Day 18 - Port Issac to Padstow:  forced rest day

Today promised twenty-one kilometers of brutal undulation and coastal wonderland, but we woke up to a torrential downpour and fifty-kilometer winds. Suffice to say, neither of us was down with the idea of getting absolutely pounded by the elements while grinding on nature’s stairmaster for six hours. So, today’s dispatch won’t feature majestic cliffs or me fighting for my life on another peak. Instead, it is a lazy summary  laced with whatever random musings hit the brain.

If you want to splurge on a decadent sanctuary along this rugged route, the Port Gaverne Hotel is worth every single penny. It was pure, unadulterated luxury. Beyond a gorgeous room equipped with a Dyson fan, they provided a Nespresso machine with enough pods to fuel my caffeinated heart for eternity. Getting a decent cup of coffee in the UK is a notorious struggle, so scoring these Italian pods felt like tasting caviar. And the cookies? Top tier. Not those depressing little Biscoff wafers that budget airlines use to gaslight you into thinking they care.

Historically, this tiny cove was a bustling 19th-century port exporting slate and landing tons of pilchards, which were salted on-site in dark, gritty cellars. Today, the only thing being cured was my hangover, thanks to the greatest "Hugs" ever mixed. I call it a Hugs because when I eyed the magnificent calligraphic menu at the bar, I spotted the Aperol Spritz right next to what looked like "Hugs." I sent Ken to fetch me one. He returned looking beautifully bemused and slightly traumatized. When I asked what happened, he whispered, "Well, I ordered the Hugs, which is actually a Hugo cocktail, and I’m pretty sure the bartender and I are legally married now."

Dinner was an absolute triumph of the senses. It wasn’t cheap, but true pleasure rarely is. Skip the surf and turf, mostly because if your palate is accustomed to the marbling of North American or Japanese wagyu, this lean British beef will leave you feeling catfished. The accompanying shrimp, however, were sweet, plump, and utterly redeeming, sitting alongside hand-cut fries clearly made with love and a heavy hand of salt. Breakfast was another culinary feast, boasting thick, artisanal sourdough.  Sadly, the coffee returned to its baseline of hot garbage. They desperately needed to bring those room pods down to the dining floor.

I wish I could regale you with cinematic photos of quaint Port Isaac, the iconic backdrop for Doc Martin and countless other pieces of cozy television. But the  truth is that this town is dying a slow, agonizing death. The legendary Crab Shack Cafe, once the undisputed champion of the English crab sandwich, is now a hollow shell of its former glory. The reviews are an absolute trainwreck. Tourists complain bitterly of watery meat filled with broken shells, and brine-soaked bread. The owner reportedly yells at dissatisfied customers and has been known to just flip the sign and shut the whole place down out of spite. You almost have to 

But perspective matters. This is where we confront the gritty, sobering reality of the coastal path, a cautionary tale of how bad decisions can reap horrendous, irreversible consequences.

If I can distill the staggering contrast of walking this coastal path a decade ago versus navigating it now, it is the sharp, bruising shock of what the twin horsemen of Brexit and Covid did to this coast. As a North American, you’d be forgiven for assuming any rugged oceanfront property wrapped in a quaint village would be a heavily gentrified, hyper-expensive haven by now, mirroring the fate of our mountain towns back home. Instead, economic isolationism absolutely decimated the soul of this country. If separatist factions anywhere want a raw, unvarnished look at what their political fantasies actually cost, they need to spend two weeks walking village to village. You need that long to shake off the basic tourist mindset and settle into the heavy, heartbreaking reality of how desperate things have become. The erosion is violently abrupt. A cafe boasting glowing reviews online is suddenly shuttered when you arrive, its windows dark and filled with ghosts. The eccentric little shops that once gave these hamlets their magic are either gone or displaying signs reading "Out of business by summer. Everything must go." Historically, Cornwall has always survived on boom-and-bust cycles, from the ancient Romans mining its tin to the 19th-century copper rush. But this current collapse feels deeply poignant, a modern tragedy written in real-time. Which brings us to a crucial, unglamorous truth for anyone planning this route: finding a bed is becoming a high-stakes survival game, as legitimate accommodations grow increasingly rare and elusive along the path.

When I started booking this in January, the lack of options shook me. I chalked it up to hikers flooding the market, assuming digital nomads had snatched up homes to raise their aesthetic toddlers by the sea. The reality is far less glamorous. The sheer volume of permanent "For Sale" signs is both heartbreaking and eerie. Where rows of buzzing B&Bs once lined the cliffs, you might find a single survivor. The rest are abandoned or cannibalized as holiday rentals. The remaining spots have zero interest in catering to walkers. They want the high-spending tourists staying three nights minimum. Sure, campgrounds exist if you want to humble-brag about roughing it, but even pitching a nylon tent will drain forty quid from your Monzo card. Food is another beast entirely. Everything is expensive. Everything. If a Camino de Santiago requires a budget, keeping costs down on this trail is a statistical impossibility. Historically, these coastal paths weren't meant for romantic self-discovery; they were carved out by rough-handed coastguards hunting for smugglers. There was a raw, transactional grit to it. Today, the demographic has shifted. A decade ago, meeting fellow thru-hikers was standard. Now? The path is choked with people on catered, self-guided walking holidays. As the weeks wear on, we encounter chippy tourists who think one day of damp windy weather  is a quirky story for FaceTime and beers. Meanwhile, we are out here looking like battle-hardened soldiers on our sixth tour of duty, deeply fatigued and completely out of patience for the amateur hour.

Today was one of those days.  

As we stood huddled in the deluge, waiting for our rides, we met with a pack of four American women. One of them barked a question in that loud toxic-positivity cadence only Americans can truly weaponize, asking if we were hiking or hiding. I flatly told her we were tapping out, catching a ride to Padstow to dodge the worst of the apocalyptic weather. "Oh, but you are going to miss out!" she proclaimed, her voice dripping not with concern, but with the subtle, competitive gaslighting of a corporate wellness seminar. Ken, completely unfazed, shot back: "We got absolutely raw-dogged by the elements yesterday. Today is supposed to be worse." With peak American exceptionalism, she scoffed, "You can’t come all this way and let a little wind get to you. What were you expecting on a coastal path?"

You could feel the shift instantly. I was being schooled by a woman who clearly spends her summers drinking Pinot Grigio on Cape Cod, probably hit Everest Base Camp for her sixtieth birthday, and returned home to tell her book club that the altitude wasn't even that bad but everyone else seemed to have "such a difficult time." For a fleeting second, I asked myself What would Jesus do? and I was reasonably certain he would have told her to fuck right off. Instead, I channeled papal diplomacy, flashed my most enigmatic Mona Lisa smile, and muttered, "I am perfectly at peace with missing sixty-five-kilometer winds today." Turning to pure retail therapy as a coping mechanism, I marched up the hill to a gorgeous little boutique selling thick fisherman-knit sweaters and high-end English outerwear, and bought myself a blindingly bright yellow raincoat. It was a decadent victory over the elements, the trail, and the haters alike.

 Day 17 - Tintagel to Port Issac:  18.18 km

Sweet Jesus, kill me now. I thought yesterday was a descent into the lower circles. Not even close. Today was a bruising, soul-crushing gauntlet, a masterclass in exhaustion that leaves you feeling entirely hollowed out. I am beyond tired, the kind of deep-tissue fatigue where your bones feel like lead and your brain feels like porridge. But before I unpack today’s wreckage, we need to talk about where I laid my weary head last night: The Tintagel Inn.

First, let’s talk about Tintagel itself. This windswept Cornish outpost is the ultimate, unhinged mecca for the King Arthur truthers and the crystal-gripping witch demographic. It’s a turf war of the weird. On one side, you have the guys who want to LARP in the footsteps of Merlin; on the other, the girlies who genuinely want to get naked under a full moon, sip something unholy, and manifest their ex’s downfall around a bonfire. It’s total main-character energy, but with more damp tweed. Did you know the whole Arthurian connection is basically the ultimate medieval PR stunt? Back in the twelfth century, Geoffrey of Monmouth just straight-up invented the idea that Arthur was conceived here, purely to jazz up his fan-fiction history book and drive property values up.

The place has certainly seen better days. I remember it as this vibrant, chaotic wonderland of Wiccan boutiques and Excalibur kitsch, packed with pubs catering to anyone who wanted to wear floor-length black velvet, channel peak Stevie Nicks, or get a little too familiar in a dark corner. Back then, you wouldn’t have blinked if a couple of knights pranced past clapping coconut shells, or if a human sacrifice was happening up on the cliffs. It was magnificent. It was lawless.

Today? The town looks like it took a massive beatdown in a pub parking lot after insulting someone’s mother. Brexit put it in a headlock, Covid delivered the knockout blow, and now Tintagel is just a melancholic ghost of her former glory. 

We pulled up to the Inn. The place looked straight-up derelict, an abandoned, hollowed-out pub with zero signs of life, looking like the music died precisely in 2018 and never recovered. We rang the bell, bracing for a horror movie jump scare, but instead, a lovely woman greeted us and handed over the keys to our "loft room.”Loft" is just British hospitality-speak for "you are sleeping in the attic, bestie." This meant stairs. Infinite, punishing stairs that were barely eighteen inches wide and steep enough to trigger a panic attack. But the universe gives with both hands: the room was massive, boasting a TV large enough to distract us from our existential dread. Thank god the Cornish air was biting. This attic in summer heatwave would have literally baked us alive like cheap pastries.

There are no dining options, so dinner was a low-rent feast of instant cup noodles and sandwiches from the local Spar. And frankly? It was heaven. Once I showered and washed off the grime of the trail, wild horses couldn't have dragged me out of that bed before dawn. Morning brought a surprisingly decent breakfast. The coffee was an absolute shit but the guy running the morning shift was pure joy. The dining room was bizarrely packed. A few hardcore hikers, but mostly tourists there for the full,  King Arthur Reality Tour. Since today’s trek was clocked at five hours, we didn’t rush. We romanticized our morning, exploring the ancient local church and taking turns aggressively trying to yank Excalibur out of its stone. Spoiler: we are not the chosen ones. Then, it was time to hit the road to Port Isaac.

Holy mother of god were we in for it.  

You quickly realize every single day on this coastal path is "the hardest stage." The brutal, knee-shattering ascents and drops never fucking end. Today added a spice of pure terror as we navigated sheer cliff edges in gale-force winds. Pro tip: trekking poles apparently double as sails when the universe wants you dead. It was a high-stakes struggle to stay upright, and then the rain hit. Imagine walking inside a wind tunnel while someone  pressure-washes your face. At one point, pinned to a brutal incline, I screamed "I FUCKING HATE WIND!!" into the void. God and I will be having a very tense HR meeting about this later. Historically, these savage cliffs were the domain of 18th-century Cornish wreckers who lured cargo ships onto the rocks for ooting. After three hours of fighting the elements, I respect the hustle. The saving grace arrived six kilometers in: a tiny hamlet called Trebarwith with a posh oasis called The Strand. The espresso they pull is pure, dark nectar from the gods. There is a civilized toilet, a stunning beach patrolled by a ridiculously attractive lifeguard, and it’s so remote it feels like a private VIP lounge. It was heartbreaking to leave that slice of heaven, but we had four hours of punishment left before reaching the land of Doc Martin.

That four-hour stretch beat the shit out of us. Finding a spot to inhale a snack without your hamstrings violently seizing was an exercise in futility. We eventually descended into a jagged ravine where a few other broken souls were huddled like refugees in the rocks. I inhaled my Scotch egg in three  seconds flat. Did you know the Scotch egg was invented by Fortnum & Mason as a luxury snack for wealthy travelers on the go? Today, it was survival fuel. Everything was blowing everywhere. One couple was desperately anchoring their shivering chihuahua, who looked ready to achieve liftoff, before finally stuffing the poor creature into a backpack. I would have gladly paid a hundred quid for a cab, or flagged down a passing helicopter with unholy desperation. I was entirely done.

Then came a ridge fully exposed on both sides. That part can just fuck right off. We hit narrow bridges with zero railings where the options were simple: the wind blows you left and you fall five feet into a ditch, or it blows you right and you join the ancestors. I ran across those bitches like my life depended on it.  Which it did. Oh, and we have officially entered "stiles country." No civilized gates here. It is all hoisting your broken body up and over stone walls on narrow steps in a relentless gale. Tonight, we are sheltering in the obscenely posh Port Gaverne Hotel. Partially because I fucking earned it, and mostly because it is the only place within miles that allows a single-night stay. Welcome to the gatekeeping of the British Riviera: as you get closer to the money, hiker accommodation vanishes because these places demand a three-night minimum. I will give you the full, decadent breakdown tomorrow. Right now, I need to pop some pills and marinate in Epsom salts for the next four hours.

Day 16 - Crackington Haven to Tintagel: 17.22 km

Holy mother of God. This day was an absolute, unadulterated beatdown. It started with a whisper of hope, but by the end, I was utterly, beautifully broken. Thank the lord we intercepted a local bus, because there was no fucking way I was slogging my corpse all the way to Tintagel. When it rains in the UK, it doesn't just drizzle; it dumps biblical sheets of water that saturate your very soul.

Before I get into the sheer horror of climbing slick, vertical cliffs in a monsoon, let’s talk about the absolute pornographic feast we had for breakfast at Trewartha and Ty Chy. Our bodacious German Valkyrie laid out a legendary spread. Coffee strong enough to fuel a techno rave. Crusty, homemade bread. Sharp cheeses and ripe tomatoes. Then came the porridge: an elite, velvety masterpiece of dairy and grain that tasted like a warm hug from a lover. Throw in scrambled eggs, butcher’s sausage, and crispy hashbrowns, and we were fully fueled for destruction. Afterward, we fed her peacock cartel, who showed their toxic gratitude by flaunting their iridescent feathers in a hypnotic mating dance. Sadly, Roger the Badger ghosted us. A perfect excuse to come back. We knew the weather was threatening violence, so we geared up like techwear influencers. We naively prayed we would hit Boscastle before the real sky-bitch unleashed her fury. Big mistake. An hour in, a manageable drizzle lulled us into a dangerous, false sense of security. Brief flashes of sunlight gaslit us into thinking everything would be fine. It wasn't. This stretch of the path is a sadistic rollercoaster of steep, knee-shattering descents and brutal, lung-crushing ascents. You stand at the precipice of one peak, looking across the jagged coastline where medieval kings once bled, utterly humbled and hollowed out, knowing there are  more six more waiting for you. In a blinding downpour, that realization is enough to make a grown adult weep right into the mud.

We crossed paths with our German sisterhood, everyone high on vibes and good cheer. For the first few hours, at least. But as the afternoon bled out, we watched them transform from a confident vanguard into a distant, struggling rearguard, tramping doggedly through the relentless, rain under the crushing weight of their full packs. The laughter evaporated. The South West Coast Path isn't some sanitized romantic fantasy. It is a merciless, humbler of souls. You start with starry eyes and a naive thirst for adventure, but the trail eventually teaches you that, like life itself, it is an unremitting sequence of ups and downs. Depending on your psychological cash flow, navigating this topography can run the gamut from unadulterated, fist-pumping victory to a brutal, non-negotiable ego check. Today was a textbook ego check.

People love to weaponize these grueling days as a badge of honor. They use them to brag, loudly and insufferably, just to sell the world on an idealized, Instagram-worthy achievement. But if you want the raw truth of the path, you have to strip away the bullshit and be entirely honest with yourself. Sugar-coating the journey isn't the main objective. Not when you are playing the long game. The real purpose of tackling any long-distance route is not merely to flex your physical endurance. It is to test your terrifying ability to completely release your ego, to let it all spectacularly crash and burn around you, knowing you still have to push through the wreckage. On a miserable day like today, you can play it cool and pretend the rain isn't getting to you, but then you miss the entire point. Getting to you is precisely what allows you to transcend. Nothing in this life worth doing will ever be easy. And when the universe dials up the suffering, you owe it to your own soul to let that agony wash over you. In that dark, mud-soaked moment, you finally learn exactly what you are made of.

We encountered a young man on the path. Robert. He has been tracing the jagged edges of this island’s coast since the dark of December. On these trails, you learn to read the passersby; so many are merely colonizing the landscape, conquering miles like patriarchs marking territory to notch into a belt of achievement. But then there are the rare few who walk for entirely distinct, unvarnished reasons.

Holy reasons. When you cross paths with them, you encounter the quiet center of the universe. The agony, the ecstasy, the absolute clean devotion of moving your own body forward for yourself, and yet for a mystery vastly larger than your own skin.

When the Nazarene was driven by the Spirit into the wilderness, he didn't do it for the applause of the synagogue, a legacy contract, or a glowing review in the town square. Luke tells us he was led there by the Spirit—not to perform, but to confront his own depths, to dismantle his ego, and to heal. In that vast, unpeopled isolation, he allowed himself to feel the full, crushing weight of existence. And because he refused to numb a single second of it, he returned to the world so radically present that those with eyes to see—the women who funded his journey, the outcasts who touched his hem—felt the shift the absolute moment their eyes locked with his. It was a presence born of survival, not status. And so it was: two rain-drenched pilgrims standing together on a precipice, our matching green pack covers looking like small, defiant patches of spring against the gray. It felt as if a thousand lifetimes of searching had suddenly converged on a cliffside in the downpour.

I walk to heal. To practice the messy, vital liturgy of staying humble and awake. To rage like the Magnificat and to keep silent like Mary pondering secrets in her heart. Robert walks the same road, but he has been at it so long the boundary between his flesh and the earth has dissolved; he has become part of the topography now. The land carries his heavy heart with all the fierce, maternal tenderness nature provides. She tests his resolve not to punish him, but to prove to him that he is infinitely greater than the sum of his wounds. When you encounter a soul of this weight on the trail, you are given a choice. You can pass them by as the world so often passes the weary—with a polite, superficial smile, waving as you hurry along. Or, you can pause.

You can truly behold the person in front of you. You hold space for their truth to exist, and they, with equal grace, hold it for yours. In that mutual witnessing, a strange recognition flashes. You feel as if you have met before—and in the grand, cyclical tapestry of the cosmos, you probably have. Always searching for the unmapped sanctuary where it all began. And when the cliffs and the rains finally bring you back to each other, you pass like old friends heading deeper into the wild, intimately knowing you are kindred.