And Finally…South West Coast Path, Day 46

Swanage to South Haven Point

25,000 steps

“The wearisome grand passions and distasteful excitements of active lives, stressed to breaking point, are supplanted in the end by the implacable lassitude of walking: just walk-ing. Serenity is the immense sweetness of no longer expecting anything, just walking, just moving on.”

Frederic Gros, A Philosophy of Walking

On this, the final morning of my long walk round the southwestern peninsula of England, I reflect on the miles I’ve covered. That is, if I really have covered them: my son recently told me that my body’s cells will have been completely replaced over seven years.

The implication seemed to be that the person who started from Minehead in April 2016 is not the same person who’s finishing. Maybe I haven’t really completed the Path; I’m sharing the achievement with someone else, some now vanished past version of myself.

(I found out this cell replacement idea was not strictly true: https://www.livescience.com/33179-does-human-body-replace-cells-seven-years.html)

This last day is something of a dying sigh after the full-throated glories of the past 600 miles. There’s a short walk along the Swanage seafront before we tackle the only remaining climb on the Path, a moderately strenuous ascent up onto Ballard Cliff.

Once up, there’s a fine view back over Swanage and the coast we walked yesterday.

From here, we have an easy stroll on a flat headland toward a promontory, with a popular view over Old Harry Rocks.

There are numerous Sunday strollers about, and we continue on a busy gravelled path down to the beach at Studland, where we have coffee at a National Trust cafe.

All at once it’s almost over. There’s only two more miles along the beach, surrounded by more casual walkers and their dogs, to South Haven Point. The end of the Path.

Apart from the sight of an eager naturist among the dunes, the final miles pass without incident, allowing me to think back over the highlights of the month and half worth of walking, which I have spread over seven years:

• I think back to the very long second day, when I arrived at the Hunters Inn after a thunderstorm. The isolated inn, with its peacocks and lack of phone connections, felt like it was at the end of the world

• I remember the miserable lunch in the Coach and Horses pub at Buckland Brewer. Sam and I were soaked and tired and he was threatening to bail on me when the intervention of passing life coaches saved our trip

• There was another stormy night at the cinematically atmospheric Hartland Quay hotel with the Prof, followed by the gruelling but memorable afternoon of the ten valleys

• I recall a morning when I came off the sleeper train from London and was quickly transported by a simple boat trip to the Roseland Peninsula into a paradise of wild garlic and spring flowers, helped on my way by Overend’s pal, Mark (Cornwall’s answer to Tom Cruise). His blessing – “May the spirit of Peter go with you” – helped me on my way.

• Or the wet afternoon in north Cornwall when I realised lightweight hiking could go too far, as my lighter boots dumped me in the mud

• Or the equally wet day in south Devon, when I crossed several estuaries, by ferry and by wading.

Above all, the numerous occasions – too many to remember, but usually happening several times each and every day of walking – when I paused for a moment to look ahead, and filled my eyes and my soul with the ravishing beauty of this untamed coast of England.

Every mile of which is lodged in my heart, to be carried with me always.

At last, the Sandbanks ferry comes in sight, and as we trudge the last half mile of beach the Prof and I see our wives waiting to greet us. All that remains is to pose for photos by the South West Coast Path monument, sister of the one I passed in Minehead all those years and miles ago.

I don’t know how I feel about completing the walk. For the past few years, I’ve constantly had the next stretch of the Path to plan for and anticipate, it’s always been with me: always in the back of my mind I’ve been thinking about tackling the next bit.

When life got busy, I could always look ahead to the next time I’d be out on my own in the sun and the wind, with nothing on my to-do list except putting one foot in front of the other and allowing the big sky and open sea to fill me up with grace. It will be strange not having that connection any more.

“If you are in a bad mood go for a walk. If you are still in a bad mood, go for another walk.”

Hippocrates

He’s been a spiritual companion on the walk, so I’ll leave the final words to Overend Watts – bass player, glam rock poseur, long-distance walker. When he finished the Path, he wrote about:

“…the overwhelming sense of relief that I’d done it. I’d succeeded. Nothing could take that success away from me now. Nothing and nobody…It’d been the greatest challenge of my life and by succeeding I immediately felt like a far stronger person.”

This guy played bass on “All The Young Dudes.” If he took pride in completing the Path, it will do for me.

Drowned Tanks and Dead Pop Stars: South West Coast Path – Day 35

25,000 steps

An easier day, with frankly not much to write about – I’ve planned a shorter trek and the Path is more than usually docile.

It’s a pin-sharp cold morning, flooded with spring sunshine. The Church House Inn has been a lovely place to stay, and I am cheered by the breakfast room stuffed with daffodils.

I leave Stokenham and retrace my steps to the coast, picking up the Path at Torcross. I must admit, the day’s walk ahead of me looks a little uninteresting – a long straight trek along the shingle bank to Strete, and then some dodging back and forth along a road. Some way short of the challenging glories of north Cornwall. But my blisters and Achilles tendon aren’t complaining.

The Exercise Tiger memorial at Torcross

Torcross has an unusual monument: a US Army Sherman tank with a story to tell. The village was evacuated during the War, and taken over by thousands of allied soldiers, who used the area to practice for the Normandy landings. Two months before D-Day, on 28 April 1944, a tragic incident happened during full-scale rehearsals for the June landings – Exercise Tiger. Numerous soldiers were killed in ’friendly fire’ incidents, and German torpedo boats from Cherbourg intercepted and attacked a convoy of ships travelling from Portland to Slapton Sands. Over 1,000 lives were lost over the course of the operation. The tank was retrieved from the sea bed years later.

The first hour out of Torcross is an easy walk along a path parallel to the road. Inland of the path is a long stretch of water – Lower Ley. It looks innocuous but is apparently Devon’s largest natural lake, formed thousands of years ago when the sea threw up the shingle bar around Start Bay. It’s a national nature reserve. The guide book claims all sort of wildlife can be spotted here, including otters and herons. I see one swan, far off.

The Day’s Work Lies Ahead

After an hour, I stop for a brief rest on the beach. I remove my hat and gloves. When I set off again, the cold north east wind soon persuades me to put them back on.

Past the northern end of the Ley, the Path cuts inland from the beach and takes me up a strenuous series of steps, through the village of Strete. I’d hoped for a coffee stop here, but there’s no cafe. The Kings Arms has a sign boasting of the ’best views in south Devon.’ And coffee. But the pub seems to be in the grips of redecoration.

I press on towards Blackpool Sands, the Path cutting off the road and winding down through open fields and a couple of narrow, wooded valleys.

I eventually get my coffee at the beach cafe on Blackpool Sands, where I also wolf down the pastry I snaffled at breakfast.

Despite the cold, several families are at the beach. None actually on the sand or in the water.

After my break at the beach, the Path veers tediously inland along roads, presumably owing to uncooperative coastal landowners.

I reach Stoke Fleming and stop for lunch in the delightful Green Dragon Inn. In his book about the Path, Overend Watts recalled a memorably drunken evening here in May 2003. Six or seven pints; incoherent, pissed conversations about guitar players; and still Overend, in his typical Pooterish style, faithfully recorded the price he paid for his Moroccan Chicken and rice. And complained about the church bell keeping him awake in the night.

I have carrot and coriander soup, and just the one pint of beer. I’m way less rock ’n’ roll than Overend.

Peter Overend Watts, back in the day

I think back to meeting Overend’s friend Mark three years ago: the south Cornwall Tom Cruise. This prompts a delicious fantasy: for a few moments I imagine this quiet village pub hosting Overend and the rest of Mott in their pomp. to picture what that was like, check out this video (Overend is the one in the preposterous platforms boots, with the bass guitar sponsored by Birds Eye.)

The Path out of Stoke Fleming follows the road for a while, and then dives down again toward the coast. It winds pedantically back and forth on a sinuous route following the contours of the shoreline, approaching and then entering the mouth of the Dart estuary. On the far side, the headland behind Kingswear promises me a demanding start to tomorrow

Just when I think I’m almost at Dartmouth, the Path takes a treacherous (but admittedly scenic) detour, plunging off-road and zig-zagging around a wooded cove. This involves at least a hundred rough steps down and a similar number back up, as the Path clings to the curving cliff.

Eventually, the Path takes me to Dartmouth Castle, where I linger for a while. The castle has been here a long time, what with Dartmouth’s rich nautical and military history – the town was the departure point for two crusades in the 12th century, and was attacked and sacked during the Hundred Years War. It has 14th century ruins, a 15th century gun tower, a Victorian Battery, and a mid-19th century building that’s now a tea room. Which is where I stop for coffee and cake. I know how to rough it.

I continue along a road that takes me up the estuary and into Dartmouth.

I’ve never been here before, but I like it – an attractive town laid out largely on medieval and Elizabethan streetscapes, with numerous well-preserved buildings, some as much as six hundred years old. All tumbling down the hillside above the Dart estuary.

There’s a railway station building, now a restaurant, but Dartmouth has never had a railway. The station was built when a line was constructed from Paignton to the Dart estuary. There were plans for a bridge, which never came to fruition. The line instead ran to Kingsbridge, across the river, with three ferries linking the two towns.

Kingswear clings to the hillside facing Dartmouth, a cascade of sailboats and multi-coloured houses. That’s where I resume walking tomorrow.

Remembering Overend: South West Coast Path – Day 26

Falmouth to Portloe

34,000 steps

Here we go again.

More than half a year since I last set foot on the Path, I’m heading back to the south west. Will the Path have me back? Will we be able to pick up our old relationship?

The Night Riviera sleeper train is definitely the way to travel to Cornwall. I turn up at Paddington station at around quarter to eleven. I find my cabin, ditch my bag and go for a cheeky glass of wine in the bar. I then turn in for a fitful night’s sleep in the narrow bunk, until I lift the blind on the window and – like magic – I’m in Cornwall. At first, thick mist fills a narrow valley, but this fades within minutes, with the early sun laying shadows across a steep frosty hillside, and colouring cottage rooftops with honey.

“Funky Little Boatrace”: South West Coast Path – Day 22

Penzance to Porthleven

28,000 steps

It’s five months later. France have won the world cup. Britain is still leaving the EU. And I’m back yet again at Paddington station, starting my long journey to reconnect with the Path. This time, it’s late on a Sunday evening and I’m getting onto the sleeper train to Penzance. My intention is to arrive refreshed at the start of Monday, and launch straight into the walking.

I make a new friend at Paddington Station

It’s nearly midnight when the train leaves, and we rattle into the night. I’m already in my bunk and I appreciate the way the train pulls away very gently, as if the driver is conscious some people may already be asleep.

Without the Prof’s distracting sleep noises in the top bunk, I sleep much better than on my last trip. I wake up around five and peer out at a deserted Plymouth Station, then sleep again until 7.15, when I awake to find trees and rolling green hills outside the window, as we approach Bodmin Parkway, in a gentle, almost invisible, misty rain. My breakfast is delivered, and I feel very smug for a while, drinking coffee and eating my pineapple and papaya muesli.

Until I notice the train has not moved for twenty minutes. It has broken down at Par, requiring a decant of passengers to a late train, and a ninety minute delay.

Finally at Penzance, the early part of the walk is easy but a little dull, along a paved path between the Bay and the railway line, with only the grandeur of St Michael’s Mount – which dominates the Bay – to relieve the humdrum. As usual, I have packed light, and the warmth of the morning makes me regret my lack of sunglasses and hat.

St Michael’s Mount

At Marazion, it’s obvious today is a Bank Holiday. The car parks are full, and there are queues of cars. The tide is out, so the tidal causeway is open, and crowds of people take advantage. I don’t. I stop to send a postcard, get coffee and cake, and buy some cheap sunglasses. The sky immediately clouds over.

There are many interesting things about St Michaels Mount. Its Cornish language name is Karrek Loos yn Koos. This apparently means “the grey rock in a wood”, and may be linked with the time before Mount’s Bay was flooded (which may have happened around 1700BC). The name suggests a hillock set in woodland, and tree remains have been seen at low tides following storms on the beach at Perranuthnoe.

More interesting is the fact that the Mount is one of 43 tidal islands that one can walk to from mainland Britain. Wikipedia lists only four in France and a poxy two in Germany. Meanwhile, there’s another one right here in Mounts Bay – Asparagus Island in Kynance Cove. So we’re ahead on something in Europe.

Even in Marazion, I can’t escape reminders of my other life…

Marazion has some attractive houses

Leaving Marazion, there is an irritating diversion along the road, owing to cliff erosion, and then I’m out onto a low succession of headlands over boulder-strewn beaches. The Mount begins to fall behind.

The walking is deceptively easy, and the Path pulls a trick on me. It leads me down onto the beach, where I find myself clambering over a lunar landscape of grey boulders.

It takes me too long to realise this cannot possibly be the coast path – it would be impassable if the tide wasn’t low, for example. I check the guide book, and find I should be enjoying a gentle route through field gates and gorse bushes. I also find that I should “avoid dropping down onto the beach”. Fortunately – after twenty minutes on this beach assault course – I find a steep path back up to the route I should be on.

A little later, I look down at the beach below and see some singular sand art…

One of my problems on these walks is my tendency too go to fast, to plan too many miles for each day, and thereby miss the glory of the landcape and seascape. Starting my day’s hike an hour and a half late didn’t help me quell that instinct, and again I push things a bit too much. By the time I stop for lunch at the Sandbar, on Praa Sands, I’m feeling weary.  This is unfortunate, because the Path has been lulling me with the easy terrain so far.

More familiar terrain returns

After lunch, the walk becomes more demanding. More like the Path of earlier stages in the walk, with frequent climbs and steep descents, skirting deep gorges and insisting on pedantic twists and turns to around fenced-off clifftop field. I also lose the Path again near Prussia Cove, going too far inland and having to retrace my grumpy steps.

There are old mine buildings scattered over the hillsides, looking like ruins of an ancient civilization. Which I guess is what they are.

For some reason, I get thinking about Overend Watts, the bass player from Mott The Hoople, who walked the Path a decade or so ago, and wrote a book about it*. Once I’ve thought of him, I can’t get the song ‘All The Young Dudes‘ out of my head, singing it under my breath as I plod the last monotonous miles into Porthleven. I don’t pass many other walkers, but one guy looks at me oddly as I shuffle past, muttering, “Is there concrete all around, or is it in my head?”

I’m pleased to see at last the pretty fishing (ie. touristy seaside) village of Porthleven, where I check into the Harbour Inn and clean up and recover. Porthleven has a local custom of a torchlight parade once a year, on August Bank Holiday.

Serendipitously, today is that very day! As the sun goes down, several hundred people for, up behind a marching band carrying flaming torches. They then march off, looking for all the world like they are about to put an end to unnatural practices at the local equivalent of Castle Frankenstein.

No one seems to know why they do this, but they appear to enjoy it.

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*The Man Who Hated Walking, by Overend Watts, Wymer Publishing, 2013

Warning Signs – South West Coast Path Day 16

Newquay to Perranporth

25,000 steps

A whole six months have elapsed since I was last down this way. I am worried that the Path may have given up on me. My only excuse is the one I’ve used before – I’ve now reached parts of the Path so remote from London that it takes me a day to get here and a day to get back, which is quite a commitment to make for three days hiking.