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 

Poetic Pathways, Satan and Surfers

May 25, 2016

Lynmouth to Combe Martin

23.50 km

34,463 steps

According to our guidebook and our “helpful” proprietor, this day’s stage is supposed to be the hardest on the Devon Coast.  Ken tossed and turned most of the night worried we would be walking forever.  I had contacted our next lodging to let them know we may be late and thus we steeled ourselves with what we were told would be a day of many, many ups and downs.

But first, I have to mentioned how the pub “Mum” made us a HUGE breakfast with so much food I was able to make sandwiches with the left over toast, sausages and eggs.  So the good news is we shouldn’t bonk on our way to Combe Martin.  And we save money – more pounds for cider!

Once again the weather was fantastic which is both a blessing and a curse when you have a lot of climbing.  Great views because of the sun.  But hot going as the heart rate goes up.  If I have to work out, I’d rather it be a cold day than a warm one.  So perhaps I should re think any future hikes in deserts or any place where the temperature gets above 18 Celsius during the day.

Leaving Lynmouth you have one of two ways to get up to Lynton – the very cool antique cable car or walk.  Sadly, the cable car does not open until 10 am so we walked.  It’s a nice switchback path with lots of stairs and great views.  Although I could have done without a climb early in the morning I was glad we did since this route is also decorated with poetry plaques from a contest held a few years ago.  In 2014, poetry boxes where left on trail viewpoints for people to stop, linger and pen some prose.  They would leave them in the box and eventually, out of 2000+ poems collected, a series of 24 were chosen.  They now dot the way up attached to solar lamp posts.  My favorite was by 5-year-old Casey:

I am sitting in the sun

I am sitting with my Mum

I am sitting on my bum

There are lots of sailboats

And seagulls

The end I want ice cream

After leaving Lynton we enter the Valley of the Rocks with formations such as “The Devil’s Cheesewring” and “Jack’s Castle.”  Legend has it the stunning formations were once a castle filled with beautiful women who were the wives’ of the Devil (also known as Jack).  One day the Devil returned home and found his wives indulging in a drunken orgy and in a fit of rage, he destroyed the castle and turned all the women into stone pillars.  (I know.  I know.  Devil.  Orgy.  Why was this even an issue… but someone else made up the legend not me.)  Prior to Roman and Christian invasion, this was a popular site for Druids to congregate for ritual.  Nowadays, it is used as a routing for extreme runners in the Lorna Doone ultra marathon held in September.

From Valley of the Rocks it's down into the stunning grounds of Lee Abbey and then back up again via Woody Bay to the old Roman “fortlet” on top of Highveer Point.  We didn’t see any fortlet but we did see signs saying Hunter’s Inn (SCONES!!)  at the bottom of the valley!  So SHUT UP LEGS let’s get down this valley pronto!

The descent into the Heddon Valley is the steepest in England and your knees will never forgive you for it but you can’t beat the spectacular scenery on the way down.  The river Heddon empties into the beach at the base of majestic cliffs.  The valley floor is forested and serene.  I did not get any scones because it was a 2km hike off the trail to Hunter’s Inn and Ken had us on a ridiculous military march schedule due to all the drama around this stage being so arduous. 

So now begins the climb up.  Way up.  From here we do a lot of switchbacks with stairs that are not ergonomic (my knees hate me) until we reach the top of Great Hangman – sea level to 1,043 ft.   Another decent and then climb up “Little Hangman” and now we are on the home stretch into Combe Martin.

The good news is we are making excellent time.  We got into town around 5:30 and to our lodgings at the Cranleigh House by 6. This was our first Air BnB stay (ever) and one of many we will have throughout the walk.  Stewart and Katherine were great.  Very New Age and Zen.  So much so that when we arrived they mentioned they were in the middle of a cleanse and are vegan.  Ken is taking this all in while drinking a Diet Coke that he is trying to discreetly tuck under his jacket sleeve.  Good thing when we bought it at the corner store we didn’t also go for a couple of “Man Size” sausage rolls to munch on when we arrived.

Dinner that night was across the street at the famous “Pack O' Cards” so named because it has 52 windows, 4 floors, 13 doors on every floor and 13 fireplaces.  Sitting behind us was Leonard Nimoy’s doppelganger.  Or maybe it was Mr. Spock himself.  He's came back before so who’s to say it can’t happen again?

May 26, 2016

Combe Martin to Woolacombe

26.78 Km

38,511 steps

After two back to back climb days we were prepared to let our guard down and relax our way through this next stage into Woolacombe.  One of the things to look forward to is the halfway point at Ilfracombe – a beautiful harbor town that has been a summer retreat for the well heeled since Victorian times.  Getting into Ilfracombe was uneventful – some road walking and general path and bridleways.  The main draw as a walker for the town is food and a chance to check out “Verity” – a 65 ft. statue based on Damien Hirst’s “flayed pregnant girl” history.  The pose is reminiscent of Degas’s “Little Dancer” so basically Hirst’s statue is a fourteen year old girl who is nine months pregnant, nude, has the skin on one leg peeled back to see the muscles, half of her scalp is gone so you see her skull and her pregnant belly is sliced open so you can see the fetus in the womb.  An art critic from the Guardian described it as “Hirst exploring his inner Hannibal Lector”.  It’s a controversial piece to say the least that is only on loan from the Hirst estate. You know, until he gets a bigger place and wants it back for his own garden of the grotesque and macabre.

After a lack luster lunch of deep fried roast chicken (it’s how the chippy “warms it up") it was time to push on to Woolacombe.  From here, we undulate up and down the rugged coastline to our destination for the night.  Occasionally we see seals bobbing below.  Sheep and lamb dot the landscape punctuated by the occasional cow.  We dip into the vale to the tiny hamlet of Lee where again, I could have had scones but Ken stops for no one or nothing so I had to fuel my uphill climb on an apple and a few chocolate Minstrels that Ken told me AFTER THE FACT he had dropped in sheep dung but applied the 5 second rule so I should be fine.

Approaching Woolacombe you walk along the Damaged Cliffs and Bull Point Lighthouse (a way more climatic lighthouse than the one into Lynmouth).   Then a final push around Baggy Point and into Woolacombe

Woolacombe is known as a surfer’s paradise but I saw nary a wave.  There was also no Chinese Take-Away, which really annoyed me because all I could think of for the last 10 km was how badly I wanted beef and broccoli on rice and about 40 spring rolls.  Instead, we had takeaway chicken gumbo (surprisingly good!) and a mini bottle of prosecco for my legs. 

The (water driven) cable car up from Lynmouth to Lynton, which being purists we did not use ;-)

A flowery day at the beach

Got milk?

The path into Ilfracombe

Ken summits the rock nipple of the Great Hangman

Lamb escorts optional

I see Ewe!

Leaving Lynmouth-on the "switchback path of poetry..."

Surf's up at Woolacombe!

It's a long way to Poole...

Coming around the cliffs into Ilfracombe

Verity!  (If you want to see her in the flesh(less) you'll have to Google her)

Coming into Woolacombe

Damaged Beach

Leaving our mark at Woolacombe Beach 

Tea time with a view

The great grind...

Reflecting...