Day 12 - Clovelly to Hartland Abby:  20.43 km

Today was a beautiful, bruising masterclass in what makes the South West Coast Path the ultimate, soul-cleansing masochism. We ate dirt through ancient forests, tracked through endless fields, and traced dizzying, poetic cliff edges before the grand finale: a sketchy, adrenaline-fueled scramble up a disintegrating shale cliff in a howling gale. It is pure, unfiltered chaos. This is exactly why we crawled back to this trail for a second helping. We are gluttons for it.

But first, let us talk about last night’s sanctuary, Harbour View Cottage. We shared the place with a Belgian couple and a solo German woman, all of us bound by the scorched trauma of the trail. The cottage is actually owned by a majestic, fluffy black cat who simply hires humans to fry the eggs and scrub the linens. The brutal reality of Clovelly is your options for a bed are basically nonexistent. Day-trippers clog the veins of this place, visiting the Charles Kingsley museum of toxic masculinity before vanishing. Let me give you some unfiltered real talk about the stretch from Westward Ho! to Bude: there is absolutely fuck all out here. No corner shops, no cheap thrills. Unless you want to sleep in a ditch, prepare to cough up 200 British pounds a night to the landed gentry who have hoarded this land since the Norman Conquest. You will pay 16 pounds for a mediocre pub meal, and you will not complain. It won’t wow you, but it will keep you alive. Shut up, pay the aristocratic tax, and drink in the decadent, jagged views.

Last night, staggering up the brutal Clovelly incline from the Red Lion Pub, I paused to photograph one of the neighborhood's feline overlords. The moment I set my pizza box down on the cobbles, this miniature apex predator claimed it with the audacity of a lion over a fresh gazelle kill. When I tried to negotiate, the little bastard chose violence, executing a series of full-talon strikes across my knuckles that left me bleeding and deeply humbled. It was an absolute hostage situation until a rogue pigeon landed nearby, breaking his psychotic focus. Let me be clear: if you are allergic to cats or lack submission to your feline masters, avoid Clovelly. Here, cats are deities. Donkeys are royalty. Humans are just transient wallets with opposable thumbs.

This coastline is beautiful, but it is deeply haunted. During the World Wars, Allied soldiers trained for the meat grinder on these unforgiving cliffs. Clearly, the learning curve was steep and bloody; the route is peppered with grim memorials for hospital ships and fighter planes that slammed into the jagged rocks below. An eerie, fully operational radar tower still looms above, watching the gray sea like a cold, paranoid relic. Today’s hiking conditions were a civilized 18 degrees and overcast,  until the sky darkened and the Atlantic wind threatened to snap us in half. Having packed zero layers like absolute amateurs, we were forced to double-time it to avoid hypothermia. Then, a legitimate miracle occurred. The elusive, mythical “Brigadoon Cafe”, a pop-up shack that rumor says only opens on a Thursday full moon when the wind hits exactly right, was actually open. Within minutes, twenty desperate hikers converged on the place, worshipping homemade millionaire shortbread bars. When a German hiker walked past holding his caramel-chocolate trophy, the crowd gasped as if he were cradling the original Magna Carta.

The final five kilometers trace the high cliffs overlooking the most treacherous, ship-eating coastline in England. Windswept and utterly devoid of human architecture, this landscape feels like a vast, untouched wonderland where you half expect a herd of woolly mammoths to lumber over the next ridge. You can feel the ancient, druidic energy vibrating through the soil. From the churning Atlantic below, the kelpies call your name, begging you to plunge into their cold, seductive arms. The descents are wicked and wild, followed by near-vertical climbs on ancient, crumbling shale that nobody in their right mind wants to navigate during a storm. The wind gives absolutely no quarter, and the sheep on the lower slopes watch the struggle with sadistic amusement, seemingly laying bets on who will tumble into the sea and who will reach the summit in triumph.

From that edge, we turned inland toward the Abbey. Hartland itself sits three kilometers off the path, a brutal detour unless you splurge on the Hartland Quay Hotel, which balances precariously on the cliffs like a drunkard facing the sea. Instead, we booked an Airbnb in the Abbey’s Hunting Lodge, positioned halfway between the trail and the town. The listing was hilariously uninspiring: Nigel the gardener and his army of eight wiener dogs, offering a spartan room with basic tea and toast. The instructions specified the key was hidden under a clay monkey and must be replaced immediately. We expected a damp hut inhabited by a hermit who talks to trees. Imagine our absolute shock to discover a massive, decadent estate filled with priceless antiques, a live parrot, a gentle bloodhound, and Nigel’s lover, Jonathan, rocking short shorts and waiting to greet us. Eddie, a former chauffeur, then whisked us into town for dinner at the Anchor Inn. The pub was a glorious sanctuary of magical misfits: a crew playing Dungeons and Dragons in the corner, a book club cackling by the fireplace, kids playing snooker, and a guy who looked suspiciously like Santa Claus in Harris tweed playing the flute. The barmaid, who looked descended from Boudicca herself, poured the most generous glass of wine I have ever witnessed in the United Kingdom, paired with the finest fish this side of the Atlantic. Eddie warned us we would never want to leave, despite our strict instructions for a nine o'clock pickup. He was entirely right. I could have stayed in that beautiful, boozy haven forever, frozen in time like Brigadoon.

Day 11 - Westward Ho! to Clovelly: 22.59 km 

I need to get this write up done fast because emotionally and physically I have already checked out and I am ready to dissolve into Family Guy reruns like a Victorian lady succumbing to consumption. I am absolutely cooked. At the end of each day all I crave is an ice cold shower and the sweet intimacy of horizontal silence until morning, interrupted only by the biological tyranny of needing a wee. This heat is obscene.  Mercifully, the weather gods appear to be ending their BDSM experiment with Britain. Temperatures are dropping back to a civilised 15 to 18 Celsius with intermittent rain. Perfect. If the universe insists on punishing me, I would rather be slapped around by rain than slowly rotisserie cooked in hiking tights. Last night we stayed in an Airbnb run by two lesbian firefighters.  Lovely couple. Great spaniel called Flynn. We barely saw them because they were out rescuing a horse that had fallen into a ravine searching for water and a couple of dogs that launched themselves off cliffs chasing rabbits with the blind confidence of drunk men in cargo shorts. I could have used a firewoman carrying me back uphill to Tesco  but it felt greedy to ask considering one of them had already rushed out to buy us a fan for the bedroom.  Evenings in Westward Ho! are gloriously chaotic. Teenagers drifting along the promenade drinking booze they absolutely should not have, swearing at each other with Shakespearean creativity, full of cheap perfume and sunburnt bad decisions. And somehow I adore it here. It reminds me so much of childhood summers in the Okanagan. Endless daylight. Heat rising off pavement. Water sparkling like temptation. Arcades humming with sticky carpets and hormones. Flirting at fourteen with the twenty five year old guy behind the counter who thankfully treated us like annoying gnats instead of prey.

Today was one of those proper South West Coast Path days where the cliffs stand dramatic and seductive like they know exactly how small and sweaty you are. 

Somewhere along the route we met a coven of senior crones also walking the SWCP and one absolute legend is doing the entire route solo at eighty years old. Eighty. Meanwhile I groan every time I stand up like an Ikea wardrobe settling into old floorboards. Here I was thinking this might be my last grand physical adventure and along comes Power Granny striding up hills with the energy of a retired Viking. I genuinely cannot decide whether to feel inspired or deeply humiliated. Probably both. Aging is weird. One minute you are buying anti chafe cream and the next you are being dominated by an octogenarian in zip off trousers.

The final five kilometres into Clovelly follow what they call a “donkey cart path,” which is basically a road and a trail getting drunk together and making poor decisions. Mercifully flat so I absolutely tore along because at this point I needed to pee with the intensity of a Victorian heroine trapped in a corset, and I also desperately wanted to pet the donkeys. Clovelly once used donkeys to haul goods up and down its brutally steep cobbled streets. Imagine my despair upon discovering the public toilets before entering the village had vanished into myth  and the donkeys themselves were fully booked out by tourists paying to walk them around for wholesome Instagram content. Absolute betrayal. I did not slog up and down these cliffs like a dehydrated witch for some family from Chelsea to monopolise all available donkey affection and parade them into the sea for a photoshoot. Criminal behaviour. Also, be warned. Once you start this stage there are  zero escape routes and food options are limited to overpriced pub meals with all the passion and seasoning of damp cardboard. Pack snacks. Pack water. Pack emotional resilience.

So about Clovelly: a salt-crusted vertigo-trip of a fishing village spilling down a brutal 400-foot Devon cliff like a tray of fine porcelain. Since 1738, the Hamlyn family has owned this impossibly steep fiefdom, keeping it aggressively  frozen in time. There are zero cars.  Just ancient cobblestones slick with sea mist and donkey shit. Everything—your luggage, the beer, the ghosts—moves by wooden sledge, gravity, and pure, leg-day masochism. It is gorgeous, punishing, and deeply beautifully. Look past the fuchsia-choked cottages and you find Crazy Kate’s place. Two centuries ago, Kate watched her fisherman husband drown right from her window. Grief is a hell of a drug; on their anniversary, she donned her wedding dress and walked off the 14th-century quay into the black Atlantic.  reunited in watery grave with her love. Today, we call that "unhinged main character energy," but back then, it was just the heavy, poetic cost of loving the sea. Now, the universe laughs: you sit outside the Red Lion Pub, crushing a pint of bitter, watching modern, feral British kids jump off that exact same pier completely unsupervised. Meanwhile, their sun-baked parents yell from the beer garden for the family terrier to "shut it now, Davy!" Clovelly has always been a sanctuary for heartbroken elites. Charles Kingsley hid out here after his devastating breakup with Captain George Molesworth. Charles Dickens frequented the village supposedly with a "cousin" who definitely was not his cousin.It is a glorious, vertical rehab where literary icons fled after completely torpedoing their personal lives.  I get it. You come for the raw, untamed romance of a bygone era, you stay because your knees are too shattered to hike back up the hill, and you drown your existential dread in the greasiest burger, chips and pizza this side of the century.