Day 4 - Minehead to Porlock: 16.67 km

And we’re off! It is official. The South West Coast Path has begun. In keeping with traditional British walking conditions, the weather spent the morning behaving like a charming first date. Bright skies. Sunshine. False promises. Then precisely ten minutes after we started, the heavens opened with the drama of a Shakespearean death scene and unloaded torrential rain directly into our souls. Fun times. Thank God it was a short day. The day began with perhaps the best smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on sourdough I have ever encountered. Silky eggs, rich salmon, buttery decadence. It was accompanied by what may be the single worst coffee I have ever consumed. Historians will tell you tea became Britain's national drink in the 1600s and after this coffee experience, I support their decision completely. Thankfully as age and menopause continue their strange remix of my operating system, my caffeine cravings are fading. This is not Camino territory where coffee flows like divine intervention. But in Britain's defense, the cider is glorious and the chips are transcendent. Back home I can take or leave chips. Here there appears to be no such thing as a bad chip. I plan to spend this walk carb loading with the determination of a Roman soldier preparing for battle. As for today's stage, there was a fair bit of up and down and up and down, although not yet the soul extraction levels waiting further ahead. Which is good because six hours of endless elevation gain in freezing rain might have had me googling alternative transportation methods. Horseback. Sedan chair. Emotional support donkey. We know at least six other walkers are out here because they were at breakfast in the Old Ship Aground with us. But after that they vanished into the mist like NPC characters in a side quest. Two appear to be here at the Castle Hotel tonight. We have not seen them yet. Only their bags waiting silently in the hall like tiny pieces of trail archaeology.

The terrain today was aggressively pastoral. Green beyond reason. The kind of green that makes you suspect God briefly got carried away with the saturation slider. Sheep everywhere, somehow remaining suspiciously pristine despite existing in perpetual rain and mud. There were Oreo cows, otherwise known as Belted Galloways, looking like they had been assembled by a distracted barista with access to livestock. A couple of wild horses also stood nearby delivering the universal look of equine judgment. Then... beavers. Actual beavers. Reintroduced only last year and already hard at work.  Tiny furry civil engineers with zero meetings and astonishing productivity. Meanwhile I was speed walking like a woman possessed trying to reach a tea house at kilometre eleven, only to discover it was closed. Which also meant I would be peeing in the woods.

And here is the thing about trail life. You can walk for hours and see absolutely no one. Not a soul. But the moment you squat behind a bush, out of nowhere appears a colorful crone with six Labradors or some weathered hermit accompanied by one elderly spaniel. “Hello! You alright?” they chirp before disappearing back into the landscape like side quest characters summoned by woodland magic and urinary panic. We arrived soaked at the Castle Inn which, surprise, looks exactly like a castle if a castle developed a drinking problem and excellent hospitality. It is run by two lesbians who placed us in the Tourette room which is enormous and decorated in colonial Asian style. Reader, I felt seen. Also there was another gigantic tub and I soaked in it for half an hour because my hips and knees had begun filing formal complaints after the rocky descent into Porlock. Afterwards we visited the tiny Dovery Manor Museum, a 15th century house packed with old bones, children's shoes and one truly unhinged invention called a man trap. These giant leg crushing devices were used by the gentry to catch poachers. History really had a remarkable talent for saying, "what if cruelty... but decorative?" They were finally banned in 1860 after centuries of distributing surprise amputations to anyone unlucky enough to wander by.

Tomorrow is a bigger day. Around 21 kilometres to Lynmouth and I am desperately hoping we make it in time for the Lynton Cliff Railway.It opened in 1890 and runs entirely on water power because Victorian people apparently looked at a cliff and said, "we shall conquer gravity with hydration." If we miss it and I have to climb the hill myself, tomorrow's post will contain significantly less spiritual growth and substantially more profanity.

Peace out my pretties! Love you all 

 Day 3 - Minehead

We are now at the official start of the SWCP! It is getting real, people. This morning we boarded a bus alongside about eight other walkers of varying ages, shapes, hiking philosophies and levels of delightful eccentricity. All making the same pilgrimage, but doing sensible one week stretches like responsible adults with boundaries and functioning knees. Amateurs. Go big or go home. The good news was it was a city bus and electric, which meant significantly less diesel induced nausea. The bad news was 2.5 hours of people loudly discussing absolutely everything while I sat there trying to self soothe with headphones and rave techno from 1992. Fun fact, studies suggest repetitive beats can lower anxiety. Which explains why somewhere between tracks I spiritually became a glow stick. God I miss Japan in moments like these where public transit operates like a sacred library supervised by introverts.

Tonight we are at the Old Ship Aground Pub right at the official starting point. Tiny room out back facing the Coast Guard rescue station. Which means if anyone gets dramatic on the high seas tonight and that alarm goes off, I will be outside in my pajamas threatening violence against Poseidon himself. I had wanted to stay at Foxes Hotel, that wonderful place staffed by people with disabilities which inspired a television series years ago. Sadly no rooms. Pub life it is. I also had to acquire another layer because tomorrow promises wind and rain with the enthusiasm of an Old Testament plague. Thankfully only 15 kilometres to the next stop. Unfortunately these are SWCP kilometres, which are measured less in distance and more in emotional negotiations with gravity. Up and down. Up and down. Again and again. The good news is there is a bird of prey sanctuary and tea room halfway. Cream tea with a falcon feels exactly right. If I am going to emotionally unravel, I prefer witnesses with talons.

I love Minehead. It has that faded seaside magic that draws retirees, old sea dogs and beautifully odd humans collecting stories like seashells. Outside the pub a woman built like a Norse deity wrestled a wooden boat while painting it. Then we met an older guy traveling in a van with his Asian companion. Friendly as a Labrador, problematic as an internet comment section. The conversation started lovely and ended somewhere deep in anti immigration discourse. Humans remain wild contradictions. Ten years ago when we walked here Brexit debates filled these streets. Campaigners begged Britain not to leave Europe. Britain promptly said, "watch this." Now people campaign to rejoin. History really is just humanity repeatedly texting its ex at 2 a.m. Who knows what will happen while we walk. I may yet be the Storm of Change.

Peace out my pretties! Love you all <3

 Day 1 - Arrived in London

Always the worst part of travel is the flying. I have done it enough times now to know economy class is less a transportation method and more a hostage situation with tiny packets of pretzels. You spend eight hours pressed against strangers in positions that would get a yoga instructor arrested. My long term financial goals remain either permanent business class or somehow befriending an eccentric billionaire woman who keeps a rotating entourage of rabid feminists for cocktails and in flight entertainment. Think less sugar daddy, more chaos mommy. Sadly, destiny continues to swipe left, so economy it is. And it was a night flight which means I will spend the next two days moving through life like a Victorian woman with “a delicate condition” and access to laudanum. Still, credit where is due. Heathrow moved with terrifying efficiency. Forty five minutes from customs to automated gates, baggage claim, shuttle bus and BOOM. Into the Ibis. Faster than Japan, which frankly feels suspicious. Heathrow usually has all the erotic energy of fluorescent lighting and government forms, so this felt like being aggressively seduced by bureaucracy. After a nap, Calves made his pilgrimage to his beloved Chinese Fried Rice Nazi takeaway. The owner, a tiny culinary warlord fueled by spite and MSG, tolerated absolutely no substitutions. Ask for alterations and he would bellow, “YOU WANT DIFFERENT? GO HOME MAKE YOURSELF!” Honestly? The man had the energy of an angry Roman emperor guarding a sacred chow mein recipe.  Sadly, the Fried Rice Nazi is gone. In its place sits a kebab shop where lovely men happily customize your donair however you like. Kind. Pleasant. Emotionally healthy. Good food too. But part of me misses dinner with consequences. Sometimes food should feel like a dangerous ex you absolutely should not text back.

Day 2 - Taunton

The journey toward the start of something big continues. Today brought a 5.5 hour bus ride to Taunton. Not my preferred mode of transport. In fact, buses sit at the very bottom of my travel hierarchy somewhere between food poisoning and trying to assemble IKEA furniture during an emotional crisis. Diesel buses in particular have a unique gift for making my stomach file an immediate resignation letter. This is why we break up the trip to Minehead, the official beginning of the South West Coast Path, because there is no universe where I willingly spend nine hours marinating in bus fumes. So Taunton it is. Met a lovely silver fox at the bus stop who was on his way to Vienna to walk twenty two days to Salzburg. At 79, he told me he'd retired from mountain climbing and traded crampons for hikes where both feet remain politely acquainted with the ground. We swapped adventure war stories like old sailors. Fun fact, pilgrims have walked routes through Europe for over a thousand years searching for meaning, God, or maybe just a really good pub. Humans have always had this strange habit of walking enormous distances to figure themselves out. We hugged and shuffled onward like two beautifully weathered side characters in an indie film. Then came Busgate 2026. We boarded to find our reserved front row anti-vomit seats occupied by a woman who had apparently entered her final form and chosen chaos. She insisted she got there first. Which is bold considering our seats had giant RESERVED signs on them. Aging is funny. Somewhere along the way your people pleasing software crashes and suddenly your comfort becomes a hill you are prepared to quietly die on. Good news, the driver moved her. Bad news, he drove with the window open and I spent five and a half hours freezing body parts that deserve warmer treatment. But I did not puke. Victory tastes strange. These tiny inconveniences hit differently when jet lagged. They also remind me of the absurd privilege of having this be my biggest problem. The world follows us now. Wars, grief, suffering. We cannot outrun it and maybe we shouldn't. Carry a little if you cannot carry a lot. History has taught us that civilizations survive because people shoulder small pieces of each other's burdens. We were never meant to carry everything. We were never meant to carry nothing. Tonight we're at the Corner House, which sounds exactly like the sort of pub Tolkien might have wandered into before inventing hobbits. There is a glorious Sunday roast, a bathtub large enough for emotional rebirth, and enough tea and Biscoff supplies that I could host half of you for snacks and collective life debriefing. Tomorrow brings another two hours on a bus to Minehead. After that, the walking begins.  Peace out my pretties!  Love you all <3 

The Start of Something Big!

 Guess what? It’s ADVENTURE TIME! No, not the Finn and Jake variety roaming the Land of Ooo. This is an Elizabeth Adventure. Same chaotic energy, fewer magical powers, more questionable life choices. I head off on some absurdly long path somewhere on Earth and uncover brutal truths about myself that later become daily musings designed to either delight people or make them mute me. We aim for balance. Life, after all, is just a charcuterie board of enlightenment and mild emotional damage.(Also Calves is here as trusty sidekick, medical expert, snack dealer, cold drink sommelier, and currently the human equivalent of one of those weighted blankets everyone on TikTok swears by.)So where are we going? The South West Coast Path. Yes THAT one. The Salt Path one. The one that launched a thousand Camino forum debates and the one we walked ten years ago, producing a near-spiritual experience fueled largely by the repeated cries of “Jesus Christ” and “Oh my God.” Fun fact, the path has over 35,000 feet of elevation gain. Basically Everest if Everest served cream tea. Also SWCP now has a Stamp Passport so obviously THIS COUNTS AS A CAMINO. booyah

For 9 weeks we’ll yo-yo up and down England’s coastline through Cornwall, Devon, and Dorset. We’ll stay in weird places. Some intentionally. Some because the universe enjoys improv comedy. I promise color. I promise honesty. I promise enough emotional plot twists to keep things spicy. But mostly, I promise rain. Absolute biblical quantities of rain.

It's All Downhill (and a lot of Uphill) from here

So... as you may have guessed I am behind in blog posts.  Thing is, walking 8 or 9 hrs a day is tiring!!  My life for the past 10 days has been walk, sleep, walk, sleep.  We've also had some wild adventures that I will get to in the next post.  But then again, would you expect anything less from me? ;-) 

June 3, 2016

Rest Day in Bude

So not much to report on Bude.  It is a nice place to have a day off from walking and for Ken to hit the shops looking for replacement underpants.  He eventfully found a pair at a local running store that cost way more than a pair of underwear ever should.  They are some new space age seamless athletic design for no chafing and sweat wicking.  Apparently, all the guys who run the London Marathon swear by them.  All except one guy who posted a Google review of 3 stars.  He said that at 50, he needed more “support” from his Runderroos.  So now Ken has buyer’s remorse and I have to keep reminding him that this is not a marathon – this is a meditative walking experience - so the only support he needs is for his arches and his Third Eye opening.

We stayed with a guy named Steve (Airbnb) and had a great time.  His dad was visiting and they were both hilarious. He gave us the bedroom with the jetted tub which, yes, I lived in for two days.  A few years ago Steve also hosted a documentary team who were filming a British Special Forces guy trying to run the entire SWCP in 10 days (this same guy also re-created Shackleton’s row boat journey from Elephant Island to South Georgian Island using the same gear as Shackleton).  Anyway, he did make it with the Shackleton re-creation but he blew out his knee on day 5 of the run.  Not sure what this means for us as he dropped out on the stage we have to do tomorrow.  But Ken does have his high tech running panties so that should give us an advantage.

June 4, 2016

Bude to Crackington Haven

19.13 km 

28,187 steps

The first half of this stage is fairly benign.  About 7 km in you get to Widemouth Bay, which has a nice beachside café for coffee.  We made a stop and soon after, the sea mist started rolling in and the day become grey and humid.  The last half is a lot of climbing and going back down again.  Then more climbing.  Then more going back down.  The kind of stuff my nail-less toes love.

Along the way we met another couple doing the trail in the opposite direction – Dave (retired Royal Marine) and his wife Carol.  They were running the trail in short shorts looking pretty damn fit and glamorous.  Dave probably had special issue military Runderroos that gave him an advantage on the climbs.  Anyway, they had their camper van parked at Crackington Haven and told us to come by for tea.  We got into Crackington Haven and did in fact find the van and had a nice tea break with new friends.  Afterwards, Dave and Carol offered to drive us to our B & B which was great because according to Google Maps, it was otherwise a 30-minute road walk.  We stayed at Hannah’s Cottage – a small working farm owned by Stephen and his partner Jonathan.  There was even a campsite down the lane for Dave and Carol!  The cottage was Martha Steward fabulous.  We got tea and chocolate cake when we arrived.  Then I completely flooded the new bathroom spraying the showerhead everywhere.  In the morning Stephen made us a HUGE breakfast with Mario Lanza playing in the background.  It was just like being in Cape Cod for the Tennesse Williams Festival all over again.

June 5, 2015

Crackington Haven to Tintagel

21.75 km

34,325 steps

We caught a lift with Dave and Carol back to the start point in Crackington Haven.  They would walk with us to Boscastle and then catch the bus back to their van while we “soldiered on” to Tintagel.  It was overcast and humid with more ups and downs to test the knees and de-nail the toes.  At Boscastle, we stopped and had lunch together while some random guy belted out Scottish folk tunes to raise money for veterans.  At one point, he started singing “The Wheels on the Bus go round and round” like he was Glen Daly. 

Boscastle’s two claims to fame (not withstanding the fundraising Scottish Bard) is the Witch museum and the flood of 2004.  We didn’t go to the museum but you can see a video on the flood in the info center.  I’d recommend Googling it on YouTube because it is quite an impressive feat of nature. The torrential rain led to a 2 m (7 ft.) rise in river levels in one hour. A 3 m (10 ft.) wave, believed to have been triggered by water pooling behind debris under a bridge suddenly gave way and surged down the valley into the town.  It was like a Tsunami.

From Boscastle it is on to Tintagel.  It was really humid by now with zero breeze.  Basically the next 4 hours sucked.  As you come to the end of the walk you see the cliffs of Tintagel Castle – the ruins of which are supposed to be the birthplace of King Arthur.  In fact, the entire village is one massive homage to King Arthur and Merlin.  It’s kind of Spamalot meets the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism).  By the time we got in, all the tourist re-enactments were closed but we got our fill at the King Arthur Arms where burly men in chainmail and Celtic war paint played pool and checked their iPhones for messages. 

June 6, 2016

Tintagel to Port Isaac

18.63 km

29,297 km

Ugh.  Just when you think the worse bits are over you realize they are not.  Trailblazers describe this section as “the most challenging leg of the whole walk.  The trail itself is well trodden but the never ending series of ascents and descents may have the weak willed swearing to hang up their boots.”

So I think I just sort of blacked out at this point because I can’t remember how we made it from Tintagel to Port Isaac.

I do remember as we began the walk at the Merlin Caves that suddenly Dave and Carol popped out!  God damn.  Those two are not just epic runners they are also wizards! 

At some point we did make it into Port Isaac and found ourselves in front of a hotel with the biggest Great Dane I have ever seen.  This dog was mutant size.  The owner invited us up to visit him.  This dog weighs 165 lbs.  His head is the size of a small car.  On the veranda are two equally large life like statues of the same dog.  Ken goes over to them and says to the “live” dog “These look just like you!  I bet one of these is your ancestor.”  To which the owner in all his very British seriousness replies “Yes they are.  The one you are leaning on right now his great grandfather Sir Sachamo Lead Belly Manchester James Brown III.  I commissioned that statue to intern his ashes.”

Awkward….

Our lodgings for the night were at Lane End Farm with Nab and Linda.  What a great place!!  I am so sad they are retiring the B & B this year because these two are the best B & B proprietors I’ve ever met.  They are both so funny and can’t do enough to make your stay comfortable.  Linda even made me fresh haddock and poached eggs for breakfast.  Yes, fresh.  If you give her 24 hrs. notice she gets it from the fisherman at the docks.  She’s the type of woman you know takes zero shit from any man but has the heart of an angel.  I mean, this is a place that has a “ladies cupboard” filled with feminine hygiene products, hot water bottles, chocolate covered digestives cookies and Midol.  She and Nab have been married 42 years and Nab say they are still newlyweds (gush!).

Port Isaac is famous as the setting for the British series “Doc Martin.”  I have never seen it so I cannot tell you anything remarkable about it.  What I will say is that the village at the harbor is really nice and I wish we had more time to hang out there and people watch over coffee and gossip with Nab.

June 7, 2016

Port Isaac to Padstow

21.48 km

34,182 steps

“If medals were given out for the toughest section of the SWCP then the initial 3 miles of this winding 12 mile stage would certainly stand on the podium.”

Jesus F Christ.

ENOUGH WITH THE REPETIVE CLIMBING AND ASCENDING ALREADY!!

So the good news is this is really, really supposed to be the last of the SWCP death marches.  This better be for real, this time, because I do not have enough toenails to sacrifice to the SWCP God to get me through another stage.  My knees are organizing a revolt and are forming a union, which means they will demand a lot more break time than Ken is currently allowing.  I fear a crippling strike is imminent.

About all I can remember for this stage are being hot and sticky, sweating a lot, climbing a lot and then having to walk stinking to high heaven on a beach for 2 hours.  Sand is not your friend when you are on the SWCP. 

The torture ends at Rock where you catch a ferry over to Padstow for the night.  Padstow is fondly referred to as “Padstein” in deference to Rick Stein.  Until now we had no idea who he was but he is THE GUY when it comes to Michelin star food cuisine in England.  He has had a cooking/travel series on TV for the last 7 yrs., has nine dining establishments and a cooking school devoted to seafood in Padstow.  So here we are in a foodie’s paradise and didn’t even know it!  We thought about dinner at one of his seafood places but they are closed Mondays and Tuesdays.  That and the $230 CDN per person price tag for a dinner sitting nixed the idea.  And all I have to wear is an Edward Sharpe concert T-shirt and a pair of lyrca shorts so takeaway Chinese it is!

June 8, 2016

Padstow to Porthcothan

24.62 km

36,207 steps

If you haven’t already guessed it, I am pretty tired at the end of the day so this section of the walk will only contain relevant highlights and some bitching and moaning.

As mentioned previously, the grinding ups and downs of the SWCP are behind us now so the walk is more humane.  My bald toes are grateful.

We spent the night in Porthcothan at the Penlan B & B.  When we arrived, there was a large German Shepard lying under a shrub in the front yard.  He looked like he was dead.  Seriously.  We got to the front door there was a sign that said “BEWARE OF GUARD DOG.”  The proprietor (Mary) greets us and Ken makes a joke about the “guard dog sleeping on duty.”  Mary freaks out and pushes past us yelling “SKYE SKYE” and proceeds to shake the dead dog violently under the shrubs.  Skye suddenly leaps to his feet dazed and confused and starts barking wildly while looking around at what exactly or why he has been aroused from his nap.  Afterwards Mary tells us that 3 months ago Skye began to have seizures.  They have since learned he has a brain tumor.  Since Skye is already 12 years old they are just focusing on palliative care for him.  Ken is batting 0 for 0 in the dog joke arena.  He made up for it when the Swedish woman who was staying next door came into our room in a towel asking Ken if he could help her turn on her shower.  Apparently he is much better working out the hot water system than he is with dry canine humor.  We had dinner up the hill at some shitty pub where Ken complained about the sun being in his eyes and I whacked moles in the arcade.  

(I would like to take this opportunity to give a big shout out to another fabulous "couple" we met on the trail - Mick and John.  They were "racing" us for the first week of the SWCP and then they bailed.  Something about the SWCP not being manly and rugged enough for them so they blew us off to go hike the Welsh Coast.  Good luck boys!  Hold on to your knickers :-) 

Another day at the beach

When you give your dog raw meat and steroids...

Hey!  Who wants to ride the giant sling shot 20 times?

Bude - Land of the hipster life guards.  I so wanted to start something in the pool that day...

It really isn't a trip until I french kiss a cow

Straight outta Cornwall!

Where everyone gets crabs and then has to see Doc Martin in Port Isaac

Catching the ferry to Padstow

Druid Goats - they're real.

So....  Ken zoomed in on this photo after he took it and we are about 90% sure it is Prince Harry.  And as off the wall as that sounds, you need to realize that the reason Ken took this photo was that this beach stop was pretty much deserted except for a few guys "having coffee" across the street and this "surfer" running down to catch some waves.  It was so casual and yet, so out of place.  Plus dude is a hot bearded ginger with a board so it HAS to be royalty!

I CAN FLY!!

And so it goes....

And yet another lighthouse more epic than the one at Lynton

Another way point in the journey

Sometimes this trail really takes the piss out of you

Random snack van!!!

Another toe nail bites the dust

SWCP screen saver moment

Ken living on the edge

Ken makes a new friend

Ken looking to see when the next Chinese Take Away shows up on the path

Me whacking the patriarchy - uh moles - at the bar.