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.

 Day 9 - Braunton to Instow: 18.41 km

I genuinely do not know what is worse. The brutal climbs and descents that leave my knees filing end of life paperwork, or the unbearable heat and humidity that rolled over the coast today like one of those Old Testament plagues. Today was flat and gloriously free of soul crushing elevation which my knees celebrated enthusiastically. The rest of me, however, wanted to simply lie down in a hedge and await divine intervention because sweet merciful God it was hot. Today officially became the hottest May day ever recorded in the UK and it was absolutely savage. By noon it had reached 31 degrees and because this stage was almost entirely pavement walking, the heat rose off the road like punishment. Ancient Romans built roads to conquer continents and two thousand years later I would like to file a formal complaint. Pavement walking in extreme heat has all the romance of standing inside an air fryer while carrying a backpack and making increasingly hostile negotiations with your own nervous system. Truthfully I am not sure I can even manufacture an entertaining post because there was not much to entertain. Plenty of people out strolling and cycling. Lots of smiles, waves and cheerful hellos. Very little worthy of a photograph. I suppose I could say skip this stage entirely, but that feels wrong. The point of the SWCP is to do all of it, preferably in civilized stages like sensible British people with foresight and hotel bookings. Those of us from the go big or go home school of walking are being offered a very humbling lesson. Weather over twenty degrees on this route is not character building. It is a hostage negotiation. I kept having flashbacks to those endless exposed stretches on the Camino Portuguese leaving Lisbon where road and heat stretch on beyond reason and time itself starts behaving strangely. By the end I swear I had sweat out five pounds and all I wanted in the world was water, salt, and permission to sleep until next Thursday.

One saving grace of this stage is there is a lovely tea shop about three hours in. Right beside the river beneath actual shade and, praise be, SCONES. FINALLY. After days of longing and disappointment, I was reunited with my pastry soulmate. Under normal British conditions one has tea with a scone, but when the weather feels like Satan discovered central heating, one pivots to "fizz." Survival demands flexibility. They also served a shrimp sandwich so obscenely overfilled it looked less like lunch and more like a maritime event. Enough shrimp to feed a small battalion and enough Marie Rose sauce to relaunch the Royal Navy. Apparently the sauce became wildly popular in Britain during the 1960s when prawn cocktails ruled the culinary landscape. We spent a glorious hour and a half hiding in the shade, running our hands under ice cold tap water in the bathroom and behaving like heat stricken Victorian ladies recovering from a seaside fainting spell. There is a strange luxury in trail life where cold water on your wrists feels more decadent than champagne. Pilgrims have understood this for centuries. After enough miles, the smallest comforts become holy experiences. Then came the final ninety minute walk into Instow on a fully exposed path with not so much as a sympathetic cloud in sight. There is an option to divert onto a proper trail into town and for first timers I would absolutely recommend it. More nature.  Less bike path existentialism. But by then I had reached my thermal and emotional limits and wanted to arrive at the Wayfarer Inn for a cold shower and a nap. Any opportunity to shorten the suffering became irresistible. Judging by the six other hardened walkers making the same choice, we had all reached the same conclusion. Sometimes bravery is carrying on. Sometimes wisdom is taking the shortest route to air conditioning.

Tonight we are staying at the Wayfarer Inn, a pub currently deep in the beautiful chaos of renovation. At the moment it is mostly sleeping rooms and a promise that someone materializes tomorrow morning to make breakfast. Not exactly Serena and David levels of splendor, but that was always going to be an impossible standard. Going forward I suspect there will be fewer David Hockneys on the walls and significantly fewer Flemish Masters casually hanging in bedrooms. Saying goodbye this morning was unexpectedly hard. David made us promise we would return so we could all go birdwatching on Lundy Island and then attend literary festivals together. Which is perhaps the most gloriously British invitation imaginable. Last night over dinner on the patio we were chatting about South America when Serena casually said, “Let me find photos of the eco lodge with David.” I assumed she meant their David. Imagine my surprise when the David in question turned out to be David Attenborough. Just casually. No dramatic pause. No announcement. The same way someone else might mention they once met a cousin in Birmingham. There is something both refreshing and oddly humbling about that level of understatement. History's great explorers and naturalists often seem larger than life, but perhaps the truly interesting people know fame works best when worn lightly. I admitted I had always carried this North American idea that places like Eton and Oxford produced people with the emotional warmth of expensive marble countertops. Polished and intimidating. But what I have discovered here is a charming eccentricity to old British money. If you enjoy intelligent conversation, bird watching, dogs and strange stories, you seem welcomed into the fold. Case in point, local news recently told the story of mountain bikers near Balmoral who stumbled upon Charles wandering alone in the wilderness and ended up chatting with him for thirty minutes before being invited for tea at the gamekeeper's house. Because apparently this is a country where random encounters occasionally unfold like discarded chapters from a Tolkien novel. Walking has a way of stripping away rank and status. Mud on boots is the great equalizer. Out here hospitality flows freely and people welcome one another with the ease of old friends who simply happened to lose touch somewhere around the fourteenth century.

Pounding the Pavement

May 27, 2016

Woolacombe to Braunton

22.86 km

33,093 steps

Today was the day our luck ran out with the weather.  The forecast for the day was overcast with intermittent showers which meant digging out the rain pants and pack covers – it was going to be a wet one!  The morning started out fine.  No rain and beach and estuary walking all to our selves.  For this stage, the walking is flat so any push we make was more trying to beat the rain than make up time lost slogging up and down cliffs.  About two hours in we leave the beaches and head inland to Baggy Point also known as “Wreck Point” for its plethora of ship wrecks and the inability for rescue boats to get to it due to pounding surf and rocks.  Somewhere in the fields of green we lost our way and never made it to the point.  Instead we followed a wet overgrown footpath into the town of Croyde.  I was kind of glad for this since it was starting to rain and I could use a hot drink.  Croyde is another one of these beach towns that appears to completely subsist on vacationers renting trailers in trailer parks.  There are a lot of sand dunes that you can’t go on because it is a lizard protection zone but it does have a nice sandy beach that, even in the cold and rain, people were determined to use as if it was in Maui.  I felt rather pathetic shivering in a café while outside I could see children and adults in bathing suits running into waves blissfully unaware of the inclement weather. 

A break in the rain meant another push to Saunton.  There is not much here except the omnipresent Saunton Sands and the golf course/military training grounds.  Still, it was another welcome relief to come upon civilization because now the rain showers had morphed into rain torrents.  Again, we were fortunate that just as this set in we were at another coffee shop so yes, we settled in had more hot drinks.  It was definitely a moment of relieve and foreboding as we watched the rain pound down.  Relief that we were in a nice café and foreboding that this could be another “Wainwright Flashback” and have to endure 5 hrs. of walking in  “English Weather.”

Fortunately, the rain let up and we make the final push into Braunton.  This was mainly done through the golf course where you had to watch for flying balls and through the military training grounds where not much training seems to be happening.  This may be because this entire area is now a protected wildlife sanctuary for lizards and adders.  You see plenty of signs warning you to not let your horse our your person step on a lizard or adder because doing so can result in a hefty fine.  (Which had me wondering, how would anyone know?  Are the lizards and adders micro chipped?  Do those microchips record who stepped on them and when?  Or are all the lizards and adders under military protection and there, in the marsh, are hundreds of soldiers in gilly suits keeping a watchful eye on their assigned amphibian or snake?)

Our lodgings in Braunton were The Firs B & B.  It was quite a slog into it from the town proper but in the end proved to be well worth it.  The Bennings are avid competitive road cyclists and triathletes so Ken right away got treated to a tour of the cycling man cave of Jim and his son (who also co-owns the bike shop in town which yes, we had to make a pilgrimage to.  All hail the carbon fiber God who personally, I only worship because s/he comes with an espresso machine ready to re-caffeinate weary legs.)

Braunton is also home to the English surf museum where you can learn the history of surfing in the UK.  Seems it started around the turn of the century using coffin lids and progressed from there.  It seems a little less hang ten and more about after a few pints lets get crazy and ride some winter storm waves.  But hey, whatever gets you into the water!

May 29, 2016

Braunton to Instow

23.22 km

34,663 steps

After a much needed rest day in Braunton we are back on the path and on our way to Instow.  This section of the walk is part of the Tarka Trail and is a flat paved trail system created on a disused railway line.  This makes it very popular with cyclists and very busy over all to walk due to “traffic.”  The upshot however is the journey is always punctuated by places to stop for a drink or snacks. Welcome to the civilized section of the trek!

About 3 hours in you arrive at the town of Barnstaple.  We ducked into the town center for a Nero’s break and to grab lunch.  There happened to be an ale and cider festival going on but we did not partake.  Ken has me on a strict “You get one vice only on the walk” regime and so I had to go with lattes over ale.  From Barnstaple we “soberly” made our way to our next waypoint – Fremington Quay.  The quay is a popular rest and hang out spot for cyclists and Triumph motorcycle enthusiasts. 

The remaining journey is uneventful path walking through estuaries and reclaimed farmland until finally we reached our destination at Instow.  The path diverts around a cricket field that was filled with pristine white (in clothing and skin tone) players in the midst of a game.  This particular club has been around since the early 1800’s and still uses the original building with is original thatched roof.  Instow itself is a pretty seas side town with a nice beach and tiny harbor.  It is also home to “John’s Grocery and Bakery” which has the BEST flat white in the universe and has a deli counter to die for. 

Our accommodations for tonight are from Air B & B (The Roses) at the very end of High Road (and yeah, the road is high – my feet were not happy).  What an exceptional value though.  For $60 CDN we got our own room, bathroom (with kick ass rain shower and tub) AND A FRIDGE!!!  Yes a fridge – stocked with beverages for us to have!!  And there was a cat – Seamus aka “Mr. Furbs” who was awesome. 

May 30, 2016

Instow to Westward Ho!

21.38 km

32,025 steps

We are back with the fine weather and another flat walk along the Tarka Trail into Westward Ho!  Our first stop is the town of Bideford for a lunch break.  This place has potential and perhaps if this weren’t a Sunday it could have been more fun but seeing as it was a Sunday, most things of interest were closed (such as the Pannier market) so we ended up with a Co-op meal deal on a bench by the water.  Pretty sketchy along there to be honest. Lots of betting shops and strip clubs that offered bottomless coffee with your breakfast (yeah – open to way too much interpretation).  From here we walk another few hours to the very scenic Appledore, which is actually a short boat ride across the bay from Instow (but again, being purest we took the l-o-n-g way around).  And because it is just across from Instow there is also another “John’s” so FLAT WHITE BREAK!!! 

From Appledore the trail heads into the Northam Burrows Country Park consisting of 243 hectares of coastal plains and sand dunes.  It is home to the oldest links course in England where you are warned to be mindful of flying golf balls and for golfers to be mindful of horses grazing on the green.

Westward Ho! is your typical weekend holiday town.  There is a small arcade and amusement park in the town center and the beach strip is lined with chippies, ice cream carts and teashops.  We stayed at the Village Inn and ate take away Chinese from a place run by white people.  (Ok I’m just going to say it – so far on this walk we have not run into a single non-white person anywhere.  None.  There is, however, a lot of canine diversity J)

Ale and Cider Festival in Barnstaple  

Having a "golden" moment on the promenade in Appledore

Houseboat living in Braunton

Houseboat with an outdoor bathub :-) 

Heading out to see in Instow

If you got 8 hours to kill, take in a cricket match in Instow

The "Ins" of Instow

No heavy machinery in this village

Walker's greeting party

Sunset in Instow

Digging tunnels in the sand.  Future engineers in the making!  (Or not...)

All that is wonderful at John's

Christopher Kingsley of Waterbabies fame looking very dapper in his new scarf and manscaped hipster beard

Skateboarding in Braunton

Snail escort on the trail

Surfs up!

Looking back before looking ahead...

The forever beach in Woolacombe