Day 8 - Ilfracombe to Braunton: 24.83 km

Day 9 - Rest Day

I am sure a few of you noticed I disappeared yesterday and there are three reasons for this. First, this stage was one of the most boring walks I have done in the UK. Second, I was bone tired.  And third, the place we are staying for two nights has the sweetest hosts and two of the cutest dogs on Earth so honestly... priorities. History remembers many great human achievements. I personally would like it to remember me choosing dogs over productivity.

Now for the logistics. Our stay in Ilfracombe, forever remembered as the place where Ken dropped his shoe on a seagull, was at the Dilkhusa Grand Hotel. Grand in size, certainly. Another one of those places where finding your room feels less like hospitality and more like competing in a labyrinth designed by a Victorian duke with unresolved issues. There were warning signs everywhere about dangerously scalding bath water. This turned out to be the greatest work of fiction in the building because there was absolutely no hot water. None. We all endured lukewarm rinses while pretending not to mourn. Still the breakfast buffet bordered on spiritual healing, and the staff were lovely. Camino people would recognize the vibe instantly. It had faded Parador energy. 

Because we cut our previous stage short and never completed Ilfracombe to Woolacombe, we caught a bus and started from Woolacombe to Braunton. This was, in the language of philosophers and people making regrettable life choices, A BIG MISTAKE. We skipped one of the last glorious stretches of dramatic coastal walking and instead found ourselves on what can only be described as the filler episode of the South West Coast Path. There were magnificent surf beaches packed with long weekend wave chasers and endless dunes occupied by pre teen boys sand surfing while using language and metaphors only found on construction sites and locker rooms. These boys looked about twelve but sounded fully prepared to defend both their honor and their little sisters with startling confidence. The route passed through a UNESCO wildlife refuge which, if you are a birder, is basically the Catholic Equivalent of the Vatican with feathers. Rare birds, marshes and avian marvels everywhere. But by then we had no energy left for ornithological enlightenment. Instead we spent six hours collectively regretting not walking to Woolacombe and then busing to Braunton. Long distance walking teaches many lessons. One of them is that shortcuts occasionally charge interest.

Ok now about this place in Braunton.

We were met at the gate by Serena, David and their delightful dogs, Wookie the Wonder Whippet and Pancake the Too Cute for Words Poodle. Both looked like the canine equivalent of Chelsea girls who summer somewhere expensive and have opinions about linen. The house itself is stunningly modern and filled with what Ken and I initially assumed were very convincing reproductions of Old Masters alongside bursts of colorful contemporary work with unmistakable Basquiat energy. Reader, we were peasants in Narnia and did not yet know it. Last night unfolded in that rare way beautiful evenings sometimes do. Wine flowed, conversation wandered everywhere and nowhere, and the dogs made their rounds stealing socks and dispensing affection like tiny furry diplomats. At one point Serena was video chatting with her sister in France who was discussing renovations at her estate and wedding invitations involving Lords marrying Ladies at other Lords' estates in churches usually reserved for people with names that sound like law firms. The sort of world where everyone appears to have gone to Eton and inherited cheekbones and land. Ken and I sat there trying not to laugh because somehow we had been absorbed into this whole thing like distant cousins at Christmas. Everyone wanted to know about our walks, Canada and of course how we are all surviving under TACO. It was wonderfully surreal and unexpectedly warm. the British aristocracy built entire social systems around who belonged where. Yet there we sat, two exhausted walkers and a pair of sock stealing dogs, welcomed like family.

Now... back to the art.

It is ALL original. Every last bit. Our bedroom is filled with Dutch and Flemish Old Master etchings and oils. There are works by Francis Danby scattered through the house. The Basquiat inspired pieces? Let us just say the artwork hanging on these walls is probably worth one hundred times the value of our entire house. And yet they trust us completely. Doors unlocked. Kindness freely given. They are quite honestly among the nicest people we have met and I am going to be sad as hell leaving this little pocket of paradise and art world magic only to return to budget pubs and mystery carpets. And then there is David. Joined Christie's in 1969 as the youngest person in the Old Masters technical department. Ken assumed he was a barrister. I googled him and nearly levitated. The man casually mentioned none of this over Indian food and French wine. Apparently when asked what artwork he would most want to own, he chose the Bedford Hours in the British Library because of its exquisite painted pages and details. Absolute art nerd royalty behavior. Best part? According to his own biography, what he really wanted was to become an anesthetist but he missed out because, as he put it, "us thick boys had to do Bilge instead." Which honestly feels like the most British sentence ever assembled. Life is wild. One minute you think you've met a charming retired man with cute dogs and next thing you realize you've spent the evening drinking wine with a walking chapter of art history who KNOWS Mark Carney.  Understated elegance, honest charm, and generous hospitality may officially be my new life goals. But always with bold color and a healthy dose of weird.

 Day 7 - Combe Martin to Ilfracombe: 14.03 km

This has been one hell of a day and not because it physically broke me. This was one of those strange days where the vibes were simply... off. You know the kind. Nothing catastrophic happens but your spirit keeps snagging on invisible branches and no amount of walking lets you shake it loose. People say "walk it off" as though emotional static obeys the same rules as leg cramps. Sometimes your body moves forward and your brain lingers three hills behind, staring dramatically into the middle distance like it is auditioning for an indie film. Originally today was supposed to be a 24 kilometre march to Woolacombe followed by a bus or taxi ride back to Ilfracombe because there is nowhere sensible to stay on this section. Which translates into one of those trail days where optimism writes checks your body absolutely cannot cash. After yesterday, when my knees staged a labor strike so aggressive I was halfway to imagining a helicopter extraction off the cliffs, I looked at Ken and said there was absolutely no way in hell I was doing twenty four kilometres.I regret nothing.

Because of that decision I got to sleep in, enjoy a leisurely cooked breakfast and head out at 10:30 for around four hours of civilized walking. There is something deeply rebellious about listening to your body. Modern life keeps trying to convince us every moment should become content, productivity or achievement. Meanwhile every pilgrim, monk and wandering weirdo understands something we forgot. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is sit down and order another cup of tea. Combe Martin, by the way, recently stood in for California in the film The Roses. Personally I do not see it.  What Combe Martin does have is the Pack O Cards, a gloriously rowdy pub built in 1690 and designed around a deck of cards. Four floors, thirteen rooms, fifty two windows. There are lovely cafés and absurdly beautiful ocean views everywhere. It would have been nice to arrive before 6 p.m. and not in a semi feral state to enjoy them properly.

 

The walk itself was fairly uneventful. A little road, a little path, some climbing followed by a decent stroll into Ilfracombe where you are greeted by Damien Hirst’s Verity. A giant pregnant Lady Justice stands over the harbour holding a sword aloft in triumph while the other half of her body has been peeled back to reveal a fetus in anatomical detail.  I have absolutely no idea what Damien was going for here. Maybe justice. Maybe truth. Maybe unresolved mother issues. My first thought was, "This seems like an oddly specific thing to put here of all places." My second was, “Dude who exactly are you processing things about?" 

There was also supposed to be a nice tea shop about an hour before Ilfracombe but I am beginning to think God does not want me to have my Devon cream tea experience. Every tea shop so far has been closed. Every single one.  I came to Devon for tea and scones and instead I am being emotionally waterboarded by CLOSED signs.

Highlight of the day was Ken dropping his million dollar carbon fibre trekking poles over a seawall into a ravine and immediately taking off downhill like a man whose pension plan had become sentient and escaped. Full panic mode. Followed by Ken putting his shoes outside our room window to air out, only for them to tumble off the ledge onto the roof below, nearly taking out a nesting seagull. Somewhere that bird is telling a very traumatic story tonight. I will not be selecting Ken as my Everest climbing partner based on current evidence. Ilfracombe itself feels like the aftermath of a rough night out. I remember being here ten years ago and the place had a pulse. Now Brexit and an economy held together with tape and prayer seem written into the streets. Shuttered shops. Empty cafés. Hotels and BnBs with For Sale signs hanging around like abandoned Tinder profiles. There is a beer and cider festival happening in the park tonight though, which feels very British. Equal chance of a beautiful community gathering or absolute carnage. Somewhere between wholesome village fête and police paperwork. I may or may not investigate.

It felt heavy today. ” The Late Show ended and while I haven’t sat down to watch it in years, I remember the David Letterman era and those early Stephen Colbert years. I remember the wit, the irreverence, the art of looking power in the eye and saying, “Actually… no.” Knowing it ended because Colbert stood up to a bully filled me with a strange cocktail of emotions:  pride with a side of grief. Because I know, in my own much smaller way, the cost of speaking truth to power. I am nowhere near that influential. I don’t command audiences or shape headlines. But I know the double bind. I know that maddening gospel paradox where honesty gets praised in theory and punished in practice. Prophets really had the worst PR strategy imaginable. Even Jesus looked at systems of power and said, this isn’t it, and somehow people still chose empire. Humanity stays committed to the bit.

And I’ve felt sadness watching the women’s Camino community begin to mirror the worst parts of American politics. Somewhere along the way, difference stopped feeling welcomed and started feeling suspicious. I shared my journeys there not for likes or influence, but as a tiny signal fire to anyone who wasn’t white, straight, or conservative. Just a quiet way of saying: hey, if you feel like the odd one out, you’re not alone. There’s another one of us here. And yes, I’m angry that this can be seen as disruptive. But I also understand why. Difference unsettles power.  Because difference cracks open imagination. It whispers dangerous possibilities: what if another world exists? What if it’s kinder? What if liberation is bigger than we were told? Feminist readings of the New Testament understand this deeply. The women around Jesus were never threatening because they were loud. They were threatening because they testified to another way of being. I thought a lot today about Stephen Colbert and all the women and men who stood in truth before us. Those who paid much steeper prices than I ever have. And if this ache of alienation tells me anything, I suspect even the bravest among them went home some nights and wept. Not because they were weak. But because having a good heart in a hard world can feel like carrying water uphill.

Still… something is shifting.

We know the darkness of that shift. We see it every day. But darkness has always had one weakness: even the smallest light suddenly becomes impossible to ignore. 

I think the flicker is here.

And we are too.

A little bruised. A little tired. A little angry. But still rising.

Still burning with the glory of love.

 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