The Smoke Path - Part One.

 The Smoke Path

“It is estimated that walking National Trails could save the NHS £167 million in health benefits each year. The South West Coast Path alone could help save the NHS over £40 million a year - that’s £63,000 for every mile of the 630-mile route”

As I squeezed and kneaded my most favourite and most practical clothing into a ten-year-old 30 litre walking pack I knew it wasn’t going to be big enough. It may have been, for a seasoned hiker who has packed for a long journey before, but not for a balding idiot at the far-end of his 30s with a reliance on home-comforts and clean clothing. It would need to be bigger. With a strict budget of £40 and no real need to buy a pack bigger than 40litres, I strode out of Sports direct with a 60l bag costing just on the low side of £80. If you think that shows a complete inability to stick to my own rules or budget responsibly, wait ‘til you hear the rest of this tale. 

In the summer of 2022 I succumbed to a nervous breakdown, the sum of many different parts which had meshed together and conspired to topple the last scraps of sanity that I had remaining. I managed to recover from it with he help of therapy, my friends and family, and walking. Loads and loads and loads of walking. I’d go out with a friend or on my own on my days off. We called it Fix Your Head Fridays. With every mile that went past I could feel my worries and anxieties dropping away. In early 2024 I started to notice myself slipping down into the same funnel that I did in 2022, noticing familiar patterns and behaviours. However this time I had the tools to deal with it. One day whilst browsing the internet when I should have been working I came across some photos of the South West Coast Path. The obsession was instantaneous. I had to get on that path. It was obvious that I wasn’t going to be able to do it in a single through hike, work and finances wouldn’t permit it, but I was going to tackle it anti clockwise on the official route as and when time and fitness allowed. Six weeks later the B&Bs were booked for the first 4 days of The National Trail. I’d backed myself, I’d followed through. I was doing it. Minehead, 2nd April. Didn’t want to start on Fools day, though with how little hill training or pack training I’d done, I may as well have.

Day 1: SWCP Start Marker, Minehead to Porlock Village.

With a photo of me and my ludicrously-sized backpack taken by Dad in front of the start point statue (a giant pair of hands opening a map on Minehead sea front), a couple quick goodbyes to Dad and Nan, and very little other fanfare I was off. The first third of a mile past the Old Ship Aground pub and into a small park full of graffiti’d benches next to North Hill, avoiding an absolute barrage of abandoned dogshit was a bit anti-climactic to say the least. Before I could check that I was actually on the National Trail and not a Yeovil housing estate, a set of wooden steps appeared in front of me, marked with ‘SW COAST PATH’ and my first glimpse of the often sighted Acorn symbol used to mark the path. Ascending up North Hill in a zig zag path I glimpsed through the trees down towards the wide-open blue expanse of the Bristol Channel, and a lump hit my throat. “I’m doing it, I’m actually doing it, just me and the path now”.

What I’d neglected to say before is that I’m very much doing this path on my own terms. With that in mind it’s probably time to introduce the 3.5g of Blue Zushi by London New, 3.5g of Tizer by Steel Branch Farms, 5g of Mendo Purps, 9g of Black Runtz and 7g of Thai Skillati that I started this leg of my trip with. The Smoke Path, get it? Every day started with 4 pint cans of lager in the pack and I had a generous amount of flapjacks and protein bars. The catering was not the thing that left me feeling desperately unprepared though, as I crested the first lift from North Hill on to the open cliffsides of Exmoor, only 1.5 miles into todays 10 in the guidebook, the distance was filled with rugged heath and rolling green, bordered by crystal blue waters and the faintest Glimmer of the South Wales coast, it felt massive. 

And I felt so small.

I treated myself to a brief bench stop to roll and chat to a young, fit North Facer called Greg about the path, he laughed at me three times in total. 

The first time was when I mentioned that I was staying in B&Bs each night. Greg informs me that his tent weighs about the same as the can of beer I was holding. He used it when he did the E9 apparently.

The second time was when I mentioned that I had done absolutely zero hill training before taking on this notoriously difficult stretch of path. I’ve always been an “I’ll do it on the night” kind of man. This laugh had an element of pity to it.

The third and final time was when I told him to be careful as there was wind forecasted and he again laughed at me and said he’d be ok, the E9 had prepared him. Now I’ll just say that I have absolutely no idea what an E9 is at this point, I thought maybe he’d grown up in Dalston or Hackney and that prepared him for the path. I resolved to google it later and I waved Greg goodbye as he bounded off with his Weapons-Grade tent and his walking poles. 

At this point I felt tiny. 

Fuck you, Greg.

Roughly a third of a mile along the path a sign with two directions, both with the little acorn on, indicated the junction between the easier inland path and the rugged path. With little foresight of the path I chose to toss a coin. Heads was inland. It landed on heads. As this was the first day of the walk I ignored the coin, threw it into the heather and bounded off, with North Face Greg about a quarter mile ahead. 

The first descent of the walk was dramatic in both it’s steepness and it’s pure angry beauty. Exmoor at its most raw, ponies watched from high up on the easy-going inland path as I descended further, towards a small stream crossing, seeing Greg pacing his way up the steep diagonal that marks the exit from this first of many drops, I gritted my teeth and dug in for the climb. My reward at the summit, (apart from the incredible views that I cannot keep mentioning but are ever present) was a small clump of rocks that offered perfect windproof protection to stop and roll, I sat for about 15 minutes as an endurance runner came past, ran down the hill I’d just struggled up, back up it again, and back off the way he came. 

I felt minuscule.

A brief scattering of signal and a few messages to the loved ones and I was back on track. Back on level terms with the path, eating up the distance right across the top edge of the cliffs above the Channel, singing to myself, and listening to the birds, as I came across Bossington Hill I noticed a Robin hopping and flying along with me as I walked. After a short while I knew I was coming back to where people are because of the sudden amount of dog shit everywhere. Hanging in plastic bags from the heather. Why are people like this? Around the corner was the National Trust car park for Bossington Hill. I’d gone too far, missed a turn off, a local legend with his dogs (and two full poo bags) gave me some intel on a diagonal cut down the hill through the woods and back on to the path. He said it was steep and muddy though and my word was he right.

After watching my every step down a mud slope for an eternity, I was back on the path, which was now even steeper with huge loose rocks, pressing my toes down into the front of my boots, rolling underfoot, I wondered how the hell I was going to do the 2 miles down to Porlock Village, let alone two more days with longer distances and higher climbs. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the whole thing and trudged on in to Porlock.

Porlock is a quaint little village full of pubs and B&Bs, separated from the coast by a handful of saltmarsh plains that since the shingle line was breached in 1996 now flood with every high tide. The trees that were taken by the seawater now stick out of the marshland like gnarled submarine periscopes, it is stunning and a shocking reminder of the power of the tides.

I settled in at my accommodation for the night, an immaculately presented B&B right on Porlock High Street, taking off my boots was an euphoric experience, as were the big hot shower and a change of clothes from my pack. Later at a pub called the Ship Inn, right at the foot of Porlock Hill I dined alone, a lovely pub-standard steak meal and three pints of Korev. I couldn’t ignore the fact that my surgically-repaired left ankle was screaming at me.

By the way, I googled it, the E9 is a European coastal mega-hike that starts in Portugal and goes all the way to Estonia. Three thousand one hundred miles. Fuck you, Greg.

And your stupid orange North Face coat

And your super-secret graphene-coated Bruce Wayne designed mega tent.

And your geriatric pensioner-support walking poles.

Go to the real E9, that North Face would get rolled off you in an instant by an infant.

Before heading back to the B&B I walked down towards the submarine graveyard, it was wetter now, the orange of the late evening sky reflecting in large puddles stretching across the horizon, the tide returning to take back the land, I lit a smoke and leant on a farm gate. Day 1 of the Path was in the books, a crinkled smile lit up my tired face. Not miniscule anymore, not even tiny. Growing. I heard a faint noise on the gate to my left. A robin had joined me.

Day 2. Porlock Weir to Lynmouth.

The 7.20am alarm woke me in my giant bed, two queen sized beds pushed together, the first bed ever where I’d been able to sleep with my feet on the bed in all directions. I’d booked breakfast for 8am so I’d allowed enough time for another hot shower to attempt to soothe the bones before the 15 mile walk today. Breakfast was served in a room downstairs with lots of local art with price-tags hanging off, and a table full of early-morning staples. I grabbed some red berry compote in a bowl and dumped a strawberry yoghurt over it. Two bacon and a sausage with brown toast. 2x Bananas for the pack. With a goodbye as warm, pleasant and genuine from the B&B owner as it had been on arrival, and a shout of thanks through to the kitchen for his wife, the boots were back on and it was time for the mile and a half walk back to the path, past some of the smallest houses you could ever buy for half a million pounds.

At Porlock Weir there is a handful of pubs and cafes and the usual watersports stuff you see in every cove. A lovely little tourist trap with fantastic views out to the Bristol Channel. The path goes through a small courtyard and lane next to the Porlock Weir Hotel which is incredibly easy to miss but I’d been given another bit of intel by one of the local dog walkers I’d met coming out of the village. A few narrow paths behind some more extortionately priced shoeboxes and a really nice old thatched toll house, I was suddenly surrounded by lush woodland, birdsong everywhere, the rustling of trees of species I could never name, the low roar of the tides crashing against rocks far below. My heart was pounding from the ups and downs, but it had never felt so full.

Now into my 10th hour of walking over 2 days I had become aware of this other thing that had been ever-present ever since the hills above Minehead. *Trigger warning ahead for suicide for the next paragraph*

The Drop.

To my right over nearly the entire stretch had been cliffs with instant falls straight to the jagged rocks or sea below. Instantly fatal and incredibly terrifying. In my worst moments across my life I’d suffered with suicidal ideation, the thought of just fucking it all off, pulling the plaster off all at once, just disappearing and opting out of life. I’d always managed to pull myself through and come away from the edge and here I was, half-pissed with a 60-litre sail on my back in high winds. Basically dancing along the face of it.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about The Drop. 

I walked past a few signs saying they were doing forestry work but didn’t expect as many trees across the path as there were. Getting over and under with the pack on made this stretch feel like an obstacle course until I descended above the smallest parish church in England. The Church of St Bueno at Culbone. This tiny-slate roofed gem in the middle of the forest is struggling with erosion down one side which has carved a gully between the church and the path, so it now looks like everywhere else in Somerset, surrounded by those ugly orange plastic barriers. There is so much evidence of excess water from the heavy recent rainfall carving huge scars through these valleys.

I sat on the bench next to the one War Grave in the tiny graveyard and had a flapjack and a fresh can of beer. William Ricketts, aged 19. Welsh Guards. WW2. Just a fucking baby. 

I trudged on and through some incredible little crossings through waterfall streams, a few hefty hills but I couldn’t complain. Thinking about poor William as I dragged my tired legs up another huge hill I rounded the top and elated tears filled my eyes. The trees opened out to a crest with a huge peregrine falcon surveying the valley below, this is why I’m doing it. Moments like this. As I sat atop the hillTheDropthere was this feeling that there was a second character on this walkTHEDROPwith me. It kept cutting in and out.

Stopping for a rest at Sisters Fountain, a natural spring with a large stone pile with a stone cross on top, the base was a well needed seat for me as the bottom of my feet started to show signs of blistering. Oh bugger. 

As I was about to get going a robin appeared at my feet. I froze. After about 30 seconds of it hopping around me I managed to get my phone out, the robin went into full on fashion model mode and I got some incredible photos. I rewarded the robin by letting it share some flapjack and then it was gone.

“Robins appear when loved ones are near” is what they say. I’m not a spiritual guy but I imagined mum looking at me and giving me a kick up the ass. Time to get moving.

As I crossed the Devon border the cloud had fully cleared into a sunny blue sky and suddenly I was descending a steep valley road with Foreland Point in the distance, a quick stop at a bridge to put a bit more charge in my phone at the bottom of the valley and there was only one way I could go, up the other side on the diagonal path. 

About a quarter of the way up the sound of a Coastguard helicopter out at sea came booming and echoing up through the valley, the low repetitive throb was really putting me off my stroke on a section with an 18-inch wide path and 

The Drop.

My fear of The Drop was laid bare with a 50 metre cliff to my right. My legs turned to dog food in an instant. I was sweating head to toe, my hands balled into fists, “CAN SOMEONE TURN THAT FUCKING HELICOPTER OFF?”

There I was, frozen to the spot, with the wind battering my massive rucksack and my legs refusing to move. I dropped to my hands and knees, panic mode fully engaged, and crawled about 50metres up and around the side of the headland. Out of the wind and with the help of a small grass outcrop I slowly righted myself and was back up on my feet, but I was shaken, it wasn’t just The Drop as a physical thing anymore, it had become a concept, a behemoth, taking up more and more space in my head. 

Within 10 minutes there was another similar section, around the other side of the hill but I didn’t trust my legs again quite yet, nonetheless I had to put my faith in them to push me up over the top of the hill to the road instead. If my legs were a small child I’d be offering them a toy as an incentive to behave, fuck, I’d even offer them a trip to Disneyland at this point.

The bonus of getting off the path and dropping into Lynmouth the other way is that you get to walk down another incredibly picturesque valley down through the Watersmeet nature walk and along the river in to Lynmouth. Dogshit in bags in hedges again. I was ready for a shower and a non-flat cold beer.

My hotel for the night had only just re-opened for the season. It’s right on the seafront and the view from my window was like a postcard. 

The beer was overpriced but nice. The steak was overpriced but nice. The Eton mess was underpriced and nice. The bed was ok but wedged into the corner of the room so I couldn’t stretch my legs out. The opposite of the night before’s bed. I went to turn on the TV but there was no remote. 4/10 room. 8/10 day.

Day 3 - Lynmouth to Combe Martin

I’d booked my breakfast early as I knew the route today was another tough one. Before breakfast I went out on the seafront for a cigarette and was treated to a glorious rainbow right above the hill I was about to climb.

Every day on this trip involves a steep ascent every morning and a steep descent every evening, the start of this morning’s ascent is a zig zag path up to Lynton that goes over the famous water-powered cliff railway. I was far too early to catch a ride up, but I was lucky enough to see them testing it as I zigged my way up into the Lynton where I needed to refill the pack with beer and snacks. 

Coming up yet another hill I saw a bench and stopped to roll and really started to feel a bit sorry for myself, my shoulders and legs were hurting and the constant hills were really starting to get to me. I rung Dad for a pep talk and soon after I was up Hollerday Hill like a greyhound, the first mile and a half done. I’d forgotten to start my Strava to record distance so I sorted that out and had a conversation with The Drop as I traversed the narrow cliff path towards the Valley of Rocks.

Signage as you enter says “Come and Enjoy Natural England, What’s Stopping You” but then the next sign says “Car parking £3.90 an hour”.

The Valley of Rocks does have many things to offer though. Lynton and Lynmouth CC are blessed with probably one of the most picturesque cricket grounds in the country and if you play there you’d really want to lift a six straight up over those jagged rocks and beyond down to the sea.

The rocks have all got names, and one of them has a hole through it. There’s nothing I can say that would do it justice, even my photos don’t show the half of it. An ethereal place.

One of the formations goes up over a headland point with a sheer massive cliff face down to the rocks below. It has Samaritans signs all around it. Some people get lost to The Drop.

Not me. Not even when it’s screaming in my face.

I tried not to dwell on that for long as my eyes suddenly adjusted to the herd of wild goats on the other side of the cliff, I counted twelve at first but every time I looked I saw more. Sitting on a grass tuft at the side of the road I spoke to a young couple with two adorable goat-obsessed children, they were day tripping and we spoke briefly about my walking and what I’m hoping to do, they enthused about how exciting that is and how lucky I am to be doing it. That little buzz and interaction snapped me out of my existential dread and spurred me on to the toll road towards Lee Abbey.

There’s a very odd Christian commune down the road here that I couldn’t really get an angle on. There’s an abbey, college and accommodation and masses of gardens. They operate the toll road and profit from it. They own a private beach and a tea room in the valley. The whole place had an eerie vibe about it so I was happy when I climbed up the hill and away from the scene of the next Waco siege.

With this being the first day of the trip with a pub on the lunchtime stretch I would have been remiss to not pop in for a cold one. The Hunters Inn at Martinhoe is a huge lodge in the Heddon Valley owned and operated by the National Trust, it was absolutely rammed so I slung my pack down on a chair at a small table in the corner and headed to the bar. Jacket potato and beans. 2 pints of Korev. 

While I was waiting for my food I’d heard one of the waitresses telling another group about a shortcut that avoids the road, that’s handy, I thought.

Get to the top of this lane, take the little left down to the river, follow that all the way along,  turn right before the mill. 

It was when I reached the dead end at the mill after walking for a mile and a half through 6 inch deep mud with no right turn that I realised I must have missed or misheard a direction. The river had breached the path here and it had been a really hard slog, I couldn’t go back that way.

Zero phone signal. No Map. Classic.

I found a small unclassified lane with moss growing in the middle and followed it vaguely back the way I came until I saw a sign with The Hunters Inn showing a quarter of a mile back, or a left turn up an almost vertical stone track over another hill. I’m not going back, it had to be the hill.

After the steepest and longest ascent on the trip so far, my ankles and calves were screeching and I still had the Great Hangman to do, the actual steepest hill on the entirety of the 630-mile path. While I’d been lost I hadn’t been paying attention to the gathering grey clouds above and as I reached the road crossing to pick the path back up the heavens opened. That was my sign, or my excuse, either way there’d be no Hangman for me today, with phone signal again I checked the road direction and trudged along the highway. As the famous Exmoor rain somehow managed to get in under my hood and streamed into my eyes, I started singing to myself and trekked on towards Combe Martin, feeling disappointed about losing the path and not being able to do the last stretch over the big hill.

The sign that said I’d reached my destination for the night came long before I actually got to it. Combe Martin has a massive long High Street but hardly any shops. My calves were seizing up as I reached my digs for the night, the proprietor was welcoming, gave me a cuppa and carried my pack up to my room. 

I had a curry at the nearest pub to my B&B as I felt dead, the blisters had all opened up and I’d done 43 miles in three days across rough terrain. I probably won’t walk tomorrow, I probably won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and that’s okay. 

I sat on the seafront on the way back from the pub and had a smoke, as the sea mist hit and cooled my red and drunken face, I felt proud. Proud of what I’d achieved, proud of what I’d endured. A smile grew across my salted face and the pain felt like nothing when everything was in perspective. Everything is right, just here, just on this little path. I want to do this forever. 

I had to get to bed, need to rest my bones, I need to walk tomorrow. 

There’s just something about this path.

Day 4 - Combe Martin to Ilfracombe.

Waking in the morning and heading to the local convenience shop to fill the pack again with beer I wondered if this was really a good idea. My shins were the soup de jour in the pain restaurant today and the rest of the ailments were angry croutons. This stretch on the official itinerary is supposed to go all the way to Woolacombe but I was getting picked up early in the afternoon so I resolved to do what I could.

I had to double back past my B&B to get back on the path and as I limped past with my now overfilled 60l pack bulging with the last few day’s laundry and 4 cans of Stella and 2 of those little tart fuel Pina Coladas, I saw the proprietor wince out the window at me. I remembered North Face Greg from the first day, gritted my teeth and absolutely smashed the first hill with the sprightly gait of a prime racing donkey. 

Cockily confident I took what I thought was the path down through a new-looking holiday camp with massive 4 or 5-berth static numbers as far as the eye can see. Opening the gate and taking the first dozen or so steep steps down into a cove I realised I’d fucked it again. Confidently incorrect.

I retraced my steps back to a nice long soft clay stretch with ferns either side and low trees, respite from a bench was short lived when I noticed a sign above me on the tree that said danger: adders. I shot up and away and sticking as close as I could to the centre of the path. I hate snakes. Fuckin nope ropes.

After doing a short section of the path with a lovely couple as far as Watermouth Bay I took a tiny diversion down to the beach to allow my feet to touch sand for the first time on the trip. I picked up a few shells, popped them into my bag, and away past the Castle and family park up the main road to where the coast path starts again.

 I overtook the couple at the bottom of the headland above Samson’s Bay. I didn’t count the steps that made up the climb but there was a good few and when I reached the top there was a bench before the immediate descent, the bench was a bit too close to the sheer cliff face for my liking but I knew what I had to do. I had to get right with The Drop to be able to get right with the path.

I took off my pack and laid it down, and with a single step and a single breath, I was standing atop the bench, atop the cliff, the sea wind buffeting my face. My arms calmly by my side. I closed my eyes for a second but I wasn’t that confident. I stood silently for 30 seconds or so and stepped back down. Time to get moving.

The rest of the walk was a euphoric blur as I finally felt like I’d exorcised the demons of the Heddon’s Mouth stretch from yesterday which had really knocked my confidence and made me begin to not enjoy the walk. I stopped at a picnic area in Hele and attempted to roll for about 20 minutes in the ferocious wind. Suddenly three women in carer’s uniforms came from out of nowhere, one of them spotted me struggling and came over to help shield the rizla and the other two stood in the way of the wind. Hele’s Angels.

After finishing my smoke I popped a little bit over to the ladies who were now eating their lunch, by way of thanks, I’d have been there another hour if it wasn’t for them. Somehow I’d missed the coast path so I walked the road all the way into Ilfracombe.

As I came through the high street, near the turn off to go down to the harbour I noticed I’d hit the 50 mile mark for this trip, and instantly I started to feel all my muscles again, the shooting pain in my feet and cramp in my toes. I knew I was cooked. I looked on the map and found a green space, a local park, sent Dad the postcode, went and got some cold beer, and headed for the park.

Pack down. Boots off. Socks off.

Laid on the grass in Bicclescombe Park beside a small stream, with the sound of a robin amongst so much other birdsong, I stretched my toes out into the blades of grass and laughed. 51.1 miles. I don’t want to go home, I don’t know what I want anymore, apart from one singular thing:

I have to get back on this path.