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