The Regional Tourist Board website for the South West of England has websites at:

www.westcountrynow.com

www.swtourism.org.uk

Bicton Gardens – 100m south of the car park exit:  www.bictongardens.co.uk.  Reduced entrance fees have been negotiated (with programme cover or race number) and has a nice café.

Otterton – 1.3km SE:  www.otterton.org

Otterton Mill – 1.2km SE:  www.ottertonmill.com

King’s Arms, Otterton - 1.4km SE:  www.kingsarmsotterton.co.uk

East Budleigh – 2km south: www.home.btconnect.com/eastbudleighvillage.org.uk

Colaton Raleigh - 1.5km north:  www.ovapedia.org.uk/index.php?page=colaton-raleigh

The Otter Inn – 1.5km north:  www.otterinn.co.uk

Budleigh Salterton – 4km south:   www.visitbudleigh.com

East Devon – Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty:  www.eastdevonaonb.org.uk

Micro-O at Wheal Florence on Wednesday 7th April: download the flier here

Urban Race at the Eden Project on Thursday 8th April 2010: download the flier here

Arthur Boyt, controller, commenting on Wheal Florence:

Jim Prowting (planner) said you'd be missing a treat if you did not stay to the Wheal Florence event, he could not have been more right! Today I checked all the control sites, OK, OK, I am the controller so I am allowed to. But as I entered the area, map in hand, I passed into another world, I stepped onto another planet; not a planet of cheese or pink Martian rocks, but a land of confused and disrupted terrain, a land tossed by an earthquake, well maybe not an earthquake (but that is what it looked like) but a land turned and tortured by men who had wielded picks and shovels to extract the tin therein years and years ago. Now it lay shaggy and brown, a beard of parched grass hiding its pock-marked face, a face pimpled with brown heaps of part digested equine and ovine droppings. In my hand was the key to this enigma, a map, the complexity of which I had never before had the good fortune to endeavour to unravel. As I stepped forward, aligned by the compass in my hand, the tangle of brown wiggley lines, began to metamorphose under my very feet, the lines became reentrants, spurs and gullies, the circles hills and holes in the ground. I strode confidently (note the rate of progression, all who wish to excell at this event) to the feature in the centre of my first circle and on to the next, and on and on; it was hard to tell whether the map was under my feet or the terrain in my hand, or the other way about. It was a baptism by contours, it was the Wheal Florence Experience, I had been born again. I finished my task and walked back into the world of only three dimensions, the mundane world in which we earn (and eat) our bread and butter. As I unlocked the door of my lichen encrusted Nissan Bluebird I addressed my companion, "Its OK Jim" I said "you've cracked it. If for nothing else, you'll be remembered for this masterpiece, this work of art - well until they flatten it with a bulldozer".