortable town. We do get some confusion in the High Street in the summer but generally everyone has gone home by 6pm."

Plastic beachballs
I can't think of another south coast town that is actually getting less and less tourist-friendly. I lived near Budleigh as a boy, when there were half a dozen big hotels. They all closed after the railway line was axed leaving just one small hotel on the outskirts. Budleigh now has no amusement arcades, no pier, no clubs and not even a shop selling plastic beachballs.

Even the ancient Hayes Barton farm, Raleigh's birthplace, and the eight-sided house called The Octagon, Millais seafront lodgings, are both now closed to the public.

Like the real Raleigh, I spent my boyhood in the hills of Woodbury Common a few miles inland. And, like Millais' version of Raleigh, I spend hours on that long empty beach, tossing pebbles back in the sea... and yes, even listening to tales from fishermen.

I heard colourful stories that still send a shiver up my back today. There's one about the deep dark pool by the mouth of the Otter. The rumour was that in its depths are scores of giant conger eels. I heard how divers had tried in vain to find the bottom of the dark lagoon. Instead they descended into bottomless darkness where they were surrounded by scores of pairs of eyes staring at them from the murky water.

However, nothing they said turned ME into a swashbuckling adventurer. I haven't even invented a new vegetable or wooed a Queen.

Fuzz boxes
My only search for Eldorado was forming a schoolboy progressive rock band called Dragon that practised in Budleigh church hall. Our home-made fuzz-boxes attracted plenty of complaints from residents but, like Raleigh, we never struck gold.

When I last revisited Budleigh's limited visitor accommodation was full "because of the bowls tournament." So I stayed in a cosy 400-year-old B&B farmhouse in the neighbouring village of Yettington. Even here a party of bowlers had claimed the adjoining self-catering cottage. Owners Colin and Brenda Goode told me in a hushed voice: "We have one lady through to the final."

It's easy to poke fun at dear old Budleigh - but in many ways it has inadvertently turned itself into a perfect attraction for those who prefer croquet to karaoke.

Where else would you stroll the promenade between the two permitted beach cafes: one with fresh carnations on every table, the other serving mugs of Horlicks or Bovril.

The Croquet Club
The thatched Fairlynch Museum in Fore Street is a delightfully eclectic mix of locally donated period costumes, 'radioactive pebbles' and natural history (stuffed seabirds). Upstairs I discovered the room full of home-made folders of documents about the town's history. In 'The Croquet Club - The First Hundred Years', the entry for September 1939 ran: "Sunday afternoon play agreed. War declared."

The Fairlynch is run by a gaggle of volunteer old ladies and owned by a charitable trust of which Priscilla is chairman. 'We ought to be publicly funded but we don't want anything to do with those blinkin' bureaucrats," she says.

Amazingly Priscilla managed to borrow 'The Boyhood of Raleigh' from the Tate to display at the museum's opening 30 years ago. I expressed admiration for the achievement but she scoffed: "Oh, they were already lending it to places like Bradford."

With The Fairlynch, the Octagon, the gentlemen's club and rows of chronically old-fashioned shops, Budleigh High Street ought to be declared a national monument. My favourite shops were three thriving specialist purveyors of teddy bears, globes and wincyette pyjamas. I found another clothes shop with an assistant in her nineties. And I was sad to hear of the demise of the mysterious Mr Rowe. A retired plantation owner from the Far East, he used to be a regular sight striding the High Street in pith helmet and plus fours.

After dark, Budleigh slips into an ovaltine-induced coma. As teenagers we'd joke that every night was a near-death experience. I recall an evening with a friend in the Feathers pub on the High Street. We were the only customers all night.


Cream tea
By day the liveliest joint in town is The Cosy Teapot. I crossed the brook on the little geranium-bedecked bridge for a cream tea. The elderly waitress served me on Royal Albert bone china with trembling hands.

Incredibly, an exciting incident took place that woke a couple of the customers from a pleasant afternoon nap.

A middle-aged couple's young labrador carelessly jerked its lead across their table sending Royal Albert china flying in all directions. A plate smashed in full view of everyone. 

Anywhere else in the world and everyone would have cheered. In the Cosy Teapot there was hushed, even shocked, silence. The horrified couple tried to press some five pound notes into the grey-haired manager's hand. But she refused to accept any payment for the china. "Nevermind dear, we drop and break things all the time ourselves," she smiled.