Day 10 - Instow to Westward Ho!:  20.98 km

This heat wave is going to be the death of me. I absolutely HATE hiking in heat and the last two days have turned me into a grumpy woodland cryptid staggering from shade patch to shade patch in search of mercy. By the time I arrive anywhere I am physically present but spiritually somewhere behind me on the trail having a minor breakdown. The one saving grace is these last two stages have been flatter than a conspiracy theory about the earth's geometry. My knees are thrilled. Civilization has also provided one great gift. Cold drinks. Plenty of them. But sweet Lord, stopping is dangerous. Sit in the shade with a little sea breeze and suddenly your body begins whispering seductive lies like, "What if we simply stayed here forever?"

Our stay at the Wayfarer Inn was, overall, a lovely one. The room had a glorious king size bed. We were gifted a fruit basket and homemade cookies. The woman at the bar handed us two enormous glasses packed with ice for our water and breakfast the next morning was so absurdly generous we had enough leftovers to build bacon and sausage sandwiches for later. I will have to inform David that he needs to elevate his game and begin serving full English breakfasts in bed to Serena, Pancake and yours truly whenever I next visit. Standards have now been established. My one complaint was the bloody recycling truck that arrived at 5:50 a.m. to unload what sounded like ten thousand beer bottles into the back. Historians tell us air raid sirens were designed for psychological effect and I can confirm this truck had mastered the art. My own startled shrieks only added to the overall wartime atmosphere. Then came the birds. Because to survive this heat we slept with every window open and the scaffolding outside had transformed into the perfect stage for a seagull and pigeon production of Les Misérables. The people sang. The birds sang. Nobody slept.

Today wasn’t a highlight reel for the ages. No dreamy café pit stops.  Instead, we shared a cold drink on the Bideford waterfront with the local homeless lads. Sometimes the richest moments arrive dressed like loose change and tired shoes. Bideford once shipped tobacco and pottery across oceans, now here we were trading stories and shade beneath a very undemocratic sun. Then on to Appledore where finding somewhere shady for lunch turned into a side quest survival challenge. We finally discovered two rowboats propped against the seawall and squeezed ourselves between them like exhausted goblins seeking sanctuary. Gourmet dining? Not quite. Pirate chic with a side of sandwiches? Absolutely. Then came the last two hours into Westward Ho! Thankfully the path softened into grass beside a golf course, ocean rolling beside us like nature showing off. A breeze drifted through and suddenly the day stopped feeling like a boss battle and more like grace.

Tonight we are in  Westward Ho! Would it even be here without Charles Kingsley? One bestselling novel and suddenly Victorian tourists started descending on the coast, absolutely thirst trapping themselves over windswept cliffs and literary feelings. Nineteenth century people really said, "this book emotionally wrecked me, let me travel several days by carriage and make it my entire personality." Without that tidal wave of obsessed visitors, would the Northam Burrows Hotel and Villa Company ever have happened? Would this village even exist in the shape we know it today? The delicious irony is Kingsley apparently hated the idea of development. He wanted the landscape left wild and untamed. Legend has it that when his friend and landlord Captain George Mill Frederick Molesworth announced the village would be named after the book, things got very spicy Voices raised. Tempers flaring. Victorian side eye at DEFCON 1. Then silence. Friendship over. Imagine ending a friendship because someone slapped your book title on a village. Men really will do anything except attend therapy. And perhaps that exclamation mark in Ho! was not excitement after all. Perhaps it was Charles yelling, "George, you absolute son of a Ho!" History rarely records the really good bits.

Then came my own romantic subplot with nature. Despite being covered head to toe like a budget medieval knight,, I somehow collected four ticks. Ken wandered around with bare arms and legs like nature's chosen one and got absolutely. Two attached to the backs of my hands and two found the tiny exposed strip between sock and tights. Tiny little vampires with Navy SEAL energy and a disturbingly enthusiastic work ethic. Ken then spent the best part of an hour performing tick surgery while I lay there feeling like a budget period drama heroine. We got them before they turned my blood into an all you can eat buffet, so no panic please. Just a gentle warning to UK walkers. They are out there. Tiny, horny for ankles, and moving through the grass with unhinged determination.