The Smoke Path - Part Three.

The night’s accommodation was my first without a breakfast included and my pack was a bit depleted after overindulging on Flapjack during the Morte Point stretch. I had two-thirds of a bottle of water and little else as I left Dad at the hotel and took the short stroll back towards the path. I’d seen Saunton on the map and was sure that it looked big enough to have a shop where I could resupply on beer and junk food. Due to only walking the half day to Ilfracombe on the first trip I had to choose a day to ‘go long’ and walk more miles to get back on to the official 52 day itinerary. Today was that day. I needed to do at least 20 miles. 

Day 6 - Croyde Bay to Instow. 07/05/24

The walk for today starts on the small headland at the end of Croyde Bay, the first notable feature is Chesil Cliff House, often called ‘The Lighthouse’, a huge white blot on the landscape that is internationally famous after it’s construction was featured on the TV show Grand Designs. 

The man who conceived it became obsessed with it even after development costs skyrocketed and the project hit many costly setbacks. His family unit broke down and he lost his wife and bankrupted himself. An important reality check on the nature of obsession as I felt myself and my recovery becoming intrinsically linked with the path and every single step here and beyond.

The house was on the market for ages for 10 million quid and (as of 4th May 2024) will now set you back £5.25m. If I was paying that money I wouldn’t want sweaty ramblers being able to look straight over a wall into my lounge. The poor thing looks like it needs a good pressure wash as the rusted gutter fixings are sending orange streaks down the length of the sea-facing wall, the cliff below it is hanging by its fingertips, plus I think the whole thing is cursed. Who the hell would buy it?

Walking above and parallel to the Coast Road towards Saunton through narrow overgrown hedges I remembered I hadn’t put my tick spray on. I used the rest of the can on the bottoms of my legs and around my socks and cuffs, and prayed the little bastards wouldn’t find me tasty today. 

Crossing the road to the massive white-washed Saunton Sands hotel and around the back I decided to double check if there was actually a shop nearby; negative, nope, nada. I circled around the hotel and behind it to a car park, it was 8.25am and none of the tourist bait cafes had opened yet, the sun had started to beat down, I looked at the amount of water in my bottle, it was becoming clear I may need to ration it for a while.

As I pushed up the tarmac road out of the car park a portal to another dimension opened up on the bottom of my right foot, a sharp stinging pain, a burst blister just one and a half miles into todays planned twenty.

After being rudely turned away before I’d even got down a third of the driveway for Saunton Golf Club where I was going to see if they’d sell me a can of coke, I settled in on the packed sand path around the side of the golf course. I’m usually pretty good with getting out of the way of people when I smoke, but after the interaction with the asshole groundskeeper I made the fattest, smelliest one possible and walked as close to every group of golfers as I could. 

The next two or three miles were the first example I’d come across of where it felt like they’d ’padded out’ the path, this stretch was very boring and narrow with high trees on either side without any sea view, and without any beer as a livener I started to lose interest.

After another half mile of private road I came upon a car park with a small booth for collecting parking fare. The polite and friendly fella in there had set up a really rudimentary little cafe where he sold drinks and pot noodles and a couple cakes. I gave him £10 for three bottles of water and two cans of tropical Rio, the first bottle of water evaporated down my gullet in one long swig, reviving me from the drudgery of the last stretch, the other two filled my bottle back to the top. Not beer, but it’ll do. After a nice chat with the cafe/parking chap I was back on the path.

As I rounded the next corner I was shocked to see a group of men in full Army fatigues, with oiled faces and machine guns, there was a sign saying that this was an active military range but I didn’t expect to see it all in action. As I went further through the Sand Dunes of Braunton Burrows I saw several other small groups hidden away. The first group I saw had to scour and clear the dunes of the other groups, it looked like a lot of fun, although it was now about 11am and the sun was directly above, I didn’t envy them in full uniform with no shade.

The blister had blurred in with the rest of the general foot pain now so I decided to try to get a shift on into Braunton where there was definitely a Tesco. I walked for a short while, a chinook helicopter flying low to indicate the start of the manoeuvres for the troops behind me, along the sand of the estuary until a dog bounded up  for some loving and shortly after I saw the owners, two retired gents called Gary and Alan. They were doing a through hike of the path in one go (with Daisy the dog) to raise money for Macmillan and Pancreatic Cancer UK. We walked together into Braunton, they listened to my story and I listened to theirs, we shared some tender tales of what brought us to the path at very different stages of our lives, what had gone before and what was still to come. I respect them both incredibly along with their partners who are travelling along with them in a Camper Van and probably triaging swollen feet and empty stomachs. As I was writing this (a few weeks later) I found out yesterday they have just reached Lands End, a magnificent achievement, and I truly hope they make it the whole way. I’ll fish out their gofundme link and put it at the bottom.

Tesco didn’t have cold beer but that didn’t matter, eight cans of lukewarm Stella were added to the pack weight and the path headed back out of Braunton along the River Taw on a shared cycle path that runs behind the Royal Marine base at Chivenor.

I’m going to struggle to write much about the next stretch as it was just avoiding bikes on a tarmac surface, drinking warm Stella in the baking heat for 14 miles. The path ran along the estuary to the new bridge at Barnstaple, over the bridge and back down the other side. I was in incredible spirits though as I merrily meandered my way past a never ending series of broken boats stranded at the edge of the muddy Taw Estuary. Plenty of beer, bud and blisters and I was in a catatonic stupor as I headed into Instow. Despite wearing my veteran walking boots the constant impact of the tarmac had shredded my feet and crept into my muscles and bones. 

People had told me that compared to what comes before and after that this leg would feel quite dull and boring. They were right to some extent but there was still a lot to see and a lot of wildlife to keep me engaged and moving. There is nothing that will make me fall out of love with this path.

With 21.5 miles done for the day we retreated to the Premier Inn at Barnstaple, which mercifully had an on-site restaurant so I didn’t have to walk anywhere. My calves felt like canvas satchels full of smashed shells and my feet felt like they’d been bludgeoned by a team of angry goblins wielding hamburger mallets. 

There was one of the most attention-seeking narcissistic gobshites I’d ever met in the chain restaurant attached to the hotel that evening, acting like it was the first time he’d ever been let out in public. He was annoying me so much I could barely eat my food. Not that I could get up and do much about it with my legs on red health.

I stood up at the end of the meal and both of my knees and shins screeched at me at once, so much that I didn’t feel the blisters. I was impressed with my level of fitness and progress through the day but perhaps I should have told my muscles what the plan was in advance. I could hardly stand straight as I limped along with Dad back to the room. This was unlike anything I’d felt on any walk before. I was

Fucked.

Wednesday 8th May 2024 

When I woke up in the morning and headed to the loo the backs of my legs and soles of my feet were still not in serviceable condition so I decided early in the morning that I wasn’t going to walk today and instead just do one more stretch tomorrow. This meant that we had to stay at Westward Ho! tonight and I’d go back to Instow tomorrow and walk back here. It also meant that I’d miss out on one full day of walking on this trip but I just couldn’t force it. 

It was a pain in the ass but far outweighed by the pain in my calves.

Today was the Day that had been gently sitting in the rear view of my psyche for a couple of weeks now. Five years today since my entire reason for existing pulled up her stumps and left me here alone.

Me and Dad went to some shopping places. I bought a pair of size thirteen slip-on shoes to relieve my swollen feet. We headed for the beach at Westward Ho and sat for a while, Dad was amazing and walked up and back over a huge pebble bank, I was in shock, we gad a great time, I really needed his company today and I could tell he needed mine. We got through it together.

Heading back to the accommodation we followed the comprehensive booking dot com directions to our digs for the night. A lovely self contained annex at the back of a property with it’s own driveway, a large balcony area for drinking and a fantastic sea view.

I rung the owner to let her know we were here, 

she couldn’t see us.

We were parked on the driveway of a completely different place from where we were staying. I was sat on their patio furniture. We turned the car around and buggered off before someone called the law.

Either way, just around the corner; self contained annex, own driveway, large balcony, fantastic sea view, eventually we were in the property that we’d booked. You could see how we’d got it mixed up.

They had one of those foot baths in the property and left me a pair of foot bags full of tea tree oil and other good stuff. I spoilt my feet and then headed to bed.

Drifting off I thought about mum again and everything we’d been through together. I was so incredibly lucky that she’d stuck around as long as she had. I was so lucky that she was my mum. 

“I’ve been with you such a long time,

You’re my sunshine

And I want you to know that my feelings are true,

I really love you.

Oh, you’re my best friend”

The Smoke Path - Part Two

The same evening that I got home from Ilfracombe I was looking at the next stretch. Pricing up hotels and working out when I could best use my annual leave. The plan was to go at the end of May Bank Holiday, but the obsession with the path was just too total, too complete. I couldn’t wait. Dad had been saying that he needed a little break so instead of dropping me down we decided I’d walk through the days and meet Dad at the end of the day for some food and beers and we’d split the cost of the accommodation. Doing the walk for cheaper? Music to my ears. 

This also meant that I wouldn’t have to carry the big pack every day with me, just a backpack that I could resupply from the boot of the car. It almost sounded too easy. 

Day 5: Ilfracombe to Croyde Bay. 06/05/24

The weather on the early morning drive down to Ilfracombe seemed to change every 5 miles so I wasn’t sure what I’d be up against when we arrived. After driving round the Ilfracombe one way system a couple times looking for somewhere to park, I finally started walking around 9.30am. In the thick white cloud and with some pretty formidable coastal wind I got back on the path, past a load of tired, weathered, guesthouses that looked like they’d seen some shit in their time. Up a steep zig zag path towards the Torrs with a halfway smoke stop for the first of the day, I was startled at how quickly the cloud had lifted and how lonely and remote the path felt, considering it was a Bank Holiday Monday. 

I stopped at the top of a headland for a quick breather and took some pictures of an incredible brass sundial with all the local features lovingly embossed on it. It showed me what had come before and what was still to come. 

The first descent of the day was down into Lee Bay, which was the second Lee Bay that I’d come across in 5 days of walking, considering some of the other batshit bizarre place names around here I shouldn’t have thought they’d have struggled to find a more creative nomenclature for the breathtaking little cove I was descending into. 

The National Trust are trialling a bunch of different intervention techniques here to try to learn more about defending against the coastal erosion which is devastating the entirety of our coastline, but it is so much more apparent on this stretch. 

Conversely, after I’d taken pictures of the stunning bay I turned to see the large derelict building behind me, possibly a former hotel, decaying behind some metal railings with the most soulless fucking giant billboard stuck proudly on the roadside. Oh yes, 4 bed houses bought by people living on a different continent, rented to people on Airbnb, they’ll have a little pop-up art gallery here by Spring 2025.

The path then took off above Lee and through a couple of steady descents and ascents towards the Lighthouse at Bull Point. I’d seen on the map that the path went right above the lighthouse and I was excited to maybe be able to have a nose around (with the keeper’s consent, I’m not a bloody hooligan). The thought of maybe having a nose out from the top and getting some snaps had me bouncing through the remaining mile and a half. I rounded the top of the lighthouse from above, and got some pictures, the path headed to the left and I could see the entrance. Gated up. Not a functioning lighthouse anymore, used for something else.

Probably a fucking Airbnb.

The cliffs above Rockham Bay towards Morte Point were stunning. My head emptied and I just took it all in. The angry black jagged rocks sliced the jet blue sky and everything just disappeared.

No writer could explain the majesty of this stretch with any language. It exists in a language that is spoken to you as you experience it. It sounds different to everyone, but it is crystal clear and universal when you hear it.

This is what I came for.

Bank Holiday Monday foot traffic was starting to clog the path so I decided to veer slightly off towards the cliffs for a beer and a flapjack. Sitting and checking the messages on my phone and trying to find which pocket of my bag I’d stuffed my tobacco into I realised I wasn’t alone. 

The bastard was back. 

My hands were balled into fists. The air felt like electric tingles as my skin gained a sweaty coating, instantly cold.

“Hello again, The Drop”, I said aloud. Like welcoming a spirit into a seance.

I shuffled everything back into my pack and scurried back towards the path, my sweaty hands clasped around my backpack, just as I began to straighten myself out, I heard some commotion along the path.

A young family had spotted another family in the water below. The family in the water though were seals! I gave the small cliff fence post a wobble then leaned against it. I wasn’t going to let The Drop stop me from experiencing this. I watched for about 5 minutes as the family got bored and left. I tried to get photos, I’ll put one below, you’ll just have to trust me that there actually are some seals in the photo!

Morte Point is a dramatic and jagged section of natural architecture and razor sharp rock that has been the site of many shipwrecks over the years, it is incredible to experience, with some great views back on the day before’s stretch. It was also absolutely rammed with people so I got a few snaps from a distance, rounded the very tip of the Morte whilst trying to avoid everyone’s photos, and then got out of there.

I finally found a bench that wasn’t full and sat and rested my feet, on a beautiful stretch in full flower with a mossy, lawny surface which was a dream to walk on compared to the jagged rocks of the Morte. 

It was early afternoon and the rare heatwave weather was beginning to take some of my energy, with Woolacombe around the next bay I knew I had to get some kind of cap, my beanie hat I’d brought with me had been taken off in the first 15 minutes of the day, too hot.

There’s a couple of Skate/Surf shops in Woolacombe that my 15 year-old self would have walked around for hours, I just needed a cheap cap. Cheap was completely off the table in a tourist trap like this so I got a cap and a pair of sunglasses and beeped 55 quid off my card. The first chance I’ve had to do any kind of clothes shopping on the path and I’m all over it. Fucksake.

The path follows a series of dunes behind the beach at Woolacombe, which was a godsend because for a while I thought I was going to have to navigate the absolutely packed beach. Again the National Trust are doing some restoration and conservation work, sand dunes are crucial to the survival of a lot of wildlife.

As I got further along the beach seemed to thin out a lot more so I took my chance to treat my feet to a bit of sand, I’d made a bit of a mistake on this trip, I’d worn a cheap pair of walking trainers and they’d started to redden my feet, I could feel the infancy of some blisters. I’d brought my boots but opted for the trainers. 

As I pushed on through towards baggy point I stopped to meet Dad who was there watching birds and waiting for me to get a fucking wriggle on and get to the finish point at Croyde. After a quick cigarette and a natter I needed to head on. I’d sat on my brand new sunglasses that were in my back pocket and cracked them. Nice one, Craig.

This was when I made the mistake which would affect the next three days of the walk.

There’d been this drunken, high, heat-haze induced idea to swap out the walking trainers. Not for my really nicely well worn in boots that had done me at least 1000 miles that were right there in the back of the motor. No no, I opted for a pair of fucking Skechers that I’d also only bought about three weeks earlier because I’d been dazzled by the shiny trinket again and bought into the myth that these things are supposed to be comfortable. 

Right, Baggy Point, Croyde Beach, up the hill and meet Dad. Straightforward as hell.

As I lifted up one side of Baggy Point and headed towards the top I knew I’d fucked it, the snug fit around the toes of the Skechers had done enough to blister the outside of my little toes that were already at risk of going, I took a shortcut across Baggy Point and blunted off the headland, I just wanted to get the last of the ups and downs nailed before my feet were completely compromised, and be back down on the beach on the last stretch.

As I came down to the side of the holiday park my brain was overcome with flashes of childhood memories like a slideshow at four thousand miles per hour. 

I’ve been here. I know this.

Ruda Holiday Park at Croyde Bay, a family Sun Holiday with my Mum and my Dad. Mum dragging me on to the dancefloor, playing 2p machines, running in the sand dunes. My eyes globbed up and my legs nearly went from underneath me, every last fraction of air left my lungs, the taste of salt in my mouth, everything began to tunnel in. 

I grabbed a wall and gulped at the air as the literal physical manifestation of grief overcame me. In the baking heat in front of jolly holidaymakers and laughing retirees happily enjoying their old age on balconies of static caravans.

Mum should be doing that. Instead Acute Myeloid Leukaemia slyly and sinisterly took her away from us gradually over nearly 30 years. She fought like a fierce warrior and stayed around to watch me grow up.

Only I never did.

And that brings me back to the path and a part of why I’m here, on a journey to find myself, overcoming grief and a breakdown, proving myself.

Currently: on the verge of having a panic attack on a small cobbled section on a seafront next to an overflow car park surrounded by pensioners in bikinis. There is a man having a piss the other side of the hedge.

I saw a couple looking at me with a level of concern on their face and tuned back into the task at hand. I had a big gulp of water and put the whole thing down to heat exhaustion, although I’m sure there were more than a few people wondering why there’s a big hairy man in thick walking trousers in 20 degrees visibly crying next to a stand of buckets and spades. 

I stomped across Croyde Bay and remembered the little river running down to the sea through the middle, I couldn’t take my shoes and socks off and risk getting sand into the blisters so I just stomped shoes and socks on straight across it, with the cool water flooding each shoe I could have sworn I saw steam. I looked back and got some photos back across the beach, so rarely blessed with this weather at all, let alone on the first bank holiday of May.

As my shoes were already drenched and the last half a mile of the day was straight down the beach I walked through the gentle white surf all the way, bringing my heart rate back to normal from the episode behind me I took the steps up to the car park and collapsed into Dad’s car.

We stayed in an old holiday camp that looked like it had been frozen in time since the early 90s. One part looked like a former Hospital or `Care home and the ‘wing’ we were in was a bit unnerving. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the polite lady behind the reception desk said “Please try to keep the noise down, the person in the room next to you is recovering from spleen surgery”. 

The room was large and clean, shower was warm, the food was good, beers were reasonably priced, and I took probably my favourite ever selfie. Purely because of the difficulty of getting it in with nowhere to rest the camera and having to nearly break my wrist to get the camera round

The camp had its own private access to the beach with a steep dune where I ended the night desperately ignoring my feet, with a smoke, overlooking the bay as the sun set.