Day 6 - Lynton to Combe Martin:  23.48 km

Holy mother of God. If yesterday was exhaustion, today was basically “take me behind the barn and end it kindly.” This stage was brutal and also contained some of the most staggeringly beautiful scenery I have ever been lucky enough to witness. Which is the real personality of the South West Coast Path. It seduces you with beauty and then immediately tries to destroy your knees. This is why whenever people start romanticizing the Camino del Norte as a “coastal walk” I have to physically restrain myself from becoming insufferable. Babe. The Norte is lovely. But THIS? THIS is a coastal walk. The SWCP looks at your spirit and says, “Let us test the structural integrity of that.”

The day actually began well enough. I woke up feeling surprisingly human. No major pain beyond quads that felt like I had spent a solid week doing leg day with angry gym bros named Connor. That kind of suffering I can manage. What I was not prepared for was my knees staging a full labor strike halfway down the staircase into the grand ballroom of the Valley of the Rocks Hotel. One minute I was descending like a Victorian heiress. The next my joints collectively announced, “Absolutely not. We quit.” So I started the day hobbling along like a pirate with unresolved trauma, desperately hoping I could Hegseth my way through this situation and simply “walk it off.” Downed Tylenol. Added Advil. Pulled on my stubborn bitch hat and carried on because sometimes perseverance is just pharmaceutical optimism and spite.

A good portion of today's route was paved or beautifully groomed trail which meant fewer rocks and murderous staircases trying to fling me directly into the Atlantic. Small mercies. But it still involved around 850 metres of elevation gain and loss and gain and loss which slowly turns your legs into overcooked linguine. Honestly I should have known this section would be hell considering the only creatures thriving here are the wild goats of the Valley of the Rocks who dance effortlessly across cliffs while staring at human hikers with utter contempt. Their tiny cloven hooves mocking our flimsy evolutionary choices. The Abbey also decided to close the tea house today which meant once again no tea and scones. This betrayal cut deep. And for anyone considering this route, understand this clearly. Once you are in, you are IN. There are very few bailout points. Which means thank God the weather held because this entire stretch in the rain would have been absolute nonsense. Beautiful nonsense. But nonsense nonetheless.

A highlight of the day was the promise of a massive 200 metre waterfall that had us positively giddy. Along the way we passed a small but lovely cascade guarded by what I can only describe as a bloodthirsty airborne cartel of midges. Tiny wings. Big violence. We ignored it because surely that could not be the waterfall. I had built this thing up in my head as some UK answer to Takakkaw Falls in Yoho where water descends with enough force to rearrange your soul and your hairstyle. So we kept walking in anticipation of the grand reveal. ... that was the reveal. That tiny cascade. Somewhere expectations and reality briefly met in a dark alley and had words.

The final stretch of the day was a knee screaming descent to sea level followed by the climb to Great Hangman, or as Ken lovingly renamed it, Rock Nipple Hill. This is where things got spicy. My knees had officially entered their villain era. To be fair, I have done steeper descents. But these South West Coast Path descents go on forever. They are less hills and more long emotional conversations with gravity. By the time I reached the bottom I was essentially crab walking like a sleep deprived woodland cryptid. More painkillers were required and because both of us had run out of water, I dry swallowed them like a Victorian street performer accepting fate. Then came the slow climb toward the highest point on the route. My cardiovascular system was furious but my knees offered a temporary ceasefire provided I stopped hurling them downhill. Great Hangman, despite sounding like an unfortunate pirate nickname, gets its name from old gallows sites. Thankfully the final 5.5 kilometres into Combe Martin unfolded as a gentle grassy descent. By the time we reached our digs, I was absolutely cooked.

Tonight we are at Saffron House BnB complete with a pool, a resident welcome cat and a fully stocked Tiki Bar. This is the sort of absurd luxury that appears on trails exactly when your spirit has left your body. I collapsed face first onto the bed while Ken heroically journeyed to the Co-op for provisions. I had neither energy nor appetite for pub food. I wanted only darkness, horizontal living and perhaps a medically induced twelve hour nap. The good news is once I showered and got off my feet, my knees reluctantly agreed to return to work. Tomorrow is a shorter day and a rest day waits a few stages ahead like a promised land. I remain optimistic. And if recovery fails, there is always alcohol and a donkey. History suggests humanity has solved many problems with both.

Peace out my pretties! Love you all 

 Day 5 - Porlock to Lynton: 24.87 km

OMFG. I am so profoundly tired I can barely focus my eyeballs. Today was a beast. Out the door at 9:30 and not rolling into our hotel until 5:40 pm. I am operating on the last flickering battery bar of human existence and feel approximately one emotional support pastry away from openly weeping. The SWCP is not for the faint of heart. Even though I walked this ten years ago, my brain had apparently performed the psychological equivalent of deleting ex photos from Instagram. I started the day full of confidence and ended it transformed into a grumpy bog creature desperately in need of a full body massage. No, I did not get the massage. Tragedy has many forms. On the plus side, the weather finally chose cooperation. Slight overcast. No rain. The hills still came at us like unpaid debts, but at least they were not actively trying to suck the life from my bones. My knees, however, are filing formal complaints regarding the descents. We took the high route rather than the sea level option involving repeatedly descending and climbing roughly 700 metres because there was absolutely no way I was missing the famous railway at the end. Thankfully the railway ran until 6 pm because there is not a chance in hell I was climbing from Lynmouth afterward. Sometimes wisdom is simply knowing when your soul and quadriceps have reached a labor dispute.

Part of today's suffering was sleep deprivation. Despite the grandeur of our Asian turret room, it was hot as Satan's group chat. For women over sixty, "too hot" means anything above  eight degrees at night. I slept with the French doors wide open chasing a breeze that never arrived. Then at 4:30 a.m. four thousand birds assembled outside our veranda and launched into what can only be described as Coachella for sparrows. Then came the garbage truck hurling glass bottles into bins with all the subtlety of Viking raiders arriving by sea. First world problems, absolutely. Problems many would trade for in a heartbeat. But I still could have used the three hours stolen by noise and the three more stolen by insensitive garbage men. 

Highlights today included encountering  a land shark in the middle of the forest. No explanation. No context. Then we stumbled upon a random honesty art stall where you simply paid what you felt was fair for hand painted tiles. I bought the one covered in cats because I am many things, but apparently immune to feline propaganda is not one of them. There was Culbone Church, the tiniest church in the UK and filming location for Mike and the Mechanics' “In the Living Years.” Tiny in size, heavy in history. It was built to serve people with leprosy who lived isolated in the woods. They could not enter for fear of contagion, so they stood outside listening through small openings in the walls. Humanity has always lived somewhere between compassion and terror. Then we wandered past the former home of Ada Lovelace who was writing algorithms in the 1840s while future tech bros were still several generations away from being a gleam in history's eye. Imagine explaining to Victorian society that the woman quietly doing maths in her notebooks would someday be called the world's first computer programmer.  Lunch happened at Sister's Fountain, a natural spring and ancient Druid holy well. Moss. Trees. Water bubbling from the earth. Pagan woodland energy. I was absolutely in my element and one flower crown away from becoming the mysterious forest woman children whisper about. The final two hours were savage. Ridge walking in high winds with cliffs beside us and my enthusiasm evaporated within thirty minutes. There comes a point on long walks where your spirit and your body begin negotiating separate contracts. We reached the choice point before Lynmouth. Continue up and down the cliff path or cut inland onto pavement. My heart wanted the cliffs. My knees filed a formal union grievance. Road it was. At least on pavement we could move faster because by then I urgently needed a toilet and there are few forces in nature more motivating than a hiker with purpose.

Tonight we are staying at the Valley of the Rocks Hotel, a massive grand dame with serious Overlook Hotel energy. Stephen King would walk in here, look around, and immediately start taking notes. Built in 1808, the place feels gloriously untouched by modernity. You can practically hear the ghosts of wealthy Victorians rustling through the corridors in search of sherry and scandal. Back in the day this was clearly THE place to see and be seen. It has a giant TACO inspired ballroom, endless hallways, hidden staircases and enough twists and turns to make you question both architecture and reality. We had an absolute hell of a time finding our room. The place stretches on forever. Ken joked we needed GPS or breadcrumbs or we would spend eternity wandering the halls like mildly inconvenienced Victorian spirits with unresolved emotional baggage.

Dinner was at the Queens Pub where I ordered Thai noodles with pork belly and was presented with what appeared to be an entire pig wearing a garnish of noodles. Historians tell us pork belly was once considered peasant food because it was cheap and fatty. Humanity eventually realized fat equals joy and now people line up and pay ridiculous money for it. Progress. I went full cave woman on that meal because this girl needs protein after spending all day negotiating peace treaties between my body and gravity.

Anyway, that is a wrap for tonight. Tomorrow is another beast of a day so I need to slather Voltaren across my legs like some medieval healing salve and get a few hours sleep in our ancient room. It exists somewhere between a Spartan Jesuit prayer cell and a university dorm circa 1982. Equal parts asceticism and impoverished Philosophy Major.

Peace out my pretties! Love you all