April 5, 1989: Clovelly to Stoke

On Wednesday, April 5, I awoke to the grand sound of silence. The gale had at last subsided. Although it was grey and overcast there did not seem to be any signs of rain. At 8:30 I met the Lees in the dining room for breakfast. Joe Cosgrove was just settling up and loading his pack and we did not encounter him on the trail at all this day. The manageress reported that it had been snowing when she returned to the hotel at midnight. She was a cheerful and energetic woman, described as a sergeant major by her staff – who nevertheless found her an ideal leader. She gave us our lunches and took our payments. I was actually able to use my Access card.

Tosh descended to the village shop for more drinks and snacks. I was glad that I had “done” the village in 1970. Now I had no compulsion to climb down to the quay. Indeed, our lucky placement at the top of the village meant that when we left at 9:30 we only had a little ascent to complete before rejoining the Hobby Drive. Here we turned right and headed off into forest.

The first hour of the walk was a delightful sylvan ramble. There were views of the sea on our right and grassy enclosures on the left. The pathway was fairly level. It was a bit dark under the canopy of new leaves and a bit damp underfoot but enchanting nevertheless. The Lees had already passed Angels Wings, an elaborately carved gazebo, when I called them back to look at the intricate design. After Gallantry Bower the route began its first descent of the day, emerging in the valley of Mill Mouth next to the shingle of the seaside.

We took off our packs and hopped around on the pebbles. How I would have liked to take them all home, with their wonderful abstract shapes and colors. On the beach was a huge see-through pyramid called Blackchurch Rock.

After a rest we strapped on our knapsacks (my new one actually had a midriff hookup this time) and climbed up to our next summit. A mixture of woodland and flat cliff top followed as we made our way west. Some of the ascents and some of the descents were quite steep, with the walker helped on his way by steps. Harold suggested that he did not like the steps. He preferred them to the raw mud that would have been there instead but the sight of them was psychologically devastating: it meant that this would be a steep section ahead.

After crossing a footbridge we headed back toward the sea for a last view of Blackchurch Rock; then we turned toward the west and climbed past Winbury Head and downhill opposite Beckland Bay. When we regained the cliff top we began a long, easy, level traverse of the arable highland, with occasional channel views on our right, and, sloping downward on our left, fields of cows and tractoring farmers.

Near Fattacott Cliff we paused for lunch. I sat on the riser of a stile and ate some of yesterday’s sandwiches. It was still grey and quite chilly, although the wind had dropped considerably. It was wet on the grass, however, and hard to find a really comfortable place for our meal. Actually we were making very good time and as we had only ten miles to do today I was not at all bothered by lengthy pauses. My cold was coming on more severely though – not much actual sneezing, but a runny nose that necessitated many applications of my handkerchief.

After lunch we cleared Eldern Point, still enjoying some fairly level field-side walking, and I think I caught my first glimpse of the Hartland Point Lighthouse as we reached the edge of Shipload Bay. Tosh was horrified by the sight of steps, descending steeply to the beach below, but I assured her that this was not our route. Barley Bay followed and with it our first view of the coastguard buildings and the parking area for the lighthouse. People and their dogs were ambling about as we pulled up at the head of the lighthouse access road and sat down for a rest.

Tosh, looking for a likely loo spot and hoping that the keeper was also serving tea, walked all the way down to the lighthouse while Harold and I munched digestive biscuits. Eventually she returned with none of her hopes fulfilled; the place seemed deserted.

We resumed our route by climbing up to the coast guard observation hut, circling it, and heading south. Hartland Point represents a great direction change for the coastline (and the path), with south replacing west as the dominant direction for many a mile. The best views of the lighthouse were obtained by looking back. Ahead was a very rugged coastline, full of ups and downs. Three combes had to be crossed before we could rest – a preview of the next day’s terrain.

The territory proved most interesting and lovely, with waterfalls bringing to an end the journey of streams through steep wooded valleys on our left. We descended to Titchberry Water and climbed very steeply up the opposite slope. Here we turned back to the sea and entered Smoothlands, a dry valley perched dramatically above the mouth of the combe. We had a nice rest here. There were suddenly quite a few other walkers about and we could see where we were to go next by watching them.

Some exposed cliff-top climbing brought us to a point where we could see Blegberry Water, our next descent. We took some time to seek out its waterfall, but the best views seemed to be from the beach and we usually disdained this extra effort. We now had a steep ascent anyway, one that brought us opposite the Abbey River, nearing the end of its journey down a wonderful wooded valley. We crossed our last bridge for the day and headed up to the top of the Warren.

For some time we had been keeping our eye on two landmarks: the Warren Tower, which we now passed on our left, and the tower of St. Nectan’s church in Stoke, the village we were heading for, some distance inland. On our right there were views at last of Hartland Quay and the hotel buildings. A lecture seemed to be taking place next to a swimming pool. The sun never appeared on this day but I suppose now, at 4:30, you could at least call it cloudy bright. Harold suggested I take a picture of the church tower through the arches of squat Warren Tower – but I disdained this obvious opportunity: it appeared on a postcard we saw that night in the hotel bar.

We reached the road between the hotel on our right and our village on the left. I did a little scouting of the next day’s route and we turned away from the sea to complete another twelve minutes level trudge into Stoke village. We arrived opposite the church and as there was no one to ask, continued into town on the main road. Almost immediately we saw the entrance to Stoke Barton farm, our b&b, but Tosh wanted to see if we could find a shop in the village. I had been trying to slow things down this afternoon because it was still not 5:00 so I followed the Lees through town – but nothing appeared to be open and we never saw a shop. Some local adolescents had artfully altered the road signs at the town crossroads so that Bude became Nude and Hartland became Fartland.

When we retraced our steps and entered the farmyard a van driver was offering his wares to the farm workers. Myopic Tosh asked him if had any soft drinks but unfortunately he was only selling hardware! Mrs. Davy emerged to ask us to take off our boots. Then we climbed up to her first floor and she showed us to our rooms. Mine had two double beds with kiddy duvets on them, the Lees had a double bed under a white coverlet. I asked them if they wanted to switch, as I knew they often preferred separate sleeping accommodations. Tosh turned to her husband and conceded, “I’ll sleep with ya.” – but no sooner had I started to unpack than they changed their minds and we switched rooms after all.

In this fashion I inherited the weak blast of the only space heater in the house. This was important because it was extremely cold up here. Mrs. Davy could see how uncomfortable we were and rushed off to call her mother-in-law, who brought a second space heater and three more blankets. Now that the walking was over for the day I put on my wool cap, my MSU scarf, and my mittens. The Lees, waiting for their heater to arrive, came into my room to sit on the floor next to my heater. We had tea-making equipment so we had a brew-up and ate some cookies. Mrs. Davy had even provided bottled water.

When it was my turn to have a bath I made my way to the quite posh guest bathroom (the Lees were invited to use the Davy’s) where the pleasure of the hot water was quickly followed by the discomfort of drying off in that frigid room. If only they had put in a heater ere instead of that green bidet! The hallway back to my room was particularly icy. Obviously my cold was not being helped by these polar conditions. I began to take Sudafed and paracetamol, which Harold had brought along.

When we were all cleaned up Mrs. Davy drove us down to the hotel. She had a number of interesting things to say about attempts to keep their local school, founded by hippie monks, afloat. She also reported that as a farmer’s wife (her husband was partners with some distant Lord) she had to listen to the weather report six times a day. It was not a particularly happy omen for us that Mr. Davy was working on in the semi-darkness because rain was due on the morrow.

Soon after we entered the pub at the Hartland Quay Hotel Joe Cosgrove showed up. He had secured a single room here (we had failed when we asked for two) and was sharing the hotel with the University of Zurich, here on a geology field trip. He couldn’t get anywhere near the dining room so he was happy to share a table with us. We had drinks first and I went into the hotel to wait out a Ticino youth cooing to his absent girlfriend over the telephone. Bill Vincent was having dinner with Dorothy and I told both of them to count me out on any Saturday shopping expedition. “How can you say that now,” Bill whined. “Because I already have a cold and I just want to rest when I get back.”

I ordered my pub favorite, scampi and chips, but the oil had served too many other causes before enlisting in mine, and the meal was not a success. The Lees and Joe, sitting beneath portholes snatched from the ill-fated Green Ranger, chatted away merrily, but I began to fade out. The pub filled up with local people and the Schweizerdeutsch and their talk and their smoke and I was happy when, at a little past nine, it was time to phone Mrs. Davy.

She returned almost immediately and we were soon back at Stoke Barton farm. I had left my heater on so my room was a little more habitable. I dosed myself with pills, read some more Gatsby and listened sleepily to my walkman.

To continue with the next stage of our walk you need:

Day 12: Stoke to Bude