Day 7. Instow to Westward Ho! 09/05/24
After a restless night in Westward Ho with far too much thinking and not enough sleeping happening, Dad helped me strap my feet up for the final day of this stretch. With plenty of padding and some tubi-grip we managed to get my feet into semi-serviceable condition, I laced up my knackered old boots and hopped in the car for a short lift back across the river to Instow with Dad.
Starting on the Quay as shopkeepers were unlocking and having their morning coffee, a thin layer of wispy cloud was doing it’s best to spoil the reflection of the sky into the gentle sea as I burst out of Instow. Quickly past the yacht club and up a tarmac path along the old railway line, desperate to get away from humanity and into the merciful arms of a morning smoke. Today’s pack consisted of six pint cans of numbers (1664 for the uninitiated), a large bottle of water, two Oreo grenade bars, roughly a half ounce of assorted flowers, and a whole load of grief.
Today was the second day of the Grief Double-Whammy, six years since the world lost Scott Hutchison, one of the gentlest, tenderest humans to ever grace this planet. He was too pure for this earth and although I’ll never follow his example, I empathise with his struggle, trying to live a gentle, kind, simple life in this day and age is far harder than it should be. His music echoed in my head and I remember how blessed I am to have been in his orbit, however briefly.
I soon realised that most of today’s walk was going to be up and down a river on a tarmac path again and I had to dig in mentally and ignore what this meant for my feet, stopping to take a few photos of the new bridge at Bideford, that I’d driven over about an hour previously, reaching the two mile mark as I crossed the old bridge, stopping again for some photos, bloody hell I’m a bridge nerd and at this point in my life I’m not even going to fight it.
I stomped through the bottom of Bideford, swearing under my breath as I walked past 2 off-licenses, having dragged 6 untouched, quickly-warming pint cans of beer for nearly 3 miles, as soon as I got out of the centre I opened a can and skulled it off in short order, tonic for the foot pain, tonic for the overworked brain. As I wandered along the side of the river, odd bits and bobs caught my attention but it was another largely uninspiring stretch, evidenced by the fact that I got lost in a housing estate trying to pick the path back up, complete with the prerequisite dog shit covered narrow lane out on to a bloody….. road! I had to open another can.
After a little nose at the shipbuilding place at Appledore, I was elated to see the dunes and dry grasses of Northam Burrows, and the sea swinging around back in to view. Finally something that feels like the Coast Path.
Apart from a few sea fishermen and the odd dog walker it was quiet and I settled on to a sea-weathered old bench surrounded by giant pebbles and allowed the thoughts to come back;
“Why the fuck do you feel so sad about the death of a musician that you only met 3 times, and all of them added up to about 4 hours in total?”
It’s a question I couldn’t readily answer as I wrote on some pebbles with a sharpie and left them on the shore. Scott had a complicated relationship with The Drop. He lost his battle with The Drop late one night over the Forth Road Bridge and the world was never the same again.
I went and sat back on the bench and had two more cans and a smoke that dissipated high into the Northerly wind, lifting the smell away towards the sea and making me feel less of a menace.
I walked the last mile and a half across the golden sand, up the slipway into the old-school seaside resort of Westward Ho! (it actually is written with the ! and is the only place in the UK with that punctuation in it).
There was a guy drilling some fake rigging on to the fake mast at the adventure golf, the arcade was open but empty, the town was slowly waking up for the summer season. I popped in to the gift shop and got a fridge magnet for Charlie’s family and then collapsed into the passenger seat of the car, steam coming off my tenderised-meat feet as I took off my boots, I was glad I’d got this horrible boring stretch into the rear view and was on my way home.
**Please, to anyone struggling, however big or small your worries feel, it is important that you talk about them. Resources are available online, if you need someone to speak to now, dial 116 123 for the Samaritans. If you are in immediate danger or crisis phone 999. I want you to be here, whoever you are, and I’m not the only one, there are so many others that want you to be here, even if you don’t feel like it right now.**
Day 8: Westward Ho! to Clovelly. 24/05/24
I had the privilege of bringing my best mate of 25 years, the man I call brother, Charlie Graz along with me on this 2-day trip and we were on the road early, heading for our digs for the night, a lovely country pub in a tiny village, I’d booked it specifically because it was halfway between our start and end point for the day and was on a bus route. A smooth drive with minimal traffic or fuckery meant that we were at the accommodation by about 10.30am, parked and ready for the bus, which we waited for, and waited for. The bus wasn’t forthcoming. I’d say it was operating on Cornish time but we were still in fucking Devon. With time dwindling away to get moving I caved and called a taxi that dropped us off right outside a little convenience store. 4 pint cans of lager each and precious little else were placed into our bags and we were away along the low cliff edge, past the long mural of a selection of verses from Rudyard Kipling’s sublime poem ‘If’, and straight into a path closure.
This was funny because on the way down I’d been saying to Charlie how this stretch should be pretty straight-forward because there’s no path closures or diversions. The eroding soil between the old derelict hotel and the beach had other designs though so we were sent up a small road section and within 500 yards had joined back up with the path in a car park packed with dog walkers.
Free car parking is sparse along the path especially in more popular tourist areas so the dog walkers were like moths to a flame. I’d come to know when I was reaching a town or bay as about a mile before I’d start to see what I’ve come to call TLC; tissues, litter, and crap. Loads and loads of dog crap. Most handily bagged up and then thrown in the hedge anyway. Reason 9876 of why humanity is fucking doomed as a species.
The first couple miles out through Abbotsham were lovely and it was above the beach here that Graz stopped to do the first Brucey of the trip. For those who don’t know, a Brucey is when someone does the classic Bruce Forsyth strongman pose in an interesting or risky spot. We took quite a few on a little outcrop and then realised a couple were having an engagement photoshoot down on the beach and have a high risk of having Charlie Graz doing a Brucey in the background.
As we got down to the bay before Fairy Cross it was a beautiful early summer’s day and I managed to be convinced to walk into the sea a little bit, so I unlaced the boots and got in up to my knees, not really being very keen on the idea at first but I got into it. The sea is too strong and powerful and scary for me so I’m usually happy to watch from afar but as the gentle waves lapped over my knees I felt awesome.
Shoes back on and away through Fairy Cross I began to have the feeling that Charlie didn’t believe me about how hard the path can be, but we quickly came down into the bay at Peppercombe and then the path really started to kick and wriggle. Several hills and rocky inclines later the beer supplies were burnt through and I had to start looking on the map for a shop, there was a shop at a holiday camp about half a mile inland, so we turned off the path and up a never ending hill along the edge of Steart Woods. The map showed the shop inside the Bar/Restaurant at the holiday park but we couldn’t locate it, so we just had a pint from the bar instead.
Time was running on so, bereft of any takeaway beers we rounded the corner from the bar, about 50 yards away was the bloody shop. Without wanting any more fucking about we got another 4 cans each and found a little shortcut from the holiday camp back down to the path.
It was fairly easy going from here through the woods and on to the Hobby Drive, the long, mainly-cobbled, old road into Clovelly.
I was looking nervously at the clock knowing the last bus out of Clovelly was at 7pm, so we really had to put the burners on and pace through the last bit, I was convinced we’d left it too late but Charlie’s sense of optimism got us through and we got in to the Clovelly Visitor’s Centre with a handful of minutes to spare.
The bus had a request stop right outside the pub we were staying at, so by 8pm we were in showered and back down in the bar for some great food and a few more beers. Graz had enjoyed his day so I felt like I hadn’t sold him a lemon, the place wasn’t very lively so we turned in ready for an early start from Clovelly in the morning.
Day 9 - Clovelly to Hartland Quay. 25/05/24
After leaving the hotel reasonably early after a decent breakfast we arrived at the visitor’s centre at Clovelly around 9am, I was driving home in the evening so wanted to get finished mid afternoon and be on the road before the rush hour. This was my first day on the path so far where I couldn’t get smashed and had to make do with 2 cans and a good lunch. Clovelly has an entrance fee but neither of us had any interest in going down the hill to see the tiny houses so we paid a discounted rate of £7.50 to park the car and were given an orange wristband to wear so the people guarding the entrance to the village knew we weren’t welcome.
We were serious speedsters out of Clovelly and on to the cliffs above, past the incredibly beautiful Angel’s Wings Shelter with its ornate wood carvings and breathtaking views back down to the sea, and over the peak in seriously impressive time.
There are some real trademark South West Coast Path features along this stretch and it is a real good taster session for anyone wanting to just do a bit and see what it’s all about. The first of these features is the ‘descent into a bay, over a tiny river and straight back to the cliffs above’ and trust me there’s fucking LOADS of these all along the North coast section.
Mouthmill Beach was the first of these today , but there was another absolute bastard straight after complete with another Coast Path staple ‘the never ending zig zag path up a hill’ finally giving way to some lush open field walking on reasonably flat ground.
The weather was forecast to rain but was really treating us so far today so we were in good spirits stomping across Titchberry with Hartland Point’s cock-shaped radar station in the distance providing a good waymarker to aim for, and with no valleys in the way we were round Hartland Point and descending towards a little Cafe with some outside seating.
We stopped and chatted to a man in full hiking gear who told us it had taken him two and a half hours to get from Hartland Quay, I knew the really difficult part of today’s walk was loaded into the the last 3 miles but I didn’t believe it would take us that long. We got moving anyway, hoping that we would still slide in on time for a mid-afternoon drive home.
As we walked hill after hill with difficult rocky underfoot conditions my mind raced ahead to the next section. Considered by many as the hardest day of the path, I thought today had been difficult and it’s been 2 grades below on the Coast Path Association severity rating!
Time was slipping away from us with every steep climb. Just as I thought we had one more valley left the path took us around the top of the cliff instead, through some lush green fields with some soft underfooting. Just as a light rain came in we were in to Hartland Quay, above the hotel and I finally managed to get some signal to check the bus times back.
There are no buses from Hartland Quay. My lack of foresight had fucked us, already behind schedule and now facing a mile and a half walk up a hill along a road back inland to the village. Bugger.
The road up towards Hartland was gridlocked with cars and our spirits were lifted by just weaving through the stationary cars and making good progress through the lush green wooded lane, we got to the Abbey and saw what the hold up was. A massive glitzy silver TV production lorry stuck in a three point turn outside Hartland Abbey. They film a TV version of Enid Blyton’s Mallory Towers there apparently.
As we got to Hartland it started to rain pretty heavily so we made a stomp for the Bus stop, a lovely little shelter opposite the pub, I looked at the timetable and there wasn’t a bus for another hour. Looks like a late trip home tonight then, we made for the shelter of the pub.
After a short bus ride we were back at Clovelly and into the car for about 7pm. On the ride home I could sense an impatience in Charlie, understandable as he has a partner, and three lovely wonderful kids at home who are the light of his life. He wasn’t going to be home in time for the girls to go to bed for the second night in a row and I could tell it was weighing on him heavily. As we got closer you could see the life come back into him as he was going back to his girls.
I didn’t feel like that, I could stay on the path forever.
It bothered me for a few days after whether I should put in more effort to get back into the dating scene, but I came to realise that this was what this whole thing was about. Becoming comfortable alone and working on parts of myself, introspection, and challenge.
I’m not ready to give parts of myself away yet, not when I’ve worked so hard to get them back.
There’s more work to be done, and it starts at Hartland Quay to Bude.
