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

 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