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