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!
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
Funking love it
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