Tuesday 22nd | Day 0 | Dumfries – Barnstaple | N/A
April Easter holidays. And for me, you know what this means, don’t you? Another trail, of course. Of course! It wasn’t going to be anything else!
The Southwest Coastal Path (SWCP) is a historic trail, created way-back-when for patrolling the coast of England (should I start referencing my random facts?). Probably during the Napoleonic era since France tried to get the British working class to revolt against the monarchy and government, and did so by landing agents in boats at night on the coast of England, equipped with propaganda. Or at least, that is what I have learnt from reading heaps of historical fiction recently, and watching shows like Poldark etc.
Anyyywaaayyss. Yeah, my friend Joel and I wanted to section-hike this bad boy over the coming years. Joel is from this area of England, and had always wanted to do it. However, just in short bursts, not all at once. Which to be fair, makes more sense. Not everyone has two months where they can drop everything and go hiking after all. And then yeah, I wanted to do it because I love long hikes and this part of England is exceptionally beautiful. Majestical.
I had a family holiday in Dumfries and Galloway the Easter weekend beforehand, up in Scotland. And as such, I had to travel the length of the country to get to the starting point and meet Joel in time. Traditionally, the trail is done from Minehead to Poole, anti-clockwise (i.e. +phi direction). It crossed four counties of England. Starting in Somerset, then (north) Devon, then Cornwall, then (south) Devon again before heading into Dorset to finish. Therefore, Joel and I decided to start in Minehead of course, as per. However, due to the absolute pain of getting to Minehead in a single day when coming from Scotland, coupled with where Joel was holidaying with his family, we decided to do the first section backwards. We would meet in Barnstaple (pronounced ‘Barns-tupple’, not ‘Barn-staple’) and head clockwise to Minehead. The rest of the hike would be the traditional +phi direction though, don’t worry. We are still physicists, we aren’t completely mad.
My parents dropped me off in Dumfries where I caught the train south. Inter-rail tickets, wooooo! It was a long ride though. And honestly, after so long on the continent, I forget how kinda bad British trains are… Still, it was a fine train ride, arriving into London Euston only an hour late (!!), handing off my secondary bag of stuff to my other friend named Joel (confusing, I know), before I boosted across to Paddington. I caught an earlier train than the one I was going to take, and arrived into Exeter St David’s just in the nick of time, hopping on to the last train to Barnstaple with sixty seconds to spare. Cutting it fine. The local regional train from Exeter to Barnstaple was honestly just straight up cold. It was raining buckets and a horrible cutting wind for sure, and all the train windows were open. To be fair, this whole train ride was mildly stressful since all the trains were running late. Begs the question, would the British railways be better if all the trains were nationalised, or stayed privatised?
Once in Barnstaple, I walked across town to where I was staying the night. A small attic room that was super cheap. I laid my clothes out beside the radiator to dry and then went to sleep under the eaves. If I rolled over, my shoulders would hit the sloping ceiling, it was that close to me!
Wednesday 23rd | Day 1 | Barnstaple – Woolacombe Beach | 30km
I had most of my food for the trail already. Just what is always in my hiking pack. Oats, the cous, peanut butter, tea… The usual. However, there were a couple things I still needed to buy. As such, I was up at 07:30 and heading to the M&S that was opening at 08:00. Wraps, trail mix, dried fruit, hopefully some milk powder. That sorta stuff.
I finished shopping fairly quickly, but I still needed breakfast. As such, I went wandering aimlessly around Barnstaple looking for a café that was open. And this is how Joel found me. Wandering aimlessly. My natural state of being, I think.
We headed to a café, together with his family, where we sat and had a nice healthy dose of breakfast. Delicious. And tea. Joel is still struggling converting to his gluten-free lifestyle, but it’s working by the looks of it. Just slightly more of a hassle. Still, the UK is fairly good for gluten intolerances, unlike other places in the world. When we finished breakfast, we had a last little shop in town for some cooking gas. Kinda crucial. And then, everything sorted and ready, we headed out to the trail. Lessgo! Since we were not starting at the ‘traditional’ starting point of Minehead, there was no plaque or monument or whatever. Still, there was the Long Bridge (yes, that’s really the name. Imaginative, I know) and the sun was up and shining and the day was heating up. As good a starting place as any.
We headed down from the bridge and started walking along the river, out of town. The sun was warming the day up, and we were in good spirits. Free of responsibilities and with an open trail ahead of us, everything we needed on our backs and our own two feet, what else do two friends need? We spent the next wee while just catching up. Chatting about jobs, life, all the normal stuff, before moving on to more interesting topics. Such as the moral failing of Celebrimbor vs. Boromir in Lord of the Rings (to be fair, I had just read a really interesting article about this on the train the previous day, and so it was still on my mind).
The trail was a long concrete cycle path almost, running alongside the river. There were runners, out sweating in the sun, pacing past us. There were couples strolling with their babies in prams, and there were old people cycling past on bikes. Busy busy. Puddles lay, rapidly drying in the sun. Interestingly, I kept seeing signs for a ‘Tarka trail’. Turns out this is yet another hiking trail in England, and specifically in Devon. ‘Tarka’ is the local name for an otter I believe, of which there are many around. The SWCP and the Tarka trail diverged pretty quickly though.
After a couple of hours, after passing a large military base, we stomped into Braunton, and stopped at the café there for some nourishment. Our goal for this trip was to stop pretty much at every café and bar and just have a wonderful time together. And so, following that idea, we started the trend. Here, due to the heat of the day already, we just got ourselves some cool smoothies. We also met another fellow hiker at this café. Honestly, I love meeting fellow hikers on the trail! His name was Smith and he had the largest, army-issue backpack ever. Probably 100L. And then he had his dog Fenchurch with him. Such a great name. I endorse naming animals after train stations. This is what I would do. Waverley would be my first choice for a pet name for sure. Smith had until the end of June to finish the SWCP. Heaps of time! Smith and Joel collected some stamps of the trail for the Barnstaple/North Devon section in their books, before we decided to push on. After applying some suncream, of course.
OK, gear chat. Since my last trail, the GR20 back in October, I had upgraded my gear. ‘How?’ I may hear you ask. Firstly, new waterproof jacket. I had lost (like an idiot) my Mountain Equipment one. I suspect I left it in a hut in Switzerland. Don’t tell my parents. Secondly, my AtomPack isn’t fully waterproof, only ‘water resistant’ i.e. it isn’t seam-sealed. It can withstand drizzle and the short downpour, but extended rain, water will start seeping in. Therefore, I had bought some ultralight pack liners (read: plastic bin bags). Next, I had bought a Peak Designs camera clip to carry my film camera. And then the last big change, I had got a sun hoody. Oof. I had always preferred the idea of a long-sleeved collared shirt for hiking, but I wanted to try one out since my sister had endorsed them so strongly and so far, Flora is very correct, they are pretty awesome for sun protection!
Leaving Braunton we started heading through cultured wilderness. Like, there is not true ‘wilderness’ this far south in England. Not like there is in the very north of Scotland, or in the ‘Stans, or in Alaska etc. We followed the river Taw out of town, and then emerged up onto a grassy ridge, running alongside a country road to our right, and tidal flats and beaches to our left. We also saw something, as shown in Fig.1. The tidal flats immediately to our left looked like they had fields and buildings in them. And on the far side, there is another grassy ridge. Well, we met some birdwatchers who imparted their knowledge on us on what had happened. Apparently, a part of this far grassy bank had collapsed during the pandemic in 2020, and the sea had swept in through the breach (flashbacks to Helms Deep), flooding all the fields from here to there. Several acres for sure. Heaps of farmers must have lost massive amounts of land, and as such, income. Man, being a farmer must be rough. It was quite a revelation though, and what struck me is how fast the land had changed. I mean, it was already a lot of sand with the derelict remains of fences, walls and buildings scattered across this tidal plane, and that far grassy bank ridge thing will be gone before long.
We thanked the birdwatchers, who told us to keep an eye out for Whitethroats in the Burrows – a large dune system that the trail takes us through on the way to Saunton. However, shortly after leaving them, we decided to veer off course and head onto Saunton Sands themselves and do a nice ol’ beach walk up to Saunton, instead of through the Burrows. We passed beached (literally) boats on the low tide, before we crossed the Neck, rounded Crow Point and pointed ourselves north and set off, pounding sand. The wind swept across us from the west and the sand was hard beneath our feet, making easy progress. I got a lot of flashbacks of hiking the Northland east coast with the sea to my left and heading down beaches. Man, am I going to compare everything to the TA? No bad thing, just curious.
It was approaching lunchtime and we had covered a good number of kms so far, about 14km. We spotted an abandoned pier over by the dunes which looked ideal for a lunch spot. Therefore, we deviated from the hard sand, across this soft sandy stretch, and set our packs down in a small shady spot under the red brick of this little ruin. Mangare! Joel’s strategy for his GF (gluten free, not girlfriend) food for the trail was just constant snacking I think, but he had got some GF pita breads and some boiled eggs and tuna and stuff, which all looked well mean!
Lunchtime over, we packed up, and headed up the beach once more. Long, wide and flat, this was a little bit of a slog I won’t lie. 6km doesn’t seem long, but on sand, it can go on you know? However, we got to the end and emerged into Saunton. What was in Saunton? Turns out, surf lessons, ice cream shops and a large hotel. That was it seemingly! We stopped for said ice cream and I tried out a wheelchair with massive inflated tires. Bouncy. After this, we finally had our first uphill stretch. Always love a good uphill stretch.
We passed the magnificent and classical English seafront hotel, and then continued along seaside trails, gorse on both sides and the sea spreading out around us. The road ran below us but we couldn’t see it at all, until we descended and had to cross it as we headed to Croyde Bay. We passed this really wicked cool looking house too. A circular turret, facing out to sea with glass walls, the rest of the building painted white. We had spied it when we first set foot on Saunton Sands, but I will say, now that we were up close, it didn’t look so impressive. I never think white paint looks good close up…
We passed onto Croyde beach which we crossed. We dodged families out playing beach cricket, frisbee, some dogs running about, kids charging into the sea and the occasional sand castle construction works. It was chock-a-block full! Sidenote, I think the British navy must be responsible for the most number of sayings in English, I swear. I mean, chock-a-block, toe the line, turn a blind eye, learn the ropes… SO so so many of our sayings have their origin here!
We passed out of Croyde Bay and emerged onto windswept Baggy Point. We were aiming for the other side of this headland for camp tonight. Somewhere around Woolacombe Beach, or beyond. We had done about 25km at this point, and the day was passing through tea time and towards dinner time. So maybe another hour of walking. Baggy Point was well cool though. Windswept, we traversed these cliffs and rounds the point where crashing waves were making themselves known to us. We spied two climbers roped up on a slab, with nothing but the swirling sea below them. It looked kinda epic. I do understand the appeal of climbing, I just have zero upper body strength, only strength in the legs really!
Round the point, we walked along the top of gentle cliff tops, traversing fields. I also came across a wicked cool fact. During WW2, they used these cliffs as practice for when they assaulted Pointe du Hoc in Normandy on D-Day from the sea. Because apparently that’s a thing that happened. I straight up assumed if there was a sea cliff, you should generally not assault the enemy here. Still, look at that, I learnt something. We traversed these cliffs, rich in military history, old abandoned bunkers along the ridgeline, with the sound of crashing waves. Looking north, we saw Woolacombe Sands stretch to Morte Point, Woolacombe itself nestled in a fold in the land.
We dropped down from these cliffs to Putsborough where we got ourselves some tea (and Joel found some excellent GF snacks). During this tea break, we settled on camping in the dunes above the beach that night. Morte Point could wait until the morning. Therefore, once we were finished, we made our way down onto the beach once more, the salt air so familiar to us now, and headed on north, leaving footprint behind us.
We eventually spied a place where we could access the dunes, and we headed up to them. They were solid dunes, a lot of sandy but solid soil everywhere. It was kinda that boundary between a field and sand. Very solid, lots of stones too. We found a place where we could pitch a tent. There were a number of, shall we say, responsibility questions surrounding what we were doing. Firstly, wild camping is banned in England. However, along this trail, it is fairly accepted, as long as it is responsibly done and you follow the principle rules of wild camping. That is, Leave No Trace and nowhere which would detrimentally affect the local environment. That’s why camping on these dunes seemed OK to me, since they weren’t sand dunes, but rather still grass and dirt hills, that just happened to be close to the beach.
We pitched up quite late, just as the sun was setting. There was no one in sight, and my dark green tent that we were sharing, I doubted that anyone would be able to see it from far off. We made our dinners to the tune of crashing waves and tweeting of birds amongst the dunes, and then climbed into the tent to settle down for the night.
Thursday 24th | Day 2 | Woolacombe Beach – Combe Martin | 31km
We rose early and packed the tent away early. I think we were a little nervous about anyone seeing us wild camping since it was still illegal, despite it being kinda accepted in this area of England. We had our breakfast, and then set off by 07:15. We followed the dunes along, in the shade of the hillside above us, the sky pink just ahead of us.
Arriving into Woolacombe, we were dying to have a cup of tea and maybe some other nosh. However, everything was closed until, like, 09:00 and we weren’t gonna hang around until then. We had places to be! Instead, we collected some water in the public bathrooms. I do wonder about places like this with multiple cafés. Like, do they all sign a collective agreement to open at the same time. Because you could easily have a café that opens well early for people like us, or for construction workers, or for people heading out to sea for an early morning surf/swim etc. I mean, 09:00 is quite late in spring/summer…
However, with no café or tea for us, we turned and headed out of town and back to the coast. Next stop? Morte Point. And then on to Ilfracombe. And then to Combe Martin. That was our objective for the day. We followed the road north and out of Woolacombe. We rounded a corner and came to a small inlet where the suburb/separate town of Mortehoe was situated. Now, I suspect that Mortehoe was a place for the wealthy and as such, they did not want hikers heading along the beach front, coastal road past their pretty houses since the track was diverted up the back and over a massive hill (for England) behind Mortehoe, before it circled back and dropped down onto the same road we left a km before. Basically, we did three-quarters of a circle to avoid walking past some houses…
Catching our breaths after this unnecessary and large uphill climb, we started out again along to Morte Point, leaving Mortehoe behind us. It was warm enough for sure. The sun was also up and shining on us. It was going to be a warm day I suspect. We were passed by an early morning runner who was making his way back from Morte Point. He stopped for a moment to talk to us, saying that there was a small herd of seals out on the point, and below on the rocks. That would be cool to see! We continued along. It was a good thing that we did not push too hard yesterday to make it to here, there was absolutely nowhere to camp, it was super craggy and on a massive slope at all points. Cliffs dropped dramatically into the sea where white frothy waves greeted them with loud crashes. We saw no seals.
From Morte Point, we would traverse the tops of these cliffs all the way to Bull Point, the point where we would turn from a general northly direction to a generally eastly direction, along the top of North Devon and to Minehead. Easy, right?
We stopped part way between Morte Point and Bull Point, on a convenient bench that was situated to look over these magnificent cliffs, in order to make a cup of tea. Joel also revealed that he had been carrying some (GF) Simnel cake, and so we also ate this in this wonderfully fresh sea breeze, with the sea crashing down below our feet and a cup of tea in our hands. Life is honestly so good when it is boiled down to these basics.
Packing up a while later, we moved on. We crossed some fields, along some boardwalks and down some steep stairs through the gorse, where National Trust workers were working to fix said stairs. I think that would be a really cool job to get involved in and volunteer for, if I ever live in an area like that. I mean, I would also absolutely love to live beside a trail and have a little hiker café where I had home baked goods at all times of day for hikers along said trail. Wouldn’t that be epic?
We passed the lighthouse at Bull Point and then passed an absolutely beautiful bench. It sat there in the middle of the frame, the cliffs of Northern Devon stretching out. The sea on the left, the land rising up on the right. Coves and headlands taunting us. I think I may have heard a little groan from Joel at the amount of hills we had left to do… Haha, no, I tease.
From here, we had a big drop down into a small town/village called Lee. I always wonder why places beside the sea are always variations on the same theme, and one of those themes was Lee. Is it because it was situated on the lee shore? Another trend here was that everything was called ‘combe’. But that’s a local dialect thing I believe. Only in Southwest England.
Lee was nice though. We passed quickly through it (there was no pub, bar or café), and then headed up. And when I say ‘up’, I kinda mean vertically up. Or at least, that’s how it felt. Like, this road was ridiculous how steep it was. It just. Kept. Going. Joel and I actually had a discussion after the end of the trail. Like, both Minehead and Barnstaple (our termini) were at sea level, so no matter which way we had done this section, we would have climbed the exact same amount of elevation. The difference would have come in the gradient though, and this hill up from Lee may have been the steepest of the lot. And therefore, going from Minehead to Barnstaple may have been preferred so no one had to climb this ridiculous hill!
Eventually, eventually!.. we reached the top and shortly collapsed. We tricked ourselves by calling it a sun cream break… But really it was to catch our breath and give our muscles a little break. Ironically, the top of this hill was called ‘Flat Point’. Rude.
From here, the trail continued through some fields, gently undulating along the cliff tops, before descending down into Ilfracombe, the largest town en route. And it was approaching lunchtime. This meant, naturally, that we could one hundred percent grab a cooked lunch in town. Winning! We wound our way down from the hill overlooking Ilfracombe and emerged onto a road that led us directly down to the waterfront. We followed this round to the harbour, and then made our diversion, heading up to the main street. In front of the public library, we found a wonderful, small café called Kiki’s. Whilst Joel went in to get us a table, I ran down to the little Morrisons to grab some food that I was lacking. Small resupply. There was this lady ahead of me in the queue who bought an absolute mad amount of lottery tickets. The lottery is always an intriguing thing to me. Like… you’re voluntarily spending money on a one-in-a- [Perm(49, 6) = ] 10,068,347,520 chance… I think the idea that someone does win though is what keeps people hooked. When I got back to Joel, we sat down and started ordering food.
Now, Kiki’s café was an absolute experience. It was a tiny little closet of a café with about three tables for customers, fake bookshelves, different jarring colours on all the walls and about two other customers. Most of the space was taken up by the café counter where tea, coffee and food was made. And then, beside this, was a drinks area. We chatted to the owners (Becky and Vicky, hence it’s name Kiki’s) and they had wanted to run it as a sort of cross between a café and a bar. One of them ran it as a café, the other ran it as a bar. Both the owners were there, so we happily got served our English cooked meal (beans, 2x eggs, (veggie) sausages, 2x tomatoes, 2x toast etc.) along with gin and tonics (don’t judge, we were two mates on holiday) and coke… And all for the price of £11!! Well, as it turns out, Vicky and Becky were going out of business, and as Joel and I remarked later, it was no wonder when they were charging only £11 for all of that food and drink!
Feeling well chuffed with our bargain and stuffed up with food and drink again, we left Ilfracombe behind and went to find the trail out of town once more. Once more into the east. Warming up is always an interesting task after spending some time sitting down. All our joints felt a little bruised after such a long morning. We had done 18km so far. We had about another 10km to get to Combe Martin, our objective for the day. At the harbour, we saw the infamous Verity statue (seriously, look it up. I am not sure what I think about it…). There were also school kids learning how to wild swim safely, as well as a section of the local Sea Scouts helping the harbour master move boats and nets and stuff. Local, cool stuff. I do love the idea of these youth groups like the Scouts and the Boys Brigade and Brownies, where families come together to create a more connected community, as well as kids learning vital life skills. It is the community aspect though that really grips me for some reason. I feel that in this increasingly global and online world, local community is dying out. But a local community is absolutely essential, it’s what humanity and civilisation has been built on for the last ten thousand years. But this current global and online society erodes the local community and allows isolation to be an easier state of being. Sad really. No wonder levels of loneliness are on the rise, worldwide.
Heading out of Ilfracombe, we walked along some roads, cars whizzing past us. We kept to the pavement and followed the route, up and down, before it headed off road slightly. We could still hear it, way off to our right. We made our way around some headlands, passing another hiker named Steve. He had until 01/06 to get as far as possible (he was hoping to get to Poole by then. Totally doable in my opinion…). He also had an Osprey. Cool guy. He told us to appreciate our parents for putting us through university because his daughter was currently at Plymouth and he was shocked at how expensive it was. Thanks mum and dad. Much appreciated.
Heading round these headlands, we soon emerged into Watermouth Bay. This is where I learnt from Joel that (again) during WW2, they trained for Operation Pluto here. This is where they tested lying underwater cables and pipes across the sea floor from Wales to Watermouth, to get fuel and power across. Because, come D-Day, they needed a way of getting these sorts of resources to their army which was in a land starved of these resources. Fair enough. Pretty hardcore. Honestly, I am just learning how much of the WW2 culture is rooted in the south of England, reminders of it are everywhere.
At Watermouth, there was also a castle which wasn’t actually a castle, just a fancy house that was made to look like one. Now it was an entertainment centre and theme park for families. Always makes me sad for some reason when historical monuments are turned into, what I deem from my naïve point of view, a consumerist and capitalist venture.
Passing Watermouth Castle, we headed through a long stretch of woods until we arrived at the back end of Combe Martin. There were a bunch of caravan parks, one of which Joel’s family were staying at. We passed through one caravan park and on to the next, where they were staying. Spoilers, they weren’t in! Therefore, we dropped down into the village and to the Dolphin Inn where, before long, we met them again. We had literally seen them 36hrs beforehand in Barnstaple when we had breakfast with them before setting off. Now, it was time for some chips (oh yeah!) and some drinks before we set off again. The innkeeper was super kind as well, changing the oil in the deep fat fryers to guarantee that the chips would be gluten-free!
After a really nice time with Joel’s family, and a large amount of carbs, we headed off again. We would see them again no doubt. We were aiming for the big hill outside of town called the Great Hangman. About 2.5km away, solid climbing. As it turns out, it was also incidentally the absolute highest point on the SWCP at a glorious 318m above sea level! Isn’t that mad? Throws my 4000m+ high Alps into a whole different category!
We pushed on up and up. Last push of the day, promise. I was looking for good places to camp. There were some grassy points down low among the gorse, but that meant a large climb the next day, and also sleeping on a slope. But as we approached the top of the hangman, the surrounding area just turned into gorse and dense bush and spikey undergrowth. How were we going to pitch up in this terrain?? Well, the law of wild camping is (which is really just Sod’s or Murphy’s Law in action) that there is always a better spot around the next corner.
Keeping this in mind, we finally got to the top of the Great Hangman at 17:00, and as per the law of wild camping, right beside the cairn, maybe 20m off the path, there was a singular grassy patch amongst this rough environment, ideal for about three tents. This must be no coincidence, this must be cleared on purpose to allow people to wild camp right on the crown of the Great Hangman, surreellly! Delighted with this stroke of luck though (because otherwise, we would have needed to keep going into the evening until we found somewhere suitable enough), we set our packs down immediately and layered up. It was a little windy, but that’s OK. Knowing that it would be very unlikely for anyone to be coming all the way up here late on a Thursday evening, we pitched the tent behind a gorse bush and set up camp, before making dinner in the lee of the tent. There was a ominous orange glow on the horizon to the west where the sun was setting. Additionally, from the cairn at the top of the Great Hangman, we could allegedly see where Joel’s family’s caravan, where they were holidaying in Combe Martin. We waved, just in case they saw two silhouettes on the skyline…
Friday 25th | Day 3 | Combe Martin – Porlock | 43km
Ooooh yeah that was a windy night. A very interrupted sleep as the tent flapped about us, but held very steady for the amount of wind. Hilleberg baby! Windy also meant cold though. Thankfully, we had wrapped up warm, including putting our waterproof jackets around our feet, zipped up.
We were up at 06:30 and packed and ready to go by 07:15. As we packed, an old man with his dog passed us from one of the nearby farms. He just nodded at us. Evidently he was used to coming across people wild camping on top of this hill… I now wonder, does he think of it as ‘his’ hill, you know?
As we dropped down the other side of the Great Hangman, we passed a couple who were doing a dog walk at, like, 07:30 in the morning. There is something in the British culture about people just going out for a walk that I absolutely love. Whenever people are together, whether it is family or friends or colleagues or strangers, one of the first mentioned activity ideas is always ‘let’s go for a walk’! Love it. This couple that we passed though, they recommended a family-run oyster stand at Porlock Weir. That was, like, 40km away. Dunno if we would get that far today, but we said that we would keep it in mind when we passed!
We dropped down from the Great Hangman into a small vale, and then up and out the other side. The morning was grey, a light mist was enveloping the horizon and obscuring the view. The trail led us along cliff tops, steep drops away to our right and the wire fence of a field to our left. It was magnificent, I won’t lie. And wonderfully English. I loved it.
Having cruised along these cliff tops for 10km and roughly two hours, going up and down like a yo-yo, we eventually turned a corner and descended down into another small vale. We crossed paths with a man who, within his first sentence, had started abusing people who wild camped and how he had done his first three days up until here ‘properly’, even walking several miles off trail to find a proper campsite. And then he asked us where we had camped the previous evening. Guiltily, we looked at each other and replied with a vague air ‘Combe Martin’. I don’t think he believed us. We passed him by quickly though, and dropped down and inland towards Hunter’s Inn. Here, we settled down on a picnic bench outside the inn and ordered some tea. There was also a peacock that came strutting by. Magnificent. That was such a good stop as well. And the tea was lovely. Inside this fancy inn, we saw heaps of treats for dogs. Namely, there was a company called Sir Woofington’s (or something along those lines) that sold premium dog treats. Also, at all these ice cream places we had passed so far, we always saw that there was ‘dog ice cream’. Now, once again, I don’t own a pet and never had and so I don’t understand it entirely… But to me that seems a bit over the top, no? Why does your dog need ice cream, or super fancy pampered food? Ignore me though, I am callous when it comes to these things. Maybe one day I will understand.
Setting off again from the Hunter’s Inn, we headed back towards the coast, and uphill. We came across a guy who just looked like the most fun. Namely, he had a guitar strapped to the top of his pack. Wouldn’t that be so awesome to carry a ukulele on the CDT or PCT or something!? I do know only one tune on the ukulele – La Vie en Rose!
At the top of this hill, where we once again reached the cliff tops after a jolly 100m climb, we sat down to strip. The sun had come out in full force and we didn’t need jumpers anymore! Instead, we needed suncream and hats. Having shed clothes and all, and drank a bunch of water (it had seemed like a long climb), we turned eastwards once more and pushed on. Cliffs stretched before us. An almighty and beautiful coastal region. We passed heaps and heaps of Germans heading the other way.
Before long, we dropped down into Woody Bay through some woods (surprise surprise, given the name) where Lee Abbey was situated (there was a moment when we climbed up an embankment through some holly bushes when our navigation failed. We don’t need to dwell on that though. We just shouted ‘Get off the road’ in Frodo’s voice at each other). Now, we had been told that the Tea Cottage at Lee Abbey was something wonderful, so we were looking forward to this. And it was only 4km after the Hunter’s Inn. So, before we knew it, we were walking down a paved road towards where this cottage was situated, ready for another tea break so quickly after our first tea break. Were we worried about trying to crank our kilometres today? Evidently not. Would today turn out to be the biggest day that we would do, and the latest finish?… No comment.
We turned into the tea cottage and sure enough, ‘adorable’ would be the first word that sprang to me. We sat down at a picnic bench and went to order ourselves some food. Double cream tea. One GF for Joel, two for me. And then a pot of tea to share. The man who took my order didn’t quite understand that I wanted two double cream teas all for myself, I think he struggled to understand the concept that someone could be that hungry and willing to eat that much at 10:30 in the morning. He took our order though and we stood chatting to him for a little while. He was German and was volunteering at the tea cottage. It was owned by the Abbey, just up the road, and people who stayed at the abbey or in its association volunteered to work at the tea cottage. So for now, this German gentleman and his family were running the whole thing. When we revealed that I lived in Switzerland, and that Joel used to live in Germany, his whole being lit up and he made fun of the Swiss German accent and was happy to talk to us about a whole host of things. It was great! He also one hundred percent looked like the Toymaker from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang!
Having carbed and fuelled up once more, we heaved our packs on to our shoulders once more, and headed onwards. And naturally, since we were at the bottom of a hill, the immediate thing we started doing was climbing up and out of this bay up another massively steep hill. We passed the abbey on our left and then, when the hill calmed down and we were allowed to walk flat again, we emerged into the Valley of the Rocks. Evidently a popular tourist and family area, there was a car park and lots of families milling about, walking.
We dropped down, and then found the coastal route around the back of the rocks. And this is when some kids appeared from a path above us. They descended down before us, kitted out with massive, overweight backpacks and dressed in an assortment of outdoor gear. The British uniform for Duke of Edinburgh evidently! We followed this group of kids (and their instructor) as they navigated the tricky coastal path (I mean… just stick to the coast, don’t go in land). They stopped at every junction and had a sixty second blather, huddled around a paper map, making sure that ‘yes, we really are still following the coast.’
We walked along these cliff edges, amongst a whole bunch of DofE kids, all the way to Lynton. I wasn’t really conscious that we had entered Lynton since the trail led directly down a cliff and into Lynmouth, the smaller but more touristic seaside town. We zigzagged down this cliff face (RIP knees), crossing and recrossing the ‘mountain’ funicular railway. I do love a good funicular railway. There’s something so simple and wonderful about them. And also, very energy efficient. I asked the driver to smile when I took a photo of him, as the carriage went by. It was a pained smile, like he had been asked now by one too many people. Sorry dude. My bad.
Emerging into Lynmouth, we headed along the main street when, all of a sudden, I saw some familiar faces! Joel’s family just happened to randomly be here! We (read: ‘I’) ran at them and they looked shocked before they smiled and embraced us both again excitedly. They didn’t want to hold us up too long though, so we walked down the high street altogether, before we turned away and headed eastwards once more whilst they turned and continued along the coast, the way we had come from. Lynmouth was nice, by the way. Quaint, English. It would have been wonderful fifty years ago or more, but it’s now kinda getting overrun by tourism, like all these pretty places around the world seem to be.
Lunchtime though. We walked out to the outskirts of Lynmouth where we found a bench and had some food. Wraps and peanut butter and all the delicious dried fruit in the world for me. Joel had his GF food too. Joel’s family apparently were at a pub in Lynmouth and watched from half a kilometre away as we sat there chatting, eating, facing the sea, and the roaring waves, before we then packed up and headed on again. That must be kinda melancholy to see two people you know so well, talking and then leaving, from such a distance, without any interaction. Or maybe I am being melodramatic, I dunno.
From here, the path headed sharply up Countisbury hill for a long long way. A long climb. It started in a wonderful deciduous, old forest hugging the cliffside, trapped between civilised town and the rugged sea. Wild garlic carpeted the ground between the trees and the air was allergic for vampires (gingers). Up this hill, until we emerged out of it and onto a pavement briefly, before it led up on to a more barren hillside. Up ahead of us, we saw those same DofE kids we had overtaken before lunch. This provided us with a competitive spirit and we tried to get to the top of the hill before a bunch of seventeen year olds… Don’t judge us. We figured, if we could do that, then we can’t be that old… We were feeling old after all, we had discussed it for sure.
Well, we did overtake them and get to Foreland Point first. As we overtook them, we chatted to the instructor. They were only heading to some campsite inland, at a farm somewhere. He asked where we were headed and we kinda just shrugged and said Porlock, not wanting to admit that we were planning to wildcamp beforehand. He very much did not believe us, or at least, he did not believe that we could go that far with what was left of the day… He was not the first, nor the last person to doubt us (quote Anakin now: ‘you underestimate [our] power!’). We passed some Dutch hikers heading +phi next, all with Hyperlite packs which were stuffed to the brim with gear. Not exactly Hyperlite then… They also doubted us. And then some English folk. And then a guy who was section hiking the whole way and making a time-lapse of it on a GoPro camera, strapped to his chest. And then some old English gentlemen, out for a stroll along the coastal path over the next several months. Each and every single one of these groups said the same two things: ‘There were no wild camp spots between here and Porlock’ and ‘Oof… That’s far’. Each time, Joel and I would look at each other and feel it as a silent challenge. Again, I must stress, we are not competitive.
Well, nothing like the present. After the last of these groups had passed us, we could really get motoring and not stop every five minutes for a chat with some people. We followed the rolling coastline along, until we dropped down some steep steps, almost to sea level. Here, we came across an honesty café. There is something so wholesome and fulfilling about an honesty café. Joel grabbed some paracetamol for sore knees here as well, knowing that we may be going for some time still. And then, leaving the honesty box behind us, we entered the wood.
This wood stretched the entire length of the coastline, all the way to Porlock. And it felt ancient. I love that feeling. I love the idea of witnessing something so ancient, you are but a blink of an eye for it. Castles and ruins, mountains and forests. These still, silent sentinels that are just so steady and constant. Anyways, we headed along through this forest and let me just describe with one word: ‘cruisy’. We just went. Speed and distance was the name of the game and we were up for it. We came across dog walkers (as ever), but just kept going. The new route of the SWCP passed through an estate, Glenthorn. Firstly, Scottish name. Secondly, I can understand why – it felt like a Scottish estate. There was a trout breeding pool, old forests and something about the land just shouted at me that I had been transported back to Scotland, just briefly.
On and on, through the forest. We were in two minds. We had been told that there were no wild camp spots for this entire way, but then, these people who informed us of this weren’t actively looking for a wild camp spot. So, we figured, from 17:30 onwards, if we saw a suitable wild camp spot off the path and slightly hidden, just shout and we would consider making camp. But the other part of the argument was just ‘full send’ and get to Porlock.
Well, at around 18:00, we came across the most wonderful wild camp spot. I spotted it just as we were heading up a shallow hill, just below us. I dropped my pack with Joel and clambered over fallen trees and tumbledown rocks until I got to the spot. Yep, this is perfect. Flat. Hidden. Sheltered. No dead trees above us. Ideal. I beckoned Joel over, and when he arrived and joined me, we stood and had a conversation. It was indeed a perfect spot, he agreed with me. As Captain Holt would say, vindication. But then, we were only 7.3km from Porlock, and there was meant to be bad weather tomorrow, and we would enjoy a shower…
With these arguments, and the fact that it would be light until late, we decided to continue on. The fact that we had found the perfect spot was enough for me. I still had many kilometres left in my legs for sure. Therefore, we said farewell to our perfect, unused spot, and set off once more. Once more unto the breach. The path to Porlock stayed absolutely cruisy though, we sped along. We passed through Culbone (old Land rover and kirk), and through some old tunnels (mine railways?), and just continued through this wonderful forest. The sky was getting dark above us, but we weren’t worried about rain. That was forecasted for another couple hours yet.
An hour later, we emerged from the forest and descended down into Porlock Weir. We had done it… Nearly. We still needed to head to Porlock proper, where the campsite was. We walked round on the pebbly beach (thanks Charlie 3) and then we happily trundled into Porlock Weir. No oysters for us – too late. The only things that were open were the pubs! But it was very idyllic once more. Thatched roofs and boats drawn up onto the slipway. Well, from here, it was just a walk along the road to Porlock now. Not far to go, just about 3 kilometres… But this was a road walk at the end of a 40+km day, and as such it was a wee bit rough, I won’t lie. I just put my head down and just went. Nothing else for it. Along the road, we had the same taxi pass us back-and-forth six times. Evidently it was a good business to run a taxi service from Porlock to Porlock Weir!
Before long though, just as the sky was darkening once more and it started spitting it down, we walked into Porlock and down to the campsite. We had phoned ahead to book a place (no need in the end – there was masses of space) and so we just walked in and pitched up. It was spot on 19:00. Easy. We would pay in the morning evidently. I think it was a record pitch, by the way, rapid! We chucked our packs into our respective sides of the tent, and then headed to Royal Oak, the nearest pub, where we grabbed some refreshments and a massive bowl of (GF) chips. Mega! There was one slightly drunken patron who just sang Sunshine on Leith over and over again. Just writing about it now makes me start humming it!
Eventually, we headed back to the campsite. It was now fully dark and we needed our headtorches as we made some more food. We also showered (I didn’t have a towel, so I sacrificed my clean shirt) before getting into bed. Joel had a massive tick on him too. Probably from the field we were camped in – we spent a while getting that off of him together. You know, ticks have never worried me but this spring/autumn, all of a sudden, I have seen them everywhere all around me and heard everyone talking about them. Apparently they are flooding Europe at the moment. Yuck. Still, I haven’t found one on me yet! Fingers crossed!
Saturday 26th | Day 4 | Porlock – Minehead | 13km
All night, there had been light rain, but incredibly kindly it stopped as we woke and climbed out of the tent. We stood around, packing up and eating our breakfast. In the morning light, we really saw the rest of the campsite. The majority of the field was taken up by DofE kids. Two different schools evidently, judging from the minibuses. But right beside us were a bunch of tents. The wonkiest, most bent Vango tent I had ever seen, and then a nice Lanshan 1. We spoke to both sets of campers, both of which were doing the SWCP. The wonky Vango couple were just having a caper together down the coast, not really caring about time, money or distance. I respect that so so much. And then the Lanshan 1 lady – Susanne – was hiking the way. Partly as a sort of memorial to her dog Flint who she had spent heaps of time travelling and campervanning with around the Isles.
We were packed and we left camp before all the DofE kids, at around 08:50. We met the owner on our way out, and paid him. He had run this campsite for over 30 years now, and had lived just down the road for his entire life. Isn’t that incredible? Like, the world is so wonderfully global at the moment, it is also nice to know and meet people who have stayed in the same place for the majority of their lives… The probability at least is very slim.
Today, it was easy. Just a hop and a skip to Minehead. All that was in the way Porlock Hill!… Definitely not what Joel was dreading at all. As such, we headed out of town, through small lanes and bridleways until we reached the marsh by the sea, and back onto the trail proper. Skirting the marsh, we arrived into Bossington (Izzy’s town) which was just incredibly idyllic, nestled under Porlock Hill. Again, thatched roofs (rooves?) small streams babbling through the town and lazy apple orchards, hidden by low stone walls. Passing through this town was like passing through another epoch, except for the Tesla chargers installed on the outside of the fifteenth century houses. Thatch is very cool.
We rolled out of Bossington, and then very suddenly, we arrived at the bottom of Porlock Hill. You ready Joel? We turned and headed directly up. Oh yeah, calves were burning. Noice! The weather was cool, with a small sea breeze chilling me as the work heated me up. I charged, I was keen to get to the top. Up, and up, winding our way up some more. We did close to 300m in about 1.5km. And this is why Joel and I had the discussion about if there was a ‘correct’ direction to go, to avoid gravitational gradients such as this one!
I arrived at the top and sat on a bench as the fog and clouds swirled around me. The air was still, with only the occasional gust of wind. And there was lots of bird song too, coming from the gorse bushes from all around us. Joel joined me, and we sat in silence, recovering, observing this wonderful world. Listening to nature. After five or ten minutes or so, we looked at each other and without a word, we nodded, stood up and headed back to the path.
We slowly made our way along the top of Porlock Hill, which was now acting as a quasi-plateau (again, I always substitute ‘quasi-‘ for ‘kind-of-‘ full of gentle rolling hills. We walked along, slowly heading towards Selworthy Beacon. It was easy going, we had just done all the work getting up here, everything is easy compared to that. Empty paths spread out before us. Mist all around us. It was really quite incredible.
Towards the backend of Porlock Hill, we eventually started bumping into people. Lots of day hikers and trail runners mainly. And of course, dog walkers. Specifically, we met two people who had two of the world’s smallest dogs who were headed all the way to Porlock. They had just started section hiking the SWCP too. I could only think of one phrase, ‘good luck, with dogs that size!’
We fell down the other side of Porlock Hill, and arrived onto a nice path that led straight into Minehead. Not far now! Also, neither us had decked it so far for the last three and a bit days. That is an achievement in and of itself! The path led us through a park, full of cow parsley, before we arrived into Minehead. We followed the waterfront promenade around until, all of a sudden, there we were. The trailhead of the SWCP. We had done it, the first section of the trail. Nicely done.
We posed for some photos in front of it, before we headed into town. Food was the main objective of the day. I bought the most amazing English Breakfast that I had for brunch/lunch. No regrets. And just to make sure, I also got some double cream teas. Delicious!
We caught the 13:42 bus to Taunton. It ran along the side of the Quantum Quantock Hills. I want to do a thru-hike of the Quantock Hills one day too. I am reading a series called something like ‘Sisters of the Quantock Hills’ and honestly, that is all the motivation I need. I also observed the most wonderfully whimsical, granola-vibe thing too. A couple got on the bus having been in the Quantock Hills gathering wild flowers, and now they were headed back to London. Could you imagine coming all this way for wild flowers? I love that vibe so much. Joel and I proceeded by train from Taunton to Portsmouth. First section done, heaps easy. Time to organise the second section hike for later this year/next year. I am stoked. I honestly cannot wait.
But for now, onto the next adventure.