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.